ee kone 


an 
SAW 
MoM cei ave 
tet Mine 
ti 


eee 

ot 

a 
er 


Sy 
> 


Peres 
ERS a4 GRY 


Ghe Fine Avon Raitiog, 


THE COMPLETE 


DRAMATIC AND POETICAL WORKS 


WILLIAM SHAKEHSPEARE. 


WITH A 


SUMMARY OUTLINE OF 


re) ee OF a Ene On T, 


And a Description of His Most Authentic Portraits; 


COLLECTED FROM THE LATEST AND MOST RELIABLE SOURCKs. 


BY 


JOHN 8. HART, LL.D., 


LATE PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE 6” 
THE COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEY, ETC., ETC. 


TO WHICH IS APPENDED A 


fesriptv nalysi3 of the Ht of Jock Atay 


TOGETHER WITH 


AN ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS, 
AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES, AND A COMPLETE GLOSSARY 
OF THE WORDS USED IN THE TEXT THAT VARY FROM 
THEIR MODERN SIGNIFICATION. 


THE TEXT EDITED BY 


W.G. CLARK anp W. A. WRIGHT. 
Giventy Five Fall Page Mllustrations 


PHE MOST EMINENT ENGLISH AND GERMAN SHAKESPEARIAN ARTISTS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER; 


1022 MARKET STREET. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 


in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Prerrerrr errr titi rt rrr rit errr eee eee errr rere rer errr rrr rrr rrr rrr rrr errr 


WM. F. FELL & CO., 
RLACTROTYPERS AND PRINTER 
PHILADELPHIA, 


PUBLISHERS ANNOUNCEMENT. 


HE Publishers of “THe Avon SHAKESPEARE” are well aware of the many 
editions of Shakespeare that have already issued from the press of both 
England and America, but they have, nevertheless, been induced to undertake the 
publication of the present volume by the generally expressed desire for a book iv 
large, clear type, the teat of which should embody the latest revisions of the best 
Shakespearian scholars. As the readings of Messrs. Clark and Wright have been 
carefully followed, it is believed this result has been most fully achieved. 

The graphically descriptive Life, by Dr. John S. Hart, is rich with new and 
varied information, gleaned by the accomplished hand of the author from the late 
discoveries made by Shakespearian antiquaries, who have been stimulated in their 
untiring researches after all relating to the great poet’s life by the ever increasing, 
never flagging, public interest in one of whom his personal friend “ Rare Ben 
Jonson” said, “ Neither man nor muse can praise too much.” 

In the typographical arrangement of this work new features have been intro- 
duced, — each page being indexed at the page-head with the Scene and Act, while 
through the printed text, by means of the dark displayed type, the eye catches, 
without an effort, the main points or characters that appear on that page; an 
advantage the student cannot fail to heartily appreciate. 

A Descriptive Analysis of the Plots of the Plays, prepared with great care by 
Mr. Julius Frankel, is presented as peculiar to this edition. By it the reader is 
enabled to gain, if so desired, a clear understanding of the story of the plot before 
reading the text of the play. 

The Alphabetical Index to the Characters in Shakespeare's Plays, The Index to 
Familiar Passages, and the very complete Glossarial Index, are valuable features, 
important or essential to the fullest understanding of Shakespeare’s works by either 
the student or the general reader. The Illustrations are from drawings by the most 
celebrated artists who have made the study of Shakespeare’s plays a specialty. 

The publishers desire here to express their thanks to Mr. J. Parker Norris for 
much valuable information and assistance given during the progress of the work. 


ili 


THe LIFE oF SHAKESPEARE 


ANALYSIS OF THE PLOTS OF THE PuLaAys. 


CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF THE PLAYS 


THE TEMPEST 

- Tur Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
Toe Merry WIvES oF WINDSOR 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

THE CoMEDY OF ERRORS 

Mucu Apo apour NoTHING 
Love’s Lazpour’s Lost . 

A MipsummMer-Nicut’s DREAM 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

As You Lixre It . 

THe TAMING OF THE SHREW . 
ALL’s WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


TWELFTH NIGHT; oR, WHAT You WILL. 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 
THE LIFE AND DeEatH oF KING JOHN 


THE TRAGEDY oF Kina RicHarp II. . 


THE First Part or Kine Henry IV. . 


THE Seconp Part or Kine Henry IV.. 


THe Lire or Kine Henry V. . 
THe First Part or Kine Henry VI. 


THe Seconp Part or Kina Henry VL.. 
THe Tuirp Part or Kina Henry VI. . 


THE TRAGEDY OF Kine RicHarp III. 
iv 


THE History oF Kine Henry VIII. 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA . 
CoRIOLANUS . 

Titus ANDRONICUS 

RoMEO AND JULIET 

TIMON OF ATHENS 

JULIUS C&SAR . 

MACBETH . 

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . 
Kine LEAR . wet 
OTHELLO, THE Moor oF VENICE 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
CYMBELINE 

PERICLES . 


POEMS. 


VENUS AND ADONIS . 

THE Rape oF LUCRECE . 

SONNETS 

A LovEer’s CoMPLAINT . 

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM . 

SonnETS To SuNDRY Nores or Music 
THE PHa@nix AND THE TURTLE. 


GLOSSARIAL INDEX 
INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES 
INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS IN THE PLAYS 


Stratford Church, where Shakespeare is Buried. 


A SUMMARY OUTLINE 


OF THE 


LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE; 


WITH A 


Description of His Most Authentic Portraits. 


CHAPTER I. 


MARVELLOUS IGNORANCE OF THE ENGLISH NATION IN 
REGARD TO THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF THEIR GREAT- 
EST AUTHOR—DICTUM OF STEEVENS ON THE SUBJECT, 
1773 — RECENT AWAKENING TO THE IMPORTANCE OF 
THE INQUIRY— ORGANIZED EFFORTS IN THE LAST 
FIFTY YEARS TO RESOUE FROM OBLIVION WHATEVER 
IN THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE HAS NOT ABSOLUTELY 


AO the observer of our literary history, 
@B4/9 who stands at the head of King James’s 
ax, reign, and looks down the current to- 

se wards the present time, the very first 

a & object in the foreground is one proudly 
eminent,—an object not unlike the pyramid of Cheops, 
as seen by the traveller, which, whether you go up or 
down the Nile, whether you penetrate its rich valley 
from the east over the sand-hills of Arabia, or from 
the west across the trackless desert of Sahara, —from 
whatever quarter of the horizon you approach,—is the 
first object to strike, the last to fade from, the vision. 
So is it here. Whether we approach the year 1600 
travelling backwards from the names of Longfellow, 
Tennyson, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, and Scott; 
or descend towards the same point from the author of 
Piers the Plowman, Chaucer, Wyatt, Surrey, Sidney, 
and Spenser, whether we cross the current of our 
literature by a transition from that of Germany, 
France, Spain, Italy, or the Orient, — from whatever 
quarter of the literary horizon we direct our gaze 


towards the point indicated, one object stands proudly 
eminent, one name rises spontaneously on every 
tongue—the greatest name in all English, in ali 
modern, perhaps, absolutely, in all literature. Shake- 
speare possibly may not be read as much, he certainly 
is not acted as much, as he once was. But he is 
studied more; he is better known; his fame is steadily 
in the ascendant. His star is confessedly higher and 
brighter now than it was at the beginning of the 
present century; it has risen perceptibly within the 
last twenty-five years; itis even yet far from having 
reached its meridian. 

Steevens, one of the most famous of the Shake- 
spearian editors,said,over one hundred years ago (1773): 
“All that is known with any degree of certainty of 
Shakespeare is, that he was born at Stratford-upon- 
Avon, married and had children there, went to Lon- 
don, where he commenced actor; wrote poems and 
plays; returned to Stratford, made his will, died, and 
was buried.” 

This statement, at the time it was made, was sub- 
stantially true. It is hardly an exaggeration to say 
that the English nation, at the end of a century and a 
half from the death of their greatest author, knew 
less of his life, if less were possible, than we now 
know of Homer’s, after the lapse of nearly thirty 
centuries. It is, in fact, in comparatively recent times 
only that the lives of men of letters have been counted 
as forming any important element in the history of a 
race. Ifa man fought a battle, or negotiated a treaty, 
or held a place at court, or was prominently connected 
in any way with the civil or military administration 


xi 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


of the government, if he was even toady to some 
titled dowager, his life was thought to be of some 
public importance; he formed a noticeable integer in 
the sum total of the national history. But to write a 
play, or to make a discovery in science, was thought 
to concern mainly the obscure dwellers of the Grub 
Street of the day, even though the discoveries of the 
one might revolutionize the whole fabric of human 
affairs, and the creations of the other might help to 
mould the thoughts and manners of the race until the 
ending doom. But a change has come over the 
thoughts of men in this matter. We have at last 
opened our eyes to the fact that the literature of a 
race contains in it that which has made the race what 
it is. Those great thoughts which, in the course of 
centuries, have been developed by its master minds, are 
the moving springs that have set the race onward in 
its career of civilization. The man of thought is 
father to the man of action. Great ideas precede and 
cause great achievements. The ideal Achilles made 
the real heroes of Marathon and the Granicus. In 
the Anglo-Saxon race, from the days of Alfred until 
now, men of genius, the great original thinkers in 
successive generations, have given birth to ennobling 
thoughts, which continue to endure, and which are 
perpetuated, not only in the language, but in the race 
itself. Weare what these great thinkers have made 
us. Englishmen and Americans of to-day are living 
exponents of thoughts and truths elaborated by the 
illustrious dead. In the literal sense, indeed, no lineal 
descendant of Shakespeare remains: His blood de- 
scendants all died out within the generation that fol- 
lowed his own death. But in a higher and better 
sense, his true spiritual life-blood, ‘‘those thoughts 
that breathe and words that burn,” pulsates at this 
day in the veins of more than a hundred millions of 
men, his blood-kin of the English-speaking race, 
whose diction and whose thoughts, whose impulses 
and whose actions, consciously or unconsciously, have 
perceptibly taken tone and color from the man who 
was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, a little more than 
three hundred years ago. 

No wonder, then, that, under the quickening in- 
fluence of this new method of estimating values in 
human history, the steadily growing fame of the great 
dramatist has awakened at length the most intense 
curiosity to learn something more of his personal 
story, to gather from the ‘ruins of time” some pre- 
cious relics of that once noble edifice. The zeal and 
critical acumen displayed in this investigation have 
probably never been surpassed in any new literary 
undertaking. These labors, though late, have not 
been entirely without success. Many important facts 
relative to Shakespeare’s life have been ascertained 
since the death of Steevens, some even within the last 
few years. The principal facts which have been thus 
exhumed, have been gathered from legal documents, 
from registers of births, deaths, marriages, baptisms; 
from corporation records, wills, title-deeds, tax-lists, 
and the like. From such sources, vague statements, 
which before rested on mere tradition, have, in some 
cases, been disproved, in others, have been detined 
and established, while many facts entirely new have 
been rescued from oblivion. In this way a somewhat 
connected and consistent series of facts has been made 
out, constituting a skeleton for a biography. The 
filling out — the flesh and fulness— has been on this 
wise: wherever, in the whole range of contemporary 
literature, a passage has been found, describing the 
private life and manners of any one similarly situated, 
it has been eagerly seized as showing one of the pos- 
sible ways in which Shakespeare may have spent his 
time. Shakespeare thus has ceased, on the one hand, 


xil 


to be a collection of absurd and contradictory tradi. 
tions; and, on the other, has become something more 
than a mere tissue of dates and legal entries. He has 
become, indeed, to some reasonable extent, personally 
known. 


OHAPTER ai 


PARENTAGE OF SHAKESPEARE, WHY IMPORTANT — JOHN 
SHAKESPEARE, THE FATHER, WHAT IS KNOWN OF HIM 
— NAME AND GENEALOGY OF THE SHAKESPEARES, 
REPUTABLE CHARACTER OF THEIR HISTORY — MARY 
ARDEN, THE MOTHER, A YOUTHFUL HEIRESS, BELONG- 
ING TO THE LANDED GENTRY—NAME AND GENEALOGY 
OF THE ARDENS, THEIR HONORABLE HISTORY — HAPPY 
MARRIAGE OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE AND MARY ARDEN, 
THEIR SETTLEMENT IN STRATFORD, AND SOCIAL POSI- 
TION THERE— PECUNIARY AFFAIRS AND OFFICIAL 
DISTINCTIONS OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE. 


(ie date of Shakespeare’s birth is not exactly known. 
The nearest approach to it that we have is the day 
of his baptism, which is found in the parish register of 
Stratford. He was baptized April 26, 1564. As bap- 
tism in those days followed close upon birth, the prob- 
abilities are that Shakespeare was born within three 
or four days of the date of his baptism; and as the 
23d of April is the day consecrated to St. George, the 
tutelary saint of England, Englishmen have been not 
unwilling to assume that Shakespeare was born on 
that day. Moreover, unvarying tradition — which 
must be allowed its weight of authority where historic 
evidence is wanting —has uniformly assigned the 23d 
of April as the day on which the Great Poet was born; 
and accordingly that day is now, as it ever has been, 
celebrated as his natal day all over the world. 

Of Shakespeare’s parentage we now know several 
important particulars, — important, because they con- 
tradict and set aside some of the absurd traditions 
respecting the poet himself. To the intelligent com- — 
prehension of the problem of Shakespeare’s author- 
ship, it is necessary to know something of his original 
condition in life — whether he was of gentle blood or 
of base, whether, in the technical sense of the word, 
he was educated or was merely self-taught, can make 
his writings neither worse nor better. But the cir- 
cumstances of his birth and education, his manner of 
living and his means of knowledge, do affect materially 
the inferences which may be drawn from his writings. 
They are essential conditions in the problem of his 
authorship. 

John Shakespeare, the father of the poet, was orig- 
inally, according to the best information thus far 
obtained, what would be called a ‘‘gentleman farmer.” 
The description given by Harrison, in his introduction 
to Holinshed’s Chronicle, published somewhere about 
1580,* of a certain class of Englishmen in the days of 
Elizabeth, might, it is believed, fit very well the 
character and worldly circumstances of John Shake- 
speare. ‘‘ This sort of people,” says Harrison, ‘have 
a certain preéminence and more estimation than labor- 
ers and the common sort of artificers; and these 
commonly live wealthily, keep good houses, and travel 
to get riches. They are also, for the most part, 
farmers to gentlemen, or at the leastwise artificers- 
and with grazing, frequenting of markets, and keep- 
ing of servants (not idle servants as the gentlemen do, 
but such as get both their own and part of their 
master’s living), do come to great wealth, insomuch 


* Holinshed d. bet. 1578 and 1582, Harrison d. 1592 (?). 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


that many of them are able and do buy the lands 
of unthrifty gentlemen, and often settling their sons 
to the schools, to the universities, and to the Inns of 
the Court, or otherwise leaving them sufficient lands 
whereupon they may live without labor, do make 
them by those means to become gentlemen.” John 
Shakespeare seems to have been, during a considerable 
portion of his life, an incipient gentleman, somewhat 
after the same sort. 

It further appears that he resided originally in a 
small village (Snitterfield) three miles from Stratford, 
that he went to Stratford about the year 1551, and 
engaged there in trade of some kind, made purchases 
of property, and continued to reside there during all 
the minority, at least, of his son William. 

The name SHAKESPEARE was a familiar one in the 
county of Warwick, being found on record in that 
county in six different places in the fifteenth century, 
twenty-two places in the sixteenth century, and thirty- 
two places in the seventeenth century. The name has 
in itself evidence of the occupation of its original 
holders. Verstegan,* the antiquarian, in a work pub- 
lished in 1605, says: ‘‘Breakspear, Shakespear, and 
the like, have been surnames imposed upon the first 
bearers of them for valor and feats of arms.” Cam- 
den, under the same date, 1605, says that many an- 
cient families are named ‘‘from that which they com- 
monly carried; as, Palmer, that is, Pilgrim, for that, 
they [the pilgrims] carried palms when they returned 
from Hierusalem; Long-sword, Broad-speare, For- 
tescue (that is, Strong-shield), and in some such re- 
spect, Break-speare, Shake-speare, Shot-bolt, Wag- 
staff.” Fuller, in his Worthies of England, 1662, 
refers to the “warlike sound of his (the poet’s) 
surname, whence,” says he, ‘‘some may conjecture 
him of a military extraction,—Hasti-vibrans, or Shake- 
speare.” Hall further records, in his Chronicle, already 
quoted, that after the battle of Bosworth Field, 1485, 
which secured the kingdom to Henry VII., ‘‘the king 
began to remember his especial friends and factors, of 
whom some he advanced to honor and dignity, and 
some he enriched with possessions and goods, every 
man according to his desert and merit.” This Bos- 
worth field is only thirty miles from Stratford, and 
one of the Warwickshire Shakespeares, apparently an 
ancestor of William, seems to have been among those 
who fought in this battle, and who was thus enriched 
with possessions and goods. It is furthermore a mat- 
ter of record that a grant of arms was made to “John 
- Shakespeare, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, county of 
Warwick, gentleman,” a grant first drafted in 1596, 
and afterwards confirmed in 1599, in which it is re- 
cited that “his great-grandfather, and late antecessor, 
for his faithful and approved service to the late most 
prudent Prince, Henry VII., of famous memory, was 
advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements, 
given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where 
they have continued by some descents in good reputa- 
tion and credit.” The coat-of-arms thus granted to 
the family contains a gold spear, headed with silver 
on a bend sable, on a field of gold, and also for its 
crest a falcon brandishing a spear. Spenser, in a 
passage generally believed to refer to Shakespeare, 
calls him Aetion, a name formed apparently from the 
Greek aetéc, an eagle, and says, his muse doth, like him- 
self, “heroically sound;” the poet’s name, too, it is to 
be observed, was in that day sometimes printed as two 
words, connected by a hyphen, Shake-speare. 

The poet’s mother was of an ancient and somewhat 
wealthy family, of the name of Arpren. Arden is 


* Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities, concern- 
“a the Most Noble and Renowned English Nation. Antwerp, 
), 


said, by Dugdale, the antiquarian, to be an old British 
word, and to signify ‘‘ woodiness” or ‘‘ woodland,” and 
the family has been traced back to the time of 
Edward, the Confessor. ‘In this place,” says Dug- 
dale, ‘‘l have made choice to speak historically of 
that most ancient and worthy family, whose surname 
was first assumed from their residence in this part of 
the country, then and yet called Arden, by reason of 
its woodiness, the old Britons and Gauls using the 
word in that sense.”” Dugdale further says that Tur- 
chill de Warwick, ‘“‘a man of especial note and 
power,” and of ‘great possessions” in the time of 
the Conqueror, ‘‘ was one of the first here in England 
that, in imitation of the Normans, assumed a surname, 
. . . and wrote himself Turchillus de Eardene [Turkill 
of Arden], in the days of King William Rufus.” Sir 
John Arden, of this ancient family, was squire of the 
body to Henry VII. The office was in those days one 
of considerable importance. The squire only could 
array the royal person; no one else could set hand on: 
the king. The squire carried the king’s cloak when 
the latter walked out, and presented the potage when 
the king would drink, and slept at night in the pres- 
ence-chamber, for the protection of his majesty’s 
person. 

Robert Arden, nephew of this Sir John, was groom 
of the chamber to the same Henry VII. This office 
also, though inferior to that of 
squire, was yet one of some 
mark. While the squire slept 
in the same apartment with the 
king, the groom slept in the 
ante-room outside, to guard the 
door. He also presented the 
robes with which the squire 
arrayed the royal person, and 
performed various other offices 
of a like nature. Besides this 
office, the younger Arden re- 
ceived from Henry VII. a lease 
of the royal manor of Yoxall, 
in Staffordshire, and was like- 
wise keeper of the royal park 
of Aldecar. This Robert Ar- 
den, the younger, Groom of the 
Chamber to Henry VII., was 
grandfather of Mary Arden. 

Thus it appears that both the Shakespeares and the 
Ardens were persons of consideration in Warwick- 
shire, in the reign of Henry VII., and for the genera- 
tion or two immediately succeeding. 

Robert Arden, son of the Robert just named, at his 
death, in 1556, divided his estate, by will, among 
several children; but Mary, his youngest, appears for 
some reason, to have been prominent in his thoughts. 
She was one of the executors of his will, and received 
therein a special legacy in these words: ‘‘I give and 
bequeath to my youngest daughter, Mary, all my land 
in Wilmecote, called Asbies, and the crop upon the 
ground, sown and tilled as it is, and £6 18s. 4d. of 
money, to be paid over ere my goods be divided.” 
This Wilmecote estate consisted of about sixty acres 
of land and a house, and is situated about three miles 
from Stratford, in the parish of Aston Cantlow. 

I have said the skeleton of Shakespeare’s history 
has been clothed with flesh and blood, by transferring 
to a few naked facts materials drawn from contem- 
poraneous literature. Let me give a specimen of this 
mode of giving ‘‘to airy nothing a local habitation and 
a name.” Suppose, in the first place, the extracts 
from the will just quoted. Next, suppose a line 
extracted from the parish register, being the official 
record of an interesting domestic occurrence a year 


xili 


The Arms of John 
Shakespeare. 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


or two later. From these two facts a fertile imagina- 
tion has woven a narrative somewhat after this wise:* 

Mary Arden! The very name breathes of poetry. 
But Mary isa mourner. Her father is dead, and she 
is now left without guidance, an heiress and an 
orphan. Mary lives, indeed, in a peaceful hamlet. 
But there are strange things around her, — things 
incomprehensible to a very young woman. When 
she goes to the parish church on Sunday, there are 
many things which she did not see there in her father’s 
time. She hears the mass sung and sees the beads 
bidden. Once, certainly, within those walls she had 
heard a very different form of worship. She recollects 
that in her childhood the rich religious houses of the 
vicinity had been suppressed, their property confis- 
cated, and their buildings torn down or defaced. 
Now there is apparently a new power trying to re- 


by his wisdom her doubts and perplexities about 
public affairs are kindly resolved. But ecclesiastical 
and agricultural affairs are not the only topics dis- 
cussed under this lonely roof-tree; and so, in due 
season, and not far from the time when Mary, the 
Queen, was expiring, and with her the Catholic wor- 
ship was again disappearing, as the established religion 
of England, Mary Arden and John Shakespeare were 
standing before the altar of the parish church of Aston 
Cantlow, and the house and lands of Asbies became 
thenceforth administered by one who took possession 
of the same by the right of the said Mary. 

One thing at least is certain. The parents of Shake- 
speare were neither the ill-bred nor the ill-conditioned 
people they are generally reputed to have been. On 
the contrary, they were persons of substance, of rep- 
utable descent, and in comfortable circumstances, 


fhfre (UWRF LEE on 


Where William Shakespeare was born. 


store these institutions. There are around her mutual 
persecutions and heart-burnings,— neighbor warring 
against neighbor, friend against friend, parents against 
children, husband against wife. Mary muses on many 
things with an anxious heart. The wealthier Ardens 
of Kingsbury and Hampton, of Rotley and Rodburne 
and Park Hall, are her very good cousins: but bad 
roads and bad times keep them separate; and so she 
leads a somewhat lonely life. But village gossip tells 
of a young man, a yeoman of the neighboring town, 
an acquaintance of her father’s, who often comes to 
sit upon those wooden benches in the old hall. He is 
a substantial and towardly young man, already a 
burgess in the village. From him she gathers useful 
suggestions as to the management of her little estate; 


and their son had, without the shadow of a doubt, all 
the advantages of breeding and education usually de- 
rived from growing up in such a family and attending 
the village school. What the latter was we shall 
presently inquire. 

John Shakespeare and Mary Arden were married 
probably in 1557, some time, at all events, between No- 
vember 24, 1556, the date of Robert Arden’s will, and 
September 15, 1558, the date of the baptism of their 
first child. This first child died in infancy. Their 
second died before it was a year old. Their third, 
William, as before stated, was baptized April 26, and 
is commonly reputed to have been born April 23, 
1564. He was therefore the oldest of the family, ex- 
cepting those that died in infancy. 


* Altered from Knight, p. 11. 


Xiv 


THK LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE SHAKESPEARE HOUSE, ITS IDENTIFIOATION AND HIS- 
TORY — EVIDENOE IT AFFORDS IN REGARD TO THE 
CIRCUMSTANOES OF SHAKESPEARE’S BOYHOOD — BAP- 
TISMAL REGISTER OF THE SHAKESPEARE FAMILY — 
EVIDENCE IT GIVES IN REGARD TO THE COMPANIONSHIP 
OF THE BOY WILL SHAKESPEARE. 


Ue house in which Shakespeare was born has been 
identified with sufficient certainty. It was situ- 
ated in Henley Street, and was bought by John Shake- 
speare in 1556. He lived in this street, and most of the 
time in this house, from 1551, the time of his coming 
to Stratford, till 1601, the time of his death. The 
property passed, by inheritance or will, first to William 
Shakespeare, then to his eldest daughter, Susannah 
Hall, then to his granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall (after- 
wards Lady Barnard), and then to Thomas and George 
Hart, grandsons of Shakespeare’s sister, Joan, who was 
married to William Hart, of Stratford. It remained 
in possession of the Hart family till about the 
year 1820, the last of that name who occupied 
it being the seventh in descent in a direct line 
from Joan Shakespeare, the sister of William. 
By special contributions, in 1849 this house was 
made the property of the nation. It has been 
restored as nearly as possible to its original con- 
dition three hundred years ago, has been filled 
with Shakespeare mementoes of every kind, and 


bailiff, aldermen, and burgesses. The bailiff, or chief 
alderman, once a fortnight held a court. There was 
also a court-leet, which appointed “ ale-tasters,”’ a class 
of officers to prevent fraud in the quality of that im- 
portant element in an Englishman’s comfort. The 
court-leet appointed also affeerors, whose duty it was 
to punish citizens for various minor offences for which 
there was no express provision in the statutes. Last, 
there was the constable, an officer of no little considera- 
tion in such a town. John Shakespeare, the father of 
William, held successively all these offices. He was on 
the jury of the court-leet in 1556, an ale-taster in 1557, 
a burgess in 1558, a constable in 1559, an affeeror in 
1559 and again in 1561, an alderman in 1565, and high- 
bailiff or chief magistrate in 1568. William was in his 
fifth year when his father was at the height of his 
municipal distinction. 

One thing is noticeable in regard to this gradual ele- 
vation of John Shakespeare in the social scale. In all 
the registers where his name occurs prior to 1571, he 
is recorded simply as John Shakespeare, in one place 


a fund has been set apart for the purpose of keep- 


ing it permanently in repair, and open to the in- 
spection of visitors from all nations. Enough 
remains of the original structure to show that 


Shakespeare was born, and that he spent his 


boyhood and youth, in a home fully equal, in re- 


gard to the comforts and proprieties of life, to 


those common among the well-to-do burgher 


class of England in the sixteenth century. 

No one who wishes to trace the circumstances 
which have influenced, for good or evil, the 
growth of a great intellect, will overlook the 
companionship of childhood. Who were the 


youthful companions of William Shakespeare? 


The parish register of Stratford, after the date 
of William’s baptism, contains among others 
the following entries of the Shakespeare family: 


Gilbert, baptized October 13, 1566; Joan, bap- 
tized April 15, 1569; Richard, baptized March 
11, 1574; Edmund, baptized May 3, 1580. 

Putting these dates together, and calling im- 
agination once more to our aid, we find that when Wil- 
liam was two and a half years old, Gilbert came to be 
his playmate; when William was five years old, that 
most precious gift to a loving boy, a sister, was granted, 
to grow up with him, and to find in him at once a play- 
mate and a protector; at ten, he had another brother 
to lead out into the green fields; and at sixteen, the 
youngest was born, “the baby,” whom William prob- 
1 never regarded in any other light than as a play- 
thing. 

These things may be accounted mere fancies. I think 
they contain a doctrine. Selfishness and gloom are 
apt to be engendered by a solitary childhood. The 
baptismal register shows, in the childhood of Shake- 
speare, no cause at least for the existence of such mor- 
bid affections, as his writings give no evidence that 
Se amnag ever did exist in his healthy and cheerful 
mind. 

Stratford-upon-Avon is a small town in Warwick- 
shire, ninety-six miles north-west from London. Its 
population in the time of Shakespeare was about fifteen 
hundred. The municipal government consisted of a 


The Room where Shakespeare was Born in the 
House in Henley Street. 


John Shakespeare, glover. But in a record on Sep: 
tember 28, 1571, William being then in his eighth year, 
the father’s name is entered as Magister Shakespeare; 
and ever after among his neighbors he is known, not 
as goodman Shakespeare, or plain John Shakespeare, 
but as Master Shakespeare. This title of Master or 
Mr. was then never used, as now that of M. D. is never 
used, except by virtue of some specific legal right. 

This change of title in the history of John Shake- 
speare, it can hardly be doubted, was in consequence of 
his increasing wealth and his position in the village. 
It shows incontestably that he was about this time a 
leading man in the town, and consequently that his 
son, the poet, could not have been the illiterate butch- 
er’s boy that the early biographers represented him 
to be. We are left free to admire his transcendent 
genius without being called upon to believe the absurd 
tables of his clownish ignorance. 

As further bearing upon the circumstances of the 
poet’s childhood, the following ascertained facts may 
be cited, showing the probable occupation and the 
worldly condition of John Shakespeare. In 1556 he 


XV 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


acquired a tenement and garden adjacent, in Henley 
Street, and also a tenement with a garden and croft 
[small enclosed field] in Grenehyll Street, both in Strat- 
ford. In 1557 or 1558, he acquired by marriage the 
estate of Asbies, sixty acres of land and house, three 
miles from Stratford; also, by inheritance, some landed 
property at Snitterfield, three and a half miles from 
Stratford. In 1570, he held, as tenant under Sir Wil- 
liam Clopton, a meadow of fourteen acres, at an annual 
rent of £8 (= $200 then). The inference from these 
facts is unmistakable. John Shakespeare was at one 
period living upon his own land, and renting the land 
of others, and actively engaged in the business of cultiva- 
tion, in an age when tillage was profitable. When, a 
little later in life, he came to the village and settled in 


Henley Street, he probably kept up his agricultural | 


operations, and also kept a shop in his house, where 
he sold the products of his farm,— butcher’s meat, 
wool, hides, and other articles, such as gloves made 
from the skins of the animals slaughtered. Harrison 
says: ‘‘Men of great port and countenance are so far 
from suffering their farmers [tenants] to have any gain 
at all, that they become graziers, butchers, tanners, 
sheepmasters, woodmen, and denique quid non.” 


Grammar School Attended by Shakespeare, 
Stratford. 


This explains the mystery of the apparently contra- 
dictory traditions in regard to the occupation of John 
Shakespeare. We see how he was a “butcher,” also 
a ‘“‘ wool-merchant,” also a “glover,” also a ‘ farmer,” 
also a ‘‘ yeoman; ” how finally John Shakespeare, the 
woodman of Arden, sold timber to the corporation of 
Stratford. 

The evidence is tolerably complete that John Shake- 
speare, in his later years, for some cause not ascer- 
tained, fell into pecuniary difficulties and embarrass- 
ments. He was evidently in straitened circumstances 
in 1579; was turned out of the aldermanship in 1586; 
was arrested for debt in 1587; and finally, in 1592, 
was reported by the authorities as absenting himself 
from church for fear of being arrested for debt. But 
as these things occurred chiefly after the formative 
period in the life of his son William, and as these diffi- 
culties, even when greatest, did not seem to affect the 
social status of the family, it is hardly necessary to 
pursue the subject further, except to remark that, 


xvi 


probably on this account, William was thrown -upon 
his own resources somewhat earlier than he might 
otherwise have been. The boy evidently knew little 
either of a father’s care or of a father’s control after 
the age of fifteen. 


CHAP TER Dy. 


SHAKESPEARE’S SCHOOL AND SCHOOLMASTERS — WHAT 
IS KNOWN OF HIS COURSE OF STUDY — HIS KNOWLEDGE 
OF LATIN AND GREEK — EVIDENCE IN HIS WRITINGS OF 
HIS BEING A OCLASSIOAL SCHOLAR. 


TRATFORD-UPON-AVON was, as it still is, a 
quiet place, comparatively free from disturbance 
and excitement. Its ecclesiastical foundations were 
numerous and ample. With one of these, the Guild 
of the Holy Cross, was connected an endowed gram- 
mar school. It was founded in 1482, in the reign of 
Edward IV., by gift of Thomas Jolyffe, on condition 
that the authorities of the town and guild “should find 
a priest, fit and able in knowledge, to teach gram- 
mar freely to all scholars coming to the school, 
; taking nothing of the scholars for their 
teaching.” The school was afterwards enriched 
by Sir Hugh Clopton, the great benefactor of Strat- 
ford, and finally was reorganized by Edward VI., 
in his royal charter to the town, which requires, 
among other things, ‘‘ that the free grammar school 
for the instruction and education of boys and youth 
there, should be hereafter kept up and maintained 
as theretofore it used to be.” 

There is no register, or document of any kind, 
to show that Shakespeare actually attended this 
school. That he did so attend, however, is morally 
certain, from the fact of its existence, and from his 
father’s position and standing in the village. We 
have no record that the showers fell or the sun 
shone upon the little garden and croft in Henley 
Street, yet we make no question of the fact. We 
have an almost equal certainty that the boy Shake- 
speare, ‘‘with his satchel and shining morning 
face,” found his way regularly to the grammar 
school in Chapel Street. 

A grammar school in England in those days meant 
a school for teaching mainly Latin and Greek, corre. 
sponding in some respects to the old-fashioned acad- 
emy once so common in this country. It was always 
taught by men of the clerical profession, graduates 
of the universities. The teacher of this particular 
school from 1572, when Shakespeare was eight years 
old, to 1580, when he was sixteen, was a graduate of 
Cambridge, the Rev. Thomas Hunt, who was at the 
same time curate of the adjoining parish of Ludding- 
ton. In this school, and under this teacher, without a 
shadow of doubt, Shakespeare was instructed in the 
knowledge of the ancient tongues. As to the extent of 
this knowledge, an unfair presumption has been cre- 
ated by the oft-quoted expression of Ben Jonson on the 
subject. Jonson, who knew Shakespeare intimately, 
speaks of his having ‘‘small Latin and less Greek.” 
This was said in Ben’s usual style, more to point an 
antithesis than to state exact truth. Jonson, himself 
the pupil of the great Camden, was eminent for classical 
scholarship, and gloried in the fact. Statements by 
him on this subject, therefore, are to be received with 
some degree of allowance. What seemed to him a small 
modicum of Latin and Greek may have been after all 
a very fair possession. But taking his expression 
literally, it shows that Shakespeare had certainly some 


hy 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


considerable knowledge of the classics, and with equal 
‘certainty that he had in his youth attended the public 
grammar school, where only in Stratford this knowl- 
edge could have been acquired by him. Now the 
course of studies in these old endowed grammar schools 
is a matter of public record. It included instruction 
always in Latin and Greek, often in French, and some- 
times in Italian. The classics usually read were Cesar, 
Sallust, Cicero, Terence, Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, in 
Latin; Lucian, Xenophon, Homer, and Aristophanes, 
in Greek.* The pupil, furthermore, was obliged to 
read a goodly portion of this Latin before beginning 
Greek. It is doubtful whether, in any public grammar 
school then existing in England, a boy could begin 
Greek without a familiar acquaintance with at least 
Cesar, Cicero, Virgil, and Ovid; and after beginning 
Greek, the Latin, be it remembered, would be still 
continued ; be it remembered too that the Greek itself 
was studied through the medium of the Latin, the only 
grammar and the only dictionary of the Greek at the 
pupil’s command being written in Latin, as indeed it 
was done in my own school days. So far as the dic- 
tionary was concerned, Shakespeare then could not 
have had even the little Greek that the critical Ben 
was willing to allow him, without having known a 
good deal of Latin. In all probability he knew as 
much of both as would be learned by a bright boy who 
attended the grammar school until he was fifteen or 
sixteen, but who did not go thence to the university. 
There is nothing in his history, and still less in his 
writings, to make it necessary to suppose, as has been 
very generally done, that for his knowledge of Roman 
affairs he was dependent entirely upon the very imper- 
fect translations then extant of the Roman writers. 
The signs, too, are unmistakable that in the use of 
words he was thoroughly at home in the classic ele- 
ment of the language, to an extent utterly unattainable 
by one who had never studied Latin and Greek. 

There is perhaps no more decisive test of scholar- 
ship,— meaning by that term acquaintance with lan- 
guages,— than the extent of a man’s vocabulary. The 
number of different words that common uneducated 
people use is surprisingly small. A thousand or two, 
sometimes only a few hundred, are all the words at 
their command. Uneducated men of genius, like 
Bunyan, have of course a larger stock at command. 
But even in their case the number of different words 
used by them is comparatively small. The words they 
do use are forcible and are used with great vigor, but 
the range is limited. Men acquire a wide range of 
words in two ways, namely, 1st, by becoming acquaint- 
ed with numerous and varying subjects through study 
and observation, and, 2d, by the study of languages, 
and by the latter chiefly. Hence it is noticeable that 
writers who have studied foreign languages, ancient 
or modern, excel others in the range of their vocabu- 
lary. Milton, for instance, who was eminent as a 
scholar, uses in his poetical works no less than eight 
thousand different words. But Shakespeare, in his 
poetry, nearly doubles the amount, using more than 
fifteen thousand — a vocabulary larger, so far as known, 
than that of any other English writer. A more con- 
vincing proof of scholarship could not well be con- 
ceived. 

It may not be amiss to dwell a moment longer upon 
this point, as it is an essential fact in any theory that 
undertakes to explain intelligibly the problem of 
Shakespeare’s authorship. ‘A young author’s first 
work,” as Coleridge well observes, “almost always 
bespeaks his recent pursuits.” The earliest produc- 
tions of Shakespeare, accordingly, those written soon 


* See British Quarterly for July, 1865, 


after he had left school, betray unmistakably the classi- 
cal scholar. Compare them with those of any un- 
taught genius, say Bunyan, and see the difference. 
Venus and Adonis, ‘the first heir of his invention,” 
and the Rape ef Lucrece, published only one year later, 
are both on classical subjects; and while treated with 
originality of conception, the author using’ freely old 
materials to construct an edifice of his own contriv- 
ance, are yet thoroughly and consistently classical in 
all their ideas and devices. They show a mind steeped 
and saturated with a knowledge of Greek and Latin 
fable. Would an unlettered village youth have ven- 
tured on such subjects, in addressing a nobleman like 
Southampton, distinguished alike for his own scholar- 
ship and for his patronage of scholars? All of Shake- 
speare’s earlier plays, such as Love’s Labour’s Lost, The 
Comedy of Errors, and the three parts of Henry VI, 
abound in classical allusions, classical quotations, and 
Latinisms both of diction and construction, almost to 
the verge of pedantry; — not indeed the direct ped- 
antry of his contemporaries, Marlowe, Greene, and 
Peele, who made open show of their learning, and who 
stole bodily from the ancients; Shakespeare, even in 
these earlier days of his authorship, when still fresh 
from his school studies, and infected to some extent 
with the spirit of his times, yet used his classical 
knowledge as a master, not as a servile copyist. As 
he proceeded in his work, and acquired maturity of 
power and of art, his mastery appears both in his less 
frequent use of classical allusions and in the wonderful 
nicety with which the allusions actually used are 
wrought into the substance of his own thought. In 
the Latin constructions sometimes used in these later 
plays, and in the Latin-English words which he some- 
times coins, he shows not only singular facility of in- 
vention, but unerring correctness. Milton himself 
does not walk with more assured tread than does 
Shakespeare, whenever he has occasion to resort to 
classic lore. And then how wonderfully steeped with 
beauty are these classical words and ideas, after having 
passed through his subtile brain! How purely classi- 
cal, yet with a grace how entirely his own, is that ex- 
quisite image in Hamlet: 


‘A station like the herald Mercury, | 
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.” 


Observe, too, the new use to which this master of 
language here puts the word “station”—a mode of 
standing —a use of the word how purely Latin, and 
yet how thoroughly Shakespearian. Perhaps, how- 
ever, there is not in all his works a finer instance of 
his absolute dominion in the world of words than in 
that singular expression in Macbeth: 


“This my hand will rather 
The multitudinous seas incarnadine.” 


Not only by words and phrases, however, does he 
show knowledge of classical lore, but by the com- 
pleteness with which he enters into the life of the 
ancients, as in the Roman plays, where he seems to 
be actually co-existent with Cesar and Pompey, with 
Brutus and Cassius, with Antony and Cleopatra. It 
is not possible to believe that this intimate knowledge 
of the “‘very form and pressure of the time” in those 
old Roman days, came from copying extracts from 
school grammars and lexicons, and reading the 
wretched translations of Thomas Phaer and Arthur 
Golding. The foundation of this classical knowledge, 
assuredly, was laid in that public grammar school at 
Stratford, where, during all his boyhood, to the age 
beyond that at which youth then went to the univer- 
sities, he had the continued instruction of a learned 
clergyman, himself a graduate of Cambridge. There 


XVil 


and then, beyond question, Shakespeare became ac- 
quainted with the classical tongues, and with some 
of the masterpieces of classical composition; and this 
familiarity with the ancients, thus began in youth, 
was, there can be as little doubt, continued in later 
life, while seeking materials for his own great works. 
No other theory seems possible. No other satisfies 
the conditions of the problem of his authorship. 
Assuredly, he was an intelligent, educated artist, not 
an inspired idiot. 


CHAPTER V. 


OTHER EDUCATIONAL INFLUENCES AOTING UPON HIS 
YOUTHFUL MIND — (@) RELIGIOUS TRAINING AND ASSO- 
CIATIONS, THE QUESTION WHETHER JOHN SHAKESPEARE, 
THE FATHER, WAS A CATHOLIO, STRONGLY PROTESTANT 
OHARAOTER OF THE STRATFORD PARISH CHURCH, LIST 
OF THE SERVICE BOOKS USED IN THAT CHURCH, CATE- 
CHISMS AND MANUALS OF RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN 
WHICH SHAKESPEARE IN HIS BOYHOOD WAS DRILLED ; 
(6) CHRONIOLES AND LEGENDS WHICH FORMED A PART 
OF HIS YOUTHFUL READING, A LIST OF THESE BOOKS 
GIVEN; (€) LOOAL ASSOCIATIONS TO WHICH HIS YOUTH- 
FUL MIND WAS SUBJECTED, REMARKABLE SERIES OF 
FAOTS ON THIS POINT, 


UT education is more than learning. Education is 
growth, and whatever contributes to the growth of 

a great intellect, whether it be the religious associa- 
tions of church and home, the story books devoured, 
the local usages and traditions by which one is sur- 
rounded and inspired, whatever thus acts upon the 
growth of a great intellect, is a part of its means of 
education. Let us glance at some of these outside 
“schools and schoolmasters ” of the boy Shakespeare. 
And first of religious associations. On this point I 
propose to dwell a little, as the subject is one not so 
generally understood as it should be, and the facts 
that bear upon it are not matters of conjecture, but of 
record — clear, positive, and well defined; and they 
throw a strong light upon one of the most marked 
features of the author’s works. More than a century 
and a half after his death, the theory was broached 
that John Shakespeare, the father of William, was a 
Catholic. The facts in regard to this matter are, 
briefly, as follows: The Hart who, in 1770, occupied 
the Shakespeare tenement in Henley Street, had the 
roof new tiled. The bricklayer employed for this 
purpose professed to have found between the rafters 
and the old tiling a manuscript, which on examination 
purported to be the confession of faith of John 
Shakespeare, and which contained ample avowals of 
his being a Roman Catholic. The authenticity of this 
document, like the notorious Ireland forgeries, is now 
entirely discarded by Shakespearian experts and 
critics. John Shakespeare was of course born a 
Catholic, as were the great body of other Englishmen 
born prior to the breach between Henry VIII. and the 
Pope, in 1531. But the fact that he held various 
civil offices in Stratford, and especially that of chief 
burgess or mayor, shows incontestably that John 
Shakespeare was, outwardly at least, a Protestant 
during all the time of William’s boyhood, for by the 
statute of Elizabeth, 1558-9, known as the oath of 
supremacy, every civil magistrate in the realm was 
bound under penalties of forfeiture and imprisonment 
to conform to the established reformed religion. John 
Shakespeare in his old age is indeed officially reported, 
among others of his neighbors, for “not coming 
monthly to the church,” as required by statute, but 


XViil 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


at the same time it is significantly added that he was 
thought ‘to forbear church for debt or fear of pro- 
cess;’’ in other words, he stayed away from church 
to escape arrest for debt, not out of disaffection for 
the reformed religion. 

Then we have the fact, from which there is no 
escaping, that William and all his brothers and sisters 
were regularly baptized in the Stratford parish church, 
which was not only Protestant but Puritan, the vicar, 
Richard Bifield, being one of the most zealous of the 
Puritan divines.* Shakespeare himself, his wife, his 
daughter, his son-in-law, all lie buried in the most 
conspicuous position in the chancel,— the strongest pos- 
sible attestation that this Protestant church was the 
religious home of the Shakespeare family. 

The services of that church, then, were, beyond 
question, among the educational influences under 
which the intellect of Shakespeare grew. Let us see 
for a moment what these services were, and how far 
they were of a kind likely to influence such a mind. 
The Psalter in use there, the only one in fact then 
known to the English church, was the hard, bald 
Doric of old Sternhold and Hopkins; these were the 
Psalms to which without doubt his boyish ears were 
accustomed. The Book of Common Prayer, adopted 
in the reign of Edward VI., 1549, and reaffirmed by 
Elizabeth, 1559, was then in use in all the churches, 
and was, with all its wealth of purest English, perfectly 
familiar. to the youthful Shakespeare. The portions 
of Scripture which he heard from the Prayer-Book 
on the Sabbath were, as they still are, from Oranmer’s 
version, 1540, known as The Great Bible, a huge folio 
for the use of the churches. But the household Bible 
of that day, the only one printed in small volume, 
was the Geneva version, executed by the Presbyterian 
refugees at Geneva, Switzerland, in 1560. This Geneva 
Bible, it can hardly be doubted, was the one used in 
the household of John Shakespeare and of his son 
William. It was indeed for half a century, that is, 
until the appearance of our present version, in 1611, 
the common household Bible of the great majority of 
the English people. That Shakespeare was familiar 
with this Geneva Bible is further proved by a critical 
examination of the Scripture words and phrases which 
he uses in such abundance, and which are clearly those 
of the Geneva version. 

In this connection it is proper to notice certain 
manuals of religious instruction in which all young 
persons were then drilled. Shakespeare, in King 
John (I. i.), mentions one of these, the Absey Book. 
This Absey Book, so called from A B O, is the name 
of a little manual for the instruction of young chil- 
dren, put forth in the first year of the reign of Ed- 
ward VI. It contains ‘‘the A B O, the Pater Noster, 
Ave, Creed, and Ten Commandments.” It contained 
also, in some of the subsequent editions, a few short 
lessons for reading and spelling, and a brief catechism 
of religious instruction. Besides this Absey Book, 
Edward, before the close of his reign, put forth a new 
edition of the old English Primer, being ‘‘a short 
catechism of plain instruction, containing the sum of 
Christian learning.” These two manuals, the Absey 
Book and the Primer, covering substantially the same 
ground as that occupied half a century later by the 
New England Primer put forth by the “great John 
Cotton” of Boston, were made obligatory. Every 
schoolmaster of the realm was required, by royal 
command, and under severe penalties, to teach these 


* Various little incidents show the Puritan character of the 
village. In 1564, 2s. are paid by the corporation for defacing the 
image in the chapel. In 1630, a man is fined by the authorities for 
travelling on the Sabbath. The inscriptions on the tombstones 
of the Shakespeare family in the church all speak deep religious 
feeling of the John Bunyan order. 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


manuals to his pupils. It is morally certain then that 
Shakespeare conned them and committed them to 
memory. 

To recapitulate: From the plain old Psalter of 
Sternhold and Hopkins, in use in the parish church, 
from the weekly services of the Book of Common 
Prayer, from the daily use at his mother’s knee of 
that most familiar household book, the Geneva Bible, 
from the careful training which good Master Hunt 
gave him inthe Absey Book and the Primer, it is easy 
to understand how a mind so susceptible to external 
influences as was that of Shakespeare became so 
imbued and saturated, as we find it, with Scripture 
language and doctrine. 

Another educational influence needs to be men- 
tioned. Shakespeare’s plays show him to have been 
early familiar with the old English chronicles and 
other legendary lore which formed a part of the 
popular reading of that day. A mind such as his 
would naturally revel in this kind of reading, as did 
Walter Scott’s in the old border ballads of Scotland. 
Some of the books of this kind at the command of the 
youthful Shakespeare, which he has used so largely in 
his works, and which evidently helped to mould and 
fashion his thoughts, it is worth while to mention. 
They were ‘the books, the academes,” (Love’s Lab. 
Lost, 1V. iii.) from which his soul drank nourish- 
ment, just as truly as it did from Master Hunt and 
Lily’s grammar and the volume of Greek and Latin 
lore over which he pored in the famous Chapel Street 
grammar school. Among the books thus devoured 
by the imaginative boy we may reckon, with scarcely 
a possibility of mistake, the following: 

1. The Palace of Pleasure, by William Painter, 1566. 
This was a collection of stories and novels, from 
various languages, translated into English. In this 
collection we find among others the pitiful Italian 
story of Romeo and Juliet, as translated from the 
French of Boisteau. — 

2. Fabyan’s Chronicle of the old British history, 
1516. This contains among its many wild legends the 
“story of Leir and his three daughters’ —a story 
peculiarly interesting to a Warwickshire man, as 
‘“Leir” is reputed to have founded the neighboring 
town of ‘Caerlier,” now called Leicester. 

3. Halls Chronicle, 1548. This was devoted to a 
narrative of the wars of the houses of York and 
Lancaster, a large part of the battle-fields of which 
_ were within a day’s walk of Stratford-upon-Avon. 
That this book had been well thumbed by the youthful 
bard may be inferred from the fact that three-fourths 
of all his great historical plays were founded on 
materials gathered from this field. 

4. Holinshed’s Chronicle of England, Scotland, and 
Treland, 1577. This is another fascinating book of the 
same sort. Shakespeare follows it in all his plays on 
English history. He doubtless devoured it when a 
boy, just as Walter Scott devoured the old Scotch 
ballads and legends. 

5. Gesta Romanorum, translated into English by 
Robinson, 1595. This was a famous story-book of 
those days. It was a vast storehouse of monkish and 
- Mediaval legends, full of fascination for an imaginative 
‘mind, and containing among other things the two 
stories which form the groundwork of the Merchant 
of Venice, also the story of the Emperor Theodosius 
and his three daughters, which is another form of the 
old fable of King Lear. 

6. Reginald Scot's Discovery of Witchcraft, 1584. 
This work, with its infinite details and wild stories of 

witches, fairies, hobgoblins, and other uncanny folk, 
must have had a strange fascination for the mind that 


has given us the weird sisters of Macbeth, Ariel and | 


Caliban of The Tempest, and all the long list of Puck, 
Peaseblossom, Titania, Queen Mab, and their fellows. 

Many other books might be mentioned as forming 
very probably a part of the library of the boy Shake- 
speare. But of these six which have been named, 
Palace of Pleasure, Fabyan’s Chronicle, Hall’s Chron- 
icle, Holinshed’s Chronicle, Gesta Romanorum, and 
Reginald Scot’s Discovery of Witchcraft, we can no 
more doubt than we could if we saw the very books 
themselves with his autograph upon them, the very 
dog’s-ears telling us where to turn for the well- 
thumbed passages which have formed the staple of so 
many of his most glorious creations. 

We are considering, remember, the educational in- 
fluences that gave shape and color to the character of 
this wonderful man. I have spoken thus far, first, of 
his school and the studies which he pursued there; 
secondly, of his church and his religious instruction 
and associations; thirdly, of the story books and 
legends which were within his reach, and with which 
his works show him to have been entirely familiar. 
All these things are strictly educational; by grouping 
them together thus in one view, we are able to realize 
to some extent the kind of atmosphere in which the 
mind of Shakespeare was immersed, and in which it 
received such a healthy development. But there was 
still one other educational influence, not inferior to any 
of these. I refer to the powerful influence of the local 
associations that were around him on every side, and 
on this point I shall make no apology for entering a 
little into particulars. The subject, you will find, is 
in the highest degree suggestive. 

The childhood of Shakespeare, it can hardly be 
doubted, was one of great physical activity. The 
Stratford bust, which, with all its faults as a work of 
art, is perhaps the best authenticated likeness of him, 
tells unmistakably the same story. In his writings, 
too, he displays a minute familiarity with out-door 
sports of every kind, an acquaintance with external 
nature and country scenes, such as is never gained 
except by those whose childhood and youth are spent 
largely in the open air, among the green fields and by 
the hedge-rows and lanes of the country. The free, 
harum-scarum country boy speaks out from his page 
in places innumerable. In this, as in many other 
points, there is a striking resemblance between Shake- 
speare and Sir Walter Scott,— the same healthy robust- 
ness of thought, the same joyousness of temperament, 
the same fondness for out-door life and out-door 
sports, the same close observation of nature, the same 
love for legendary lore, written or unwritten. The 
story of Scott’s early life fortunately is on record ; and, 
by analogy, it tells us plainly how, in corresponding cir- 
cumstances, the Stratford boy with his great exuberance 
of life deported himself among the stirring associa- 
tions by which he was surrounded. Let us look for a 
moment at some of these local transactions and asso- 
ciations, which were likely to act upon the imagination 
of a thoughtful boy in that spring-time of life when 
the thick-coming fancies of the brain are just begin- 
ning to take root. 

We have all read Walter Scott’s description of 
Kenilworth Castle, and of the gorgeous pageants ex- 
hibited there by the Earl of Leicester to Queen 
Elizabeth. All mid-England was there by thousands, 
three hundred and twenty hogsheads of ale drank on 
the occasion testifying to the extent of the gathering. 
Is it likely, can we conceive it possible, that a boy of 
active habits and ardent imagination, then in the 
twelfth year of his age, and living only thirteen miles 
away, would be absent from such an exhibition? The 
dramatic cast of many parts of that superb entertain- 
ment must have been espécially suggestive to the 


XIX 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


mind of the young villager. When, on that occasion, | Let us look at some of the other local associations: 
the great Earl welcomed his sovereign with a more | Only ten miles from Stratford was Warwick Castle, 
than regal magnificence, it is not hard to believe that | the seat of the great Earl, the king-maker, with its 
his ambition looked higher than the part of favorite | huge piles of masonry and its rich historical associa- 
counsellor and minister. The Stratford boy would | tions. Many an old servitor of the house would be 
not be slow to take up the pleasing surmise, as it | there, only too glad to pour into the ear of the curious 
passed from mouth to mouth among the gaping mul- | boy the tales of tragic interest which had been enacted 
titude, nor would he soon forget the pageant itself, or | within and around its walls. 

the gay throngs surging in and out through the lordly A mile from Warwick, at Blacklow-hill, was the 
portals. The only passage in the plays in which | scene of another startling tragedy. There, in 1312, 
Shakespeare appears distinctly to allude to Queen | the favorite of Edward IL. Piers Gaveston, was be- 
Elizabeth is one the hint of which seems to have been | headed by the barons. Conspicuous among the objects 
caught on this occasion. Bear in mind that in these | that would here rivet the attention was the ancient 
shows at Kenilworth, the mythology of lakes and seas | statue of Guy at Guy’s Cliff, the famous “ Black Dog of 
abounds. ‘Arion appears sitting on a dolphin’s back,” | Arden,” by whose hand the butchery was perpetrated. 
‘“‘Triston, in likeness of a mermaid, comes towards her Only twelve miles away was the scene of the great 


== 
ze ies 


Bary) 


im i : i | NE Ue 
i Bee ae 


Feil 


VOI 
S 


HTM 
ib 


| 
a 


SSS 
eee ee 165 


5 — tr 


Ruins of Kenilworth Castle. 


majesty.” With these things in mind, let us see if we | battle of Evesham, where, in 1265, Edward I. defeated 
do not get some new light on the origin of that | the barons under Simon de Montfort. The tomb of 
exquisite passage in the speech of Oberon, in A Mid- | King John was at Worcester, only twenty miles away. 
summer-Night’s Dream, already referred to (II. i.). Coventry, eighteen miles away, was the seat of the 
famous Black Prince. There were the famous lists 

Obe. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest | where, according to Shakespeare’s own description 


Since once I sat upon a promontory, 4, lil , 

And heard a mermaid ons dolphiv’s back iiifenand ay ‘i ey ine fut rm first a Wei oo the 

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath ouses Of LOrkK an ancaster. here, too, was 

That the muds sen grew civil at her pone! something still more attractive to a young poet. The 

Wo ions thovue-nnld's teak Oe Coventry Mysteries, the most famous of their kind in 
Pucks ; pense : I remember. England, were then in full activity, and the people of 

é. at very time I saw, but thou couldst not, ; pana ; ~ é ye 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, a rural ani ‘apie ae dly less attracted to them 
Cupid all arni'd : a certain abn he took ‘ ap pets pe ‘jes e of Ger ee: se Me the Passion 
a fair vestal throned by the west, 8 rammer : cL 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, t siglo oe nai i io. wr : he, and thronged 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; oO see these remarkable open alr t reatricals,— the 

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft germ from which in less than twenty years Shake- 


Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon “a? : : 
And the imperial votaress passed on, speare’s own theatre was to SPUaee 


In maiden meditation, fancy-free. A two days’ walk would bring one from Stratford 
2 He « 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


to Shrewsbury, where the Hotspur Percy was slain, 
and the Scotch Earl Douglas taken, and minute touches 
in Shakespeare’s description of the fight show that 
his eye was thoroughly familiar with the scenery of 
this great battle-field. 

One day’s walk down the Avon brings you to the 
scene of the great battle of Tewksbury, — the crown- 
ing struggle of a terrible sixteen years’ war. In that 
battle, as Margaret so piteously says to Richard, 
“Thou slewest Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.” 
(Richard ITI, I. iii.). 

The battle of Bosworth Field was fought within 
thirty miles of Stratford. Burton, writing in 1624, 
says the inhabitants then living around the plains of 
Bosworth Field “Shave many occurrences and passages 
[of the battle] yet fresh in memory, by reason that 
some persons thereabout, which saw the battle fought, 
were living within less than forty years.” Forty 
years from Burton’s date takes us back to the six- 
teenth year of William Shakespeare. Why should 
not he, the boy-dramatist, like Scott, the boy-novelist, 
have gathered knowledge and caught inspiration from 
the lips of these old narrators? The battle of Bos- 
worth Field was, in Shakespeare’s day, the Waterloo 
of English history. Burton again, in another place, 


speaking of this battle, identifies the spot ‘by a little 
mount cast up, where the common report is, that at 
the first beginning of the battle Henry Earl of Rich- 
mond made his pareenetical oration to his army (Pich- 
ard ITT., V. iii.); [also] by divers pieces of armor, 
weapons, and other warlike accoutrements, and by 
many arrow-heads new found, whereof about twenty 
years since [1604] great store were digged up, of which 
some I have now in my custody, being of a long, 
large, and big proportion, far greater than any now 
in use; as also by relation of the inhabitants, who 
have many occurrences and passages yet fresh in 
memory.” Let it bé remembered in this connection 
that of the ten historical plays, no less than eight 


are associated in many of their battle-fields with the 
localities which have been named, and with which 
Shakespeare was from boyhood perfectly familiar. 


Of these plays, four, namely, Richard IT, Henry IV., 
Part I., Henry IV., Part If., and Henry V., consti- 
tute a connected tetralogy, showing the rise of the 
House of Lancaster. The remaining four, namely, 
Henry VI., Part I., Henry VI., Part If, Henry VI, 
Part III., and Richard ITI., constitute a second 
tetralogy, showing the rise of the House of York. 
The wars described in these eight plays agitated the 
English nation for full a century. The memory of 
them was still fresh in the minds of the English people 
at the time when Shakespeare’s boyhood began, being 
about as far removed from him as the events of the 
American Revolution are from us. The battle-fields 
of these fierce wars and the monuments of them on 
every side of him were a part of the educational forces 
to which his young mind was subjected. 

No one who has read Romeo and Juliet is likely to 
forget the amiable Friar Lawrence. The picture of 
this kind-hearted old man has all the marks of a por- 
trait, the original of which may be traced with no 
great violence and probability. Twelve miles from 
Stratford, at Evesham, were the ruins of the famous 
_ Abbey of the Benedictines, which bad been robbed and 
dismantled by Henry VIII., in 1539. More than one 
hundred and fifty inmates of this monastery were 
turned loose upon the world. Many of these men 
<loubtless were still living, sheltered in the cottages of 
old servants and retainers of the monastery, and 
nothing is more likely than that young Shakespeare 
came in contact with more than one of these meek 


and peaceful old men. ‘+The Infirmarist of a monastic | 


house, who had charge of the sick brethren, was 
often in the early days of medical science their only 
physician. The book knowledge and the experience of 
such a valuable member of the conventual body would 
still allow him to exercise [these] useful functions when 
thrust out into the world; and the young poet may 
have known some such kindly old man, full of axio- 
matic wisdom,” who unconsciously sat for his portrait 
of Friar Lawrence. It is observable of all Shake- 
speare’s pictures of monks, that they are drawn in the 
spirit of charity, and show the benevolent and kindly 
side of their character. The expelled Benedictines of 
Evesham, living in a serene and peaceful old age before 
his eyes, would naturally prompt to such a view. 

Shakespeare’s knowledge of archery and other field 
sports often comes out in his writings. In the Venus 
and Adonis, for instance, the practised huntsman 
appears as unmistakably as in Scott’s Lady of the 
Lake. The painting of the hare-hunt, in the Venus 
and Adonis, is for minute accuracy unequalled in all 
English literature. So in the Merchant of Venice, he 
shows his familiarity with archery. (I. i.) 


In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, 

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 

The self-same way with more advised watch, 

To find the other forth, and by adventuring both 
I oft found both. 


The ancient sport of archery was revived in Eng- 
land with much ceremony in 1580, Shakespeare being 
then sixteen years old. A short distance from Strat- 
ford, about a mile from the little village of Bidford, 
was still standing twenty-five years ago an old crab- 
tree, known as Shakespeare’s Crab-Tree, and cele- 
brated partly by the tradition that he was one of a 
party who accepted a challenge from some Bidford 
topers to try which party could drink the most ale, 
but more certainly by the tradition that under this 
tree were many games of archery, in which Shake- 
speare and other Stratford boys took part. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE STORY OF HIS DEER-STEALING, HOW FAR IT IS TO BE 
CREDITED. 


HERE is another somewhat circumstantial tradition 
of Shakespeare’s youth, which may be exaggerated 
in many of its details, and yet must have had some foun- 
dation in truth,— enough at least to add to the convic- 
tion that when a boy he was addicted to boyish sports 
and boon companions. ‘He had,” says Rowe, one of 
the earliest of the biographers, 1709, ‘‘by a misfortune 
common enough to young fellows, fallen into ill com- 
pany, and amongst them, some that made a frequent 
practice of deer-stealing engaged him more than once 
in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy 
of Charlecote near Stratford. For this he was pros- 
ecuted by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat 
too severely; and, in order to avenge that ill usage, 
he made a ballad upon him; and though this, prob- 
ably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is 
said to have been so very bitter that it redoubled the 
prosecution against him to that degree that he was 
obliged to leave his business and his family in War- 
wickshire for some time, and shelter in London.” 
Rowe speaks of the ballad as being lost, but some 
later antiquarians succeeded in gathering fragments of 
it from the lips of two or three extremely aged per- 
sons who had portions of it in memory. The first 
stanza, at least, has been clearly made out from two 


XX1 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


independent sources. The ballad may possibly not | lishing the banns. This feature of the license seems 


have been Shakespeare’s, but there is no doubt of its 
having come down to us by direct oral tradition, reach- 
ing back very nearly to Shakespeare’s day. 

To understand the malicious poem upon Sir Thomas’s 
name, it should be remembered that in the language 
of heraldry the word luce (Lat. lucius, O. Fr. lus) 
meant a pike, a kind of fish, and that three white luces 
or pike, interlaced, were in the quarterings of the coat- 
of-arms of the Lucy family. The balladist, whoever 
he was, quibbles upon the rustic pronunciation of the 
word ‘‘]-o-u-s-e,” which was also sounded ‘‘luce,” and 
thus brings out the provoking idea which so nettled 
the provincial dignitary. The stanza is as follows: 


A Parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scare-crow, at London an ass; 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volk miscall it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great, 

Yet an ass in his state 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volks miscall it, 
Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 


Shakespeare certainly at no period of his life was 
above this sort of quibble, and in his Merry Wives of 
Windsor (I. i.) he uses almost exactly the same ex- 
pression, so that readers have very generally believed 
that Sir Thomas sat for the picture when the dramatist 
gave us his inimitable portrait of Justice Shallow: 


Slen. All his ancestors that come afterhim ... 
May give the dozen white luces in their coat. 

Shal. It is an old coat. 

Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; 
it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man. 


Charlecote, with its ample parks and its noble man- 
sion and its worthy surroundings of every kind, was 
in the immediate vicinity of Stratford, and doubtless 
was one of the objects that helped to fill the mind of 
the young bard with images of beauty, whether the 
story of his youthful escapade there be true or not. 


CHAPTER VIL. 


HIS MARRIAGE — PAINFUL SURMISES RAISED IN REGARD 
TO IT BY RECENT DISCOVERIES — QUESTIONABLE OHAR- 
ACTER OF THE TRANSACTION — HAPPINESS OR UNHAP- 
PINESS OF HIS MARRIED LIFE, THE ARGUMENTS PRO 
AND CON —THE ROMANOE CONNECTED WITH THE NAME 
AND MEMORY OF ANNE HATHAWAY. 


\ HAT I have given thus far in regard to the per- 

sonal history of Shakespeare is, I am constrained 
to say, though extremely probable, yet, with one sin- 
gle exception, devoid of absolute certainty. Truth to 
say, from the register of his baptism to his nineteenth 
year, we have not one fact strictly personal to himself 
which we can affirm on direct and positive evidence. 
The second fact of his life for which we have authentic 
documentary evidence is his marriage. The date of 
his marriage is involved in the same difficulty as the 
date of his birth. The reason of the uncertainty as 
to the exact date is that the marriage register has not 
been found. But not many years ago a legal docu- 
ment was brought to light which fixes the date within 
a day or two. In the year 1836, there was discov- 
ered in the Consistorial Court of Worcester, the 
county adjoining to Warwickshire, a document relat- 
ing to Shakespeare, which on examination proved to 
be his marriage license. In this document, bonds are 
given by two of his neighbors to indemnify the 
bishop for licensing the marriage with only once pub- 

XXil 


to imply haste, and, taken in connection with some 
other circumstances, makes it certain that the marriage 
itself took place very soon thereafter, in all probability 
the same day. The marriage license is dated Novem- 
ber 28, 1582, Shakespeare being then a little over 
eighteen years and seven months old. 

Under head of May 26, 1583, two days less than 
six months, the parish register of Stratford contains 
this entry: Baptized, Susannah, daughter to William 
Shakespeare. — 

Connected with this marriage is another circum- 
stance, also accredited by public documents, from 
which countless conjectures have been drawn, accord- 
ing to the teeming fancies of readers. The Stratford 
register says that Shakespeare’s wife was buried 
August 8, and her tombstone says that she died 
August 6, 1623, aged sixty-seven years. Now, had 
Shakespeare lived till August, 16238, he would have 
been aged but fifty-nine years, or nearly eight years 
younger than his wife. In other words, the passionate 
and imaginative boy of eighteen was married to one 
in the full and matured womanhood of twenty-six. 

In connection with this we are reminded also that 
in Shakespeare’s will, which is very minute, mention- 
ing and providing for all the other members of his 
family, and even some of his ncighbors and of his 
dramatic associates, his wife’s name, in the original 
draft of the will, did not once occur, the one item in 
which it does occur being an interlineation, showing 
it to have been an afterthought, and bequeathing her 
merely his ‘‘ second-best bed with the furniture.” 

Nor is there in all his writings a line or a word 
which can be certainly affirmed to have been inspired 
by her, unless it be that significant thought in Zwelfth 
Night (il. iv.): 


Let still the woman take 
An elder than herself; so wears she to him, 
So sways she level in her husband’s heart,— 


—words of warning which some critics have been 
wicked enough to hint might have been suggested by 
his own bitter experience. 

It is but just to say, before dropping this disagree- 
able part of the subject, that there are many plausible 
theories for mitigating and even reversing the ordinary 
judgment upon this transaction. The evidence is com- 
plete that the ceremony of Hand-fasting, or Troth- 
plight, duly made before competent witnesses, was 
then popularly considered as nearly, if not quite, 
equivalent to formal marriage; and parties thus be- 
trothed lived together openly, and without scandal, 
as man and wife, before the formal marriage ceremony 
in church took place. Shakespeare himself, in Winter's 
Tale, speaks of illicit intercourse before ‘‘ Troth-plight ” 
in the same manner as of illicit intercourse before 
marriage, putting the two on an equality. The chari- 
table presumption, say those who admit this view, is 
that Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway were thus troth- 
plighted, and considered man and wife, months before 
their formal marriage. Certain it is that no breath of 
scandal on this account has reached us from the gos- 
sips of his own time. The marriage license that has 
been referred to, it is further to be noticed, is attested 
by the seal of Richard Hathaway, the father, showing 
his presence and assent to the transaction. There is, 
moreover, documentary evidence to show that this 
Richard Hathaway and John Shakespeare, the father 
of William, were personal friends, doing neighborly 
acts for each other in the way of business; that 
Richard Hathaway, Jr., the dramatist, two years the 
senior of Shakespeare, and his associate in literary and 
dramatic work, was in all probability Shakespeare’s 


PHHE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


brother-in-law ; furthermore, Jack Sandells and John 
Richardson, Shakespeare’s bondsmen, on the marriage 
license, were neighbors and friends of the Hathaways; 
and finally, the Shakespeares and the Hathaways seem 
from various circumstances to have lived on the most 
neighborly terms. 

As to the omissions of the will, it is to be remarked 
that the ‘‘dest bed” in such a family was usually an 
heir-loom, and went, according to English custom, to 
the heir-at-law; that the ‘second-best bed” was 
doubtless the one connected with the bridal ceremony 
and the married life of the parties; and finally, that 
by English law the wife had her widow’s portion, and 
was thus amply provided for without any special 
legacy in the will. Still, the one awkward fact re- 
mains, and the union, it is feared by many, was an ill- 
assorted one, and as such was a misfortune, even 
though not a crime. 

In this connection, too, it must be added that a por- 
tion of the sonnets seem to reveal to us some dark 
passages in Shakespeare’s London life, and from this 
the inference has been made that he was driven to 


been on the part of the injured wife that strong desire, 
which we know her to have expressed, to be buried 
in the same grave with him. 

Anne Hathaway, the name of the young woman 
who so early gained such an ascendancy over the 
youthful poet, was, according to a very general tradi- 
tion, possessed of great personal beauty. There is 
indeed no direct contemporary record to this effect. 
But the tradition is at least an innocent one, and is 
not contradicted by any adverse testimony. 

Of the sonnets, there are two or three at least that 
are redolent of this spring-time of life, and which I for 
one can hardly help believing were written by him 
before leaving Stratford, and were inspired by this 
Stratford beauty. One of these, in a half playful, 
half passionate vein, is a continued parody or pun on 
his own name of ‘ Will.” 


Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘ Will,’ 
And ‘ Will’ to boot, and ‘ Will’ in overplus; 

More than enough am I that vex thee still, 
To thy sweet will making addition thus. 

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, 
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? 


: Anne Hathaway’s Cottage. 


seek in forbidden ways the companionship and solace 
that he did not find by his own hearth-stone. That he 
did not, however, by the fascinations of the capital, 
become seriously alienated from his Stratford home is 
as clear as day, and is among the important facts bear- 
ing upon this vexed question. He never became a 
Londoner, as did Jonson and the other dramatists of 
the day. All the pet names given him by his contem- 
poraries connect him with his country home. He is 
ever ‘“‘the sweet swan of Avon,” “the bard of Avon,” 
not of the Thames. Every year, during his long 
sojourn in London, he made his annual visit to Strat- 
ford. His children are baptized, married, and buried 
there. His earnings, year by year, are invested there. 
It has even come to light that among his investments 
was a purchase of land at Shottery, the seat of the 
Hathaway Cottage, which certainly does not look as 
though the place had become distasteful to him. 
Everything in fact that we certainly know of the 
history of the man shows that Stratford and its sur- 
roundings, the residence of his wife and the scene of 
his youthful love, continued to the last to be the 
home of his affections. Had there been any such 
alienation as has been imputed, there would not have 


B 


Shall will in others seem right gracious, 
And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? 
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still 
And in abundance addeth to his store; 
So thou, being rich in ‘ Will,’ add to thy ‘ Will’ 
One will of mine, to make thy large ‘ Will’ more. 
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; 
Think all but one, and me in that one ‘ Will’ 
' Sonnet CXxXv. 


Another sonnet, in like youthful vein, differing so 
widely from the deep tragedy that pervades others of 
his sonnets, is addressed to some one playing on the 
virginal, an instrument of music then in use, the keys, 
called ‘‘ Jacks,” being of wood. 


How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, 
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds 
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st 
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, 
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap 
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, 
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, 
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand! 
To be so tickled, they would change their state 
And situation with those dancing chips, 
O’er whom [which] thy fingers walk with gentle gait, 
Making dead wood more blest than living lips. 
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, 
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 
Sonne’ exxvill, 


XxXill 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


This sonnet, whether addressed to Anne Hathaway | 


or not, is at least a refutation of the theory that all 
the sonnets were inspired by a male friend. The sen- 
timents here expressed are surely not those of man to- 
wards man, but of a man towards a woman. 

Anne Hathaway’s cottage, at the little village of 
Shottery, a mile and a half across the green fields 
from Stratford, still remains, and in it the ‘second 
best bed with the furniture,” bequeathed by her hus- 
band. Nothing more picturesque is to be seen in all 
the country round. 

The next entry in the Stratford register with which 
this story is concerned is the following: Baptized, 
February 2, 1585, Hamnet and Judith, son and daugh- 
ter of William Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s wife bore 
him only these three children. Hamnet, the only son, 
died at the age of twelve. The daughters, Susannah 
and Judith, were both married. Judith was married 
to a Stratford man, Thomas Quiney, and had three 
sons, who however all died without issue. Susannah, 
the oldest daughter, and the chief inheritor, was mar- 
ried to Dr. Hall, an eminent physician of Stratford. 
She had one daughter, Elizabeth, who was twice mar- 
ried, the last time to Sir John Barnard, but she like- 
wise died without issue. No lineal descendant of 
Shakespeare, therefore, now exists. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


WHAT LED SHAKESPEARE TO THE PLAYERS AND TO 
LONDON. 


ees conjectures and surmises have been given as 
to the cause of Shakespeare’s leaving Stratford for 
the metropolis. The real cause I take to be that stated 
briefly by Aubrey, the earliest of all the biographers 
(1670). ‘‘This William,” says Aubrey, “ being natu- 
rally inclined to poetry and acting, came to London.” 
Let us see if some light cannot be thrown upon this 
brief paragraph. 

Among the fiscal accounts of Stratford have been 
several entries which may be serviceable in this matter. 
These entries are charges of public money expended 
by the authorities for certain theatrical performances 
at different times, from 1569 to 1580, that is, from the 
fifth to the seventeenth year of William Shakespeare. 
In 1569, when his father John Shakespeare was chief 
magistrate or Bailiff, there was a payment of £9 to the 
Queen’s Players, and of 12d. to the Earl of Worces- 
ter’s Players. In 1573, the Earl of Leicester’s Players 
received 5s. 8d. In 1576, my Lord of Warwick’s 
Players had a gratuity of 17s., and the Earl of Wor- 
cester’s Players one of 5s. 8d. In 1577, my Lord of 
Leicester’s Players received 15s., and my Lord of Wor- 
cester’s Players 3s. 4d. In 1579, my Lord Strange’s 
men, at the commandment of the Bailiff, 5s., and the 
Countess of Essex’s Players 14s. 6d. In 1580, the Earl 
of haps Players, at the commandment of the Bailiff, 
8s. 4d. 

These entries are explained by the following passage 
in a book by R. Wiltes, 1639, who gives his own age 
at that time as seventy-five, and who must therefore 
have been born in the same year with Shakespeare. 
Wiltes is describing what he had seen in a country 
town near Stratford when he was a boy. His deserip- 
tion, in connection with the foregoing entries, is almost 
as satisfactory as if it had been said in express terms 
that the same thing was seen by Will. Shakespeare, 
another boy, in another town of merry England, “all 
in the olden time.” The title is: 


XXIV 


“Upon aA STAGE-PLay wHion I Saw wHEN I was a 
CHILD.” 


“In the city of Gloucester, the manner is (as I think 
it is in other like corporations) that when Players of 
Interludes come to town, they first attend the Mayor, 
to inform him what nobleman’s servants they are, and 
so to get license for their playing; and if the Mayor 
like the actors, or would show respect to their lord 
and master, he appoints them to play their first play 
before himself and the aldermen and common council 
of the city; and that is called the Mayor’s Play, when 
every one that will comes in without money, the Mayor 
giving the players a reward as he thinks fit, to show 
respect unto them. At such a play my father took 
me with him, and made me stand between his legs, as 
he sat upon one of the benches, where we saw and 
heard very well. The play was called ‘The Cradle 
of Security,’ wherein was personated a king or some 
great prince, with his courtiers of several kinds, 
amongst which three ladies were in special grace with 
him; and they, keeping him in delights and pleasures, 
drew hir> from his graver counsellors, hearing of ser- 
mons, and listening to good counsel and admonitions, 
that in the end they got him to lie down in a cradle 
upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a 
sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again, 
and in the mean time closely conveyed under the 
clothes wherewithal he was covered a vizard like unto 
a swine’s snout upon his face, with three wire chains 
fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being sever- 
ally holden by these three ladies, who fell to singing 
again, and then discovered his face, that the spectators 
might see that they had transformed him, going on 
with their singing. Whilst all this was acting, there 
came forth of another door, at the farthest end of the 
stage, two old men, the one in blue, with a sergeant of 
arms, his mace upon his shoulder, the other in red, 
with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the 
other hand upon the other’s shoulder; and so they two 
went along in a soft pace, round about by the skirt of 
the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, when all 
the Court was in the greatest jollity; and then the 
foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow 
upon the cradle, whereat all the courtiers, with the 
three ladies and the vizard, all vanished ; and the deso- 
late prince, starting up barefaced, and finding himself 
thus sent for to judgment, made a lamentable com- 
plaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away 
by wicked spirits. 

‘This prince did personate in the gest the wicked 
of the world; the three ladies, Pride, Covetousness, 
and Luxury; the two old men, the End of the World 
and the Last Judgment. This sight took such impres- 
sion in me that when I came towards man’s estate, it 
was as fresh in my memory as if I had seen it newly 
acted.” 


Now if R. Wiltes, born in 1564, saw when a child 
this exhibition in the town of Gloucester, I do not find 
it at all difficult to believe that when, in 1569, John 
Shakespeare, Bailiff of Stratford-upon-Avon, ordered 
the payment of 9s. to the Queen’s Players for the ex- 
hibition of a Merry Interlude, his son Will, then five 
years old, stood in like manner between his father’s 
legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, and there saw 
a like notable ‘‘ gest; and that he continued to wit- 
ness the other exhibitions of a like kind which occurred 
from time to time in his native town during the whole 
period of his boyhood. 

The inference which these records suggest is strength- 
ened by others of a later date. The first direct evi- 


_ dence that we have of Shakespeare’s being in London 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


is a list of certain persons in that city, engaged as 
players and as proprietors of the Play House. In this 
company, of which Shakespeare is one, occur the 
names of several other actors from the same county of 
Warwick, and one other at least from Stratford itself. 

Thus, then, it was. The great dramatist found, 
even in these rude exhibitions, something congenial. 
He found in these wandering and clumsy theatricals 
the elements of his own glorious day-dreams. His 
soul was touched, rudely it may be, but on that chord 
which yielded its deepest and sweetest music. To 
join his fellow-townsmen who had already embarked 
in this business, and to seek by it in the great metropolis 
the means of living and of fame, was certainly one of the 
most natural and probable of all possible results. It 
was instructive. His leaving Stratford for London at 
the time he did needs no further explanation. It re- 
quires no fable of deer-stealing and prosecution, no 
interposition of paternal misfortunes, no fiction of 
domestic disquietudes and treasons. Shakespeare 
found himself among the players for the same reason 
that the birds in spring-time find themselves among 
the branches. He became a dramatist under a law as 
generic as that which draws sweetness from the 
olian harp when kissed by Zephyrus, or that which 
opens the throats of the feathered tribes when vernal 
airs and genial skies warm them into melody. It was 
nature herself prompting her favorite son to his ap- 
propriate work. The strolling players and the merry 
interludes, at the little town of Stratford-upon-Avon, 
were to Shakespeare the mirror of Merlin, revealing 
to himself the secret of his own wonderful powers. 
The powers were there. They needed only an occa- 
sion to put them in motion. 


CHAPTER IX. 

UNCERTAINTY ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKESPEARE’S AD- 
VENT IN LONDON — FIRST FOUND THERE IN CONNEOTION 
WITH THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN’S PLAYERS —SKETOH OF 
THE HISTORY OF THIS COMPANY —THE ELDER BUR- 
BAGE, HIS THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES — ATTITUDE OF 
THE CORPORATION OF LONDON TOWARDS THE PLAYERS, 
ITS EFFECT UPON THE LOCATION OF THE PLAY HOUSE 
— NOTICES OF THE THEATRE, THE CURTAIN, THE GLOBE, 
THE BLAOKFRIARS. 


NE of the riddles of literature is that so little 
should be known of the man who is beyond ques- 
tion the greatest genius that literature has to boast of; 


and the riddle is all the more perplexing from the fact | 


that this man lived in the very focus of English civil- 
ization, at one of its most illustrious epochs, and that 
he has been dead only about two centuries and a half. 

The exact date of Shakespeare’s going to London is 
not known. The probability is that he went about 
the year 1586, four years after his marriage, he being 
then twenty-two years old, and his youngest child not 
yet two years old. He died in 1616, and the last four 
or five years of his life are known to have been spent 
in his native village, after his retirement from the 
metropolis. This would make his London career 
cover a period of about a quarter of a century. 

The first notices we have of Shakespeare in London 
are in connection with the company of actors known, 
first as the Lord Chamberlain’s men, and afterwards as 
the King’s Players. Some account of this company 
therefore is the first thing in order. Strolling actors 
were at that time liable to be taken up as vagrants. 
To relieve them from this penalty the better class of 


actors attached themselves to the service of some 
nobleman, and, as his servants, they were by law free 
from arrest. One company, known as the Earl of Lei- 
cester’s Players, early acquired special distinction, and in 
1574, through his influence, obtained a special charter 
from the Queen. The leading proprietor in this com- 
pany was James Burbage, a Warwickshire man. This 
James Burbage was, in Shakespeare’s boyhood, the 
man of greatest mark in the theatrical world. He 
was the pioneer in the building of play-houses, the 
first house ever built in England specially erected for 
theatrical purposes being that put up by him in 1577, 
in Shoreditch, on ground formerly belonging to Holy- 
well Priory. It was in the open fields on the north 
side of London, and just outside the city limits. This 
building was known simply as the Theatre. After 
occupying it more than twenty years as a play-house, 
Burbage pulled it down, carried the materials to the 


Old Globe Theatre, 1595. 


other side of London, on the south bank of the Thames, 
and there, in 1599, with these materials, built the play- 
house known as the Globe. Hehad also, some three or 
four years before, near the north bank of the Thames, 
opposite Southwark, erected still another play-house, 
known as the Blackfriars, being built upon a part of 
the foundation of the old monastery of the Black 
Friars, which had been demolished in the reign of 
Henry VIII. 

This James Burbage had a son Richard, who was 
confessedly the greatest actor of his day, and one of 
the greatest of all time. He was about the same age 
as Shakespeare, and was the leading man in the com- 
pany of players to which Shakespeare belonged. They 
played chiefly in the buildings just described, put up 
by the elder Burbage, namely, the Theatre, the Black- 
friars, the Globe. The principal actors in this com- 
pany were Richard Burbage, William Shakespeare, 
Lawrence Fletcher, Augustine Phillipps, John Heminge, 


XXV 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


Henry Condell, William Sly, Robert Armin, and 
Richard Cowley. This company, varying a little from 
time to time as to its constituency, yet remaining sub- 
stantially the same, was at first under the protection 
of the Lord Chamberlain, and its members were 
known as his men or his servants. But on the acces- 
sion of James, 1603, he took them under his own 
special protection, and they were known thenceforth 
as the King’s Players. All of Shakespeare’s plays 
were brought out by this company. 

The Burbages, father and son, were in particular 
intimately associated with Shakespeare all through his 
theatrical career, and the younger of them is one of 
those affectionately remembered by Shakespeare in 
his will. Another man for a time of this company, 
though he appears afterward to have gone over to a 
rival company, was Thomas Greene, of great celebrity 
as a comic actor. He is generally believed to have 
been a Stratford man, and to have been directly in- 
strumental in introducing Shakespeare to the com- 
pany. Still another member of this company, John 
Heminge, is said to have been from Shottery, the 
residence of Anne Hathaway, near Stratford. He re- 
mained with the company to the last, and was one of 
the editors of the first Folio. 


® 


s 


MMMM. 


Y ME d 
WME MAM ts 


Wy 


Richard Burbage. 


To understand the theatrical history of this period, 
it must be borne in mind that while both Elizabeth 
and James, and the court generally, looked with favor 
upon actors and acting, the city of London, under the 
influence of the Puritan element in the church, dis- 
countenanced stage playing, and did everything in 
their power to suppress it. Hence nearly all the early 
play-houses were built in places contiguous to the 
population, but outside the limits of the corporation 
and beyond its jurisdiction. There were three such 
play-houses on the north side of the city, in what 
was then open country, in the neighborhood of Shore- 
ditch. These three were: 1. The Theatre (Burbage’s 
already named), 2. The Curtain, 3. The Fortune. 

Two others, already mentioned, and belonging to 
the Burbages, were The Blackfriars, on the north 


the Bankside. The Blackfriars, according to docu- 
ments first brought to light by Mr. Halliwell, in 1874, 
was built in 1596, and the Globe in 1599. Shakespeare’s 
theatrical career began at the old theatre in Shore- 
ditch, outside of the city on the north, and continued 
there for the first ten or twelve years; it was then 
divided for a time between that theatre and the Black- 
friars; and finally, for the last twelve or fifteen years, 
was divided between the Blackfriars and the Globe. 


CHAPTER X. 


BEGINNING OF SHAKESPEARE’S CAREER, HIS RANK AS AN 
ACTOR — VERY RECENT DOCUMENTS ON THIS SUBJEOT 
—IN WHAT MANNER HIS OAREER AS A DRAMATIST 
BEGAN — SOCIAL HUMILIATIONS OF THE ACTORS AND 
THE DRAMATISTS AT THAT TIME— EVIDENCES THAT 
SHAKESPEARE FELT THIS KEENLY — HIS SOCIAL HABITS 
— ‘‘WIT-COMBATS”’ BETWEEN HIM AND BEN JONSON, 
AT THE MERMAID— ONE REASON WHY SUCH OBSCU- 
RITY EXISTS IN REGARD TO THE DATE OF THE COM- 
POSITION OF THE DIFFERENT PLAYS—HIS INTEREST 
IN PREVENTING THE PUBLICATION OF THE PLAYS — 
OHARACTER OF THE EARLY QUARTOS—THE TRUE 
EDITIO PRINOEPS. 


HE evidence is conclusive that Shakespeare began 

his theatrical career as an actor, and that he took 
parts both in his own plays and in others. Some of 
the parts taken by him, as that of the Ghost in his 
own Hamlet, and that of the old man Adam in As 
You Like It, are pretty well ascertained. It is also 
known that he played in Ben Jonson’s Avery Man in 
his Humor. 

The earliest authentic mention of Shakespeare as a 
player is in March, 1594, four years earlier than any 
authentic mention of him in this capacity heretofore 
supposed to exist. In the document just unearthed 
by Halliwell, and published in 1874, of the authenticity 
of which there has been thus far no question, Shake- 
speare is named as one of the Lord Chamberlain’s ser- 
vants who had acted two comedies before her majesty 
Queen Elizabeth during the preceding Christmas sea- 
son, that is, in December, 1593. This document, then, 
shows Shakespeare, at the end of seven years from the 
time of his supposed advent in London, to have already 
risen to such consideration in the theatrical world as 
to be one of the three most eminent actors of the 
day, specially invited to play before her majesty on 
that occasion, Kempe and Burbage, the two others 
associated with him, being the acknowledged sover- 
eigns of the stage. The document is interesting also as 
showing the exact amount paid for their services, viz., 
£20 equal to £100, or $500 now. The whole entry 
is worth quoting. It is in these words: ‘‘To William 
Kempe, William Shakespeare, and Richard Burbage, 
servants to the Lord Chamberlain, upon the Council’s 
warrant, dated at Whitehall, 15 March, 1594, for two 
severall comedies or interludes showed by them before 
her Majesty in Christmas time last past, namely, upon 
St. Stephen’s day and Innocent’s day, £13 6s. 8d., and 
by way of her majesty’s reward £6 13s. 4d., in all £20.” 

In regard to his ability as an actor, Chettle, writing 
while Shakespeare was still on the boards, 1592, tes- 
tifies that “he is excellent in the quality which he 
professeth,”’ and Aubrey, writing half a century after 
Shakespeare’s death (1670), says “he did act exceed- 


bank of the Thames, and within the corporation limits, | ingly well.” If in this respect he did not come up to 
and The Globe, on the south side of the Thames, in| the consummate ability of his friend, the younger 


the suburb known as Southwark, and sometimes as 
XXVl 


Burbage, who was indeed the Garrick of his day, he 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


— 


practical experience on the stage contributed largely, 
without doubt, to that masterly knowledge of stage- 
effect which is so conspicuous in his plays. 

There is a well-authenticated tradition that Taylor, 
one of the Blackfriars’ company, who acted Hamlet, 
was instructed in the part by Shakespeare himself; 
also, that Lowine, who acted Henry VIII., was like- 
wise instructed in it by Shakespeare; and, finally, that 
Betterton, who, half a century later, became famous 
as a personator of these two parts, was aided therein 
by the stage traditions in regard to the manner of 
presenting them introduced by Shakespeare himself. 

The evidence, furthermore, is conclusive that for 
many years Shakespeare was engaged both as a writer 
for the stage and as an actor. All his predecessors 
and most of his contemporaries were at once players 
and writers. Such was the case with Marlowe, 
Greene, Lodge, Peele, Nash, Munday, Wilson, Field, 
Heywood, Webster, and Ben Jonson. It was not 
until some time later in the history of the drama that 
the business of author and actor became distinct. All 
the early dramatists were actors, and took part in 
acting their own plays. 

It is further probable that Shakespeare began the 
business of dramatist in the same manner as his pre- 
dlecessors, namely, as a “playwright.” That is, he 
began, not by composing original plays, but by tinker- 
ing up and improving plays already extant. The 
drama, about the time that he began authorship, seems 
hardly to have been considered a part of literature. 
The person who prepared a play for the stage was not 
looked upon as an author. It was all one to the 
audience whether that which pleased them was orig- 
inal or borrowed. The actor sometimes came in for 
a share of personal regard, but no one ever thought 
of the writer. It can hardly be doubted that Shake- 
speare, while enjoying his theatrical success, felt keenly 
the humiliating social position to which his profession 
at this time subjected him. It is absurd to suppose 
that such a genius as Shakespeare’s, did not know its 
own value. Read the fifty-fifth sonnet: 


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
Than unswept stone besmear’d with sluttish time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And broils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
*Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room 
Even in the ies of all ea {10 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 


Bearing in mind this his sublime consciousness of 
his own greatness and of the assured eternity of his 
lines, how infinitely touching is the pathos with which, 
in another sonnet (111th), he refers to the social 
humiliations to which his profession subjected him. 


O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
That did not better for my life provide 
Than public means which public manners breeds. 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. 


The feeling thus experienced, as he looked upon the 
great and noble who came to his play-house merely 
to be amused, is not at all in conflict with the fact 
that he enjoyed heartily his life, such as it was, though 
it did not give him social intercourse with the titled 
ones about him. We can well believe the traditions 
of the merry-makings at the Falcon and the Mermaid, 
and of the wit-combats of which Fuller speaks, 1662, 


yet evidently was an actor of no mean ability, and his | Fuller, ‘‘ were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben 


Jonson; which two I beheld like a Spanish great 
galleon and an English man-of-war.”. Master Jonson, 
like the former, was built far higher in learning; solid, 
but slow in his performances. Shakespeare, with the 
early dramatists, prepared a piece for the stage purely 
as a matter of business. They took,.or they made, 
whatever was likely to gain the end—to draw an 
audience. Shakespeare doubtless soon found that the 
less he took and the more he made, the more accept- 
able the preparation became to the public. Hence he 
passed by a natural transition from what has been 
technically called a “playwright,” to a writer of orig- 
inal plays. Another thing also is probable, and indeed 
is evident from recorded facts, that his plays be- 
came gradually so important to the company to which 
he belonged, that he dropped entirely the office of 
actor, and confined his attention exclusively to writ- 
ing. At what time precisely this change took place 
has not been ascertained. All that we know certainly 
is that during the early part of his theatrical career 
he was an actor, afterwards he was both actor and 
writer, while for many years before his death he was 
connected with the stage only as a writer. The story 
of his having began by holding the horses of those at- 
tending the theatre is now generally discredited. If 
the thing did occur, it must have been at the theatre, 
in Shoreditch, to which Shakespeare was first attached. 
As this theatre was out in the open fields, many of 
the play-goers coming from the city would reach the 
place on horse-back, and so the holding of the horses 
would become a considerable business. 

The date of the composition of the several plays is 
involved in great obscurity. A discussion of the sub- 
ject would involve many dry details quite unsuited 
to a sketch like this. One general remark, however, 
may be made, bearing upon this point. It is doubtful 
whether any one of the plays was published under 
the author’s own inspection and authority. It was to 
the interest of Shakespeare and his company to keep 
the plays in manuscript in the theatre, as the main 
part of their stock in trade. The printing of them for 
persons to read lessened their value as a means of 
attracting people to the play-house. The fact, there- 
fore, of the plays not coming out during the author’s 
life, and under his own direction, is proof rather of his 
thrift, than of the neglect and reckless indifference to 
which it has been generally ascribed. In 1623, seven 
years after his death, two of his friends and fellow- 
actors published his plays in a large folio volume, from 
the original copies then in the theatre. This publica- 
tion is regarded as the true Editio Princeps, and as the 
chief authority in determining the text. A consider- 
able number of the plays were published separately 
during his life. These were printed in small 4to pam- 
phlets, and are known as the Early Quartos. Their 
publication, however, is generally believed to have 
been surreptitious, without the supervision or consent 
of the author. 

The fact that the plays were kept in the theatre as 
a part of the theatrical property has had the additional 
effect of making it next to impossible to fix a definite 
time for the composition of each. We know from a 
comparison of styles, as well as from contemporary rec- 
ords, that certain of the plays were written earlier, and 
others were written later. But even when a play had 
been once produced in the theatre, there is no proof 
that Shakespeare did not continue to alter and amend 
it from year to year. The proof indeed is just the 
other way, and the general conclusion now is, that all 
the plays were touched up from time to time, and that 
many of them, particularly those first written, were 


between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. ‘‘ Many,” says | rewritten again and again. 


XXVll 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XI. 


RELATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE TO THE EARL OF SOUTH- 
AMPTON —OHARAOTER OF THIS NOBLEMAN — TRADI- 

' "ION OF THE GIFT OF £1,000 — CONNECTION OF THE 
DAVENANTS WITH THE STORY — THEIR SPECIAL MEANS 
OF KNOWLEDGE ON THE SUBJECT. 


HE first works of Shakespeare published, and the 

only ones certainly known to have been published 
under his own supervision and authority, were the 
Venus and Adonis, 1598, and the Luerece, 1594, Shake- 
speare at this latter date being thirty years old. Both 
poems are dedicated to a youthful admirer of Shake- 
speare’s, the young earl of Southampton, then in his 
twenty-first year. The earl is described by his con- 
temporaries as a man of brilliant parts, possessed of 
great learning and accomplishments, and a munificent 
patron of letters. Testimonies to this effect in the 
shape of dedicatory odes and epistles are found scat- 
tered all through the literature of the period. The 
poets of the day looked up to him as the English 
Mecenas. Brathwayt, in the dedication of the Schol- 
ar’s Medley, calls him ‘ learning’s best favorite.” Flo- 
rio, in his World ef Words, speaks of him as one “in 
whose pay and patronage I have lived some years;” 
“To me and many more, the glorious and gracious 
sunshine of your honor hath infused light and life.” 
The form of literature to which he was especially de- 
voted was the drama. This we know from a contem- 
porary record by Rowland Whyte, who says of South- 
ampton and his companion Lord Rutland, ‘‘ They pass 
away the time in London merely in going to plays 
every day.” In connection with this, we may observe 
that his mother by a second marriage became the wife 
of Sir Thomas Henrage, Treasurer of the Chamber. 
This office brought Sir Thomas, and through him his 
step-son, the young earl, into intimate association with 
actors and dramatists. Some brief reference to the 
affection of this brilliant nobleman for men of letters 
seems necessary to explain the intimate relations which 
grew up between him and Shakespeare. In the dedi- 
cation of the Venus and Adonis, the language is that 
of distant but respectful compliment. The dedication 
of the Lucrece, only a year later, speaks unbounded 
admiration and affection. This change in the tone of 
the two documents is remarkable, and is supposed to 
have been caused by an extraordinary act of generos- 
ity on the part of the young nobleman. The tradi- 
tion is that the earl at one time made the poet a gift 
of £1,000 (equivalent to £5,000 now) to enable him 
to complete a “purchase which he had a mind to.” 
There is no inherent impossibility, and no very great 
improbability, in such a piece of generosity, and the 
tradition is clear and precise. If this thing ever did 
take place, its occurrence in the interval between the 
publication of these two documents gives special mean- 
ing and emphasis to both—the first dedication being 
that which prompted the mind of the generous young 
nobleman to make the gift, the second being the nat- 
ural outpouring of affection for so great an act of kind- 
ness. 

All this, probable as it is, we must still remember is 
pure conjecture. The tradition is given by Rowe, and 
Rowe gives it on the authority of Sir William Dave- 
nant, 1670, about half a century after Shakespeare’s 
death. Shakespeare was intimate with the Davenants, 
and was godfather to their son, William, the celebrated 
Sir William Davenant of the next generation. Shake- 
speare used to stop at their house, the Crown Inn, in 
Oxford, in his annual journeys between Stratford and 
London, the older Davenant, who was an innkeeper 
and vintner, being a great admirer and friend of the 


XXVill 


SHAKESPEARE. 


— 


poet. These facts are expressly affirmed by Anthony 
A. Wood, the careful antiquarian of Oxford, who him- 
self knew the Davenants personally. Wood says, the 
‘‘mother [of Sir William] was a very beautiful woman, 
of a good wit and conversation;” “the father... 
was a very good and discreet citizen, yet an admirer 
and lover of plays and playmakers, especially Shake- 
speare, who frequented his house in his journeys be- 
tween Warwickshire and London.” The Davenants 
then must have been well acquainted with Shake- 
speare’s affairs, and are competent witnesses to any 
important facts in his history. Rowe’s statement is as 
follows: ‘There is one instance so singular in the 
munificence of this patron of Shakespeare’s, that if I 
had not been assured that the story was handed down 
by Sir William Davenant, who was probably very well 
acquainted with his [Shakespeare’s] affairs, I should not 
have ventured to have inserted; [to wit,] that my Lord 
Southampton at one time gave him a thousand pounds 
to enable him to go through with a purchase which he 
heard he had a mind to.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


SHAKESPEARE’S GENIUS FULLY RECOGNIZED BY HIS CON- 
TEMPORARIES — EVIDENCES ON THIS POINT: (@) EX- 
TRAORDINARY NUMBER OF EDITIONS OF HIS WORKS 
PUBLISHED DURING HIS LIFE-TIME; (0) NUMBER OF 
QUOTATIONS FROM HIM IN CONTEMPORARY WORKS OF 
ELEGANT EXTRACTS; (¢) NUMBER AND EXTRAORDI- 
NARY CHARACTER OF NOTICES OF HIM BY OONTEM- 
PORARY WRITERS — HOW THE CURRENT NOTION ORIGI- 
NATED ABOUT HIS NOT BEING KNOWN OR RECOG- 
NIZED BY HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 


T has been a common opinion that Shakespeare’s 
genius was not recognized by his own generation ; 
in fact, that he lived and died comparatively unknown. 
That his genius is now better understood and appreci- 
ated than it was two hundred and fifty years ago, I 
admit. It is also true that he is no longer thought to 
have been, as the wits of Queen Anne’s day thought 
him, a sort of inspired idiot, abounding in genius, but 
wanting in art. Yet, while a broader criticism and a 
more extensive research have undoubtedly added to our 
knowledge of him, it would be a great mistake to sup- 
pose that he was not both well known and highly 
appreciated in his own day. 

And, first, let us see what was done in the actual 
publication of his works while he was still living. 
From 1593, when the Venus and Adonis first appeared, 
to 1616, the time of his death, scarcely a year passed 
without the appearance in print of one or more of his 
works, some of them reaching as high as six editions 
within twenty-one years. The whole number of edi- 
tions of separate works, copies or records of which 
have come down to us, was at the time of his death 
no less than sixty-five. Now even in this day of cheap 
publications and of universal rushing into print, an 
author who, at fifty-two, notwithstanding studious and 
interested endeavors on his part to keep his chief works 
out of the hands of the printers, should yet find on 
the bookseller’s catalogues more than sixty editions of 
one or another of them, might surely seem to be not 
altogether a stranger to the public. It is hardly an 
exaggeration to say that Tennyson and Longfellow are 
not better known to the book-trade than was Shake- 
speare, mutatis mutandis, at the time of his death. 

Secondly, in the books of elegant extracts published 
at that time, and containing selections from standard 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


— 


poets, Shakespeare is even thus early quoted. Thus, 
England’s Parnassus, or, The Choysest Flowers of our 
Modern Poets, 1600, has no less than ninety extracts 
from Shakespeare. Bel-Vedere, or Garden of the 
Muses, also in 1600, has several extracts from Shake- 
speare. 
appendix of new poems, ‘done by the best and chief- 
est of our modern writers,”—the same being chiefly 
Chapman, Marston, Ben Jonson, and Shakespeare. Eng- 
land’s Helicon, a Collection of Pastoral Poems (1614) 
contains three extracts from Shakespeare. This kind 
' of incidental testimony it is impossible to gainsay. It 
is hard to conceive of a contemporary popularity more 
unmistakable. 

Thirdly, although it was not the custom then, as it is 
now, for everybody to gossip on paper about authors, 
yet let us see whether Shakespeare and his works are 
not in point of fact mentioned in every variety of way 
by those who lived at the same time with him, who 
were conversant with his writings, and who knew the 
man himself personally. I will mention only a few of 
the very earliest, from 1591 to 1598. 

The earliest of all is a passage in Spenser, not indeed 
naming Shakespeare, yet so evidently referring to him 
as to deserve citation. It is, I am aware, a matter of 
dispute whether the passage referred to was meant for 
Shakespeare, and many Shakespearians, those too of 
the very highest authority, reject the passage alto- 
gether. Yet, after considering carefully the argu- 
ments, for and against, I cannot resist the conviction 
that in penning these lines Spenser did have Shake- 
speare in his mind. The passage occurs in Spenser’s 
poem, The Tears of the Muses, 1591, Shakespeare hav- 
ing then been five years in London. Spenser, who 
during that same period had been living at Kilcolman 
Castle, Ireland, came in 1590 to London to attend to 
the printing of the first three books of the Faerie 
Queene, and while there was likely to learn something 
of the new poet, and perhaps to make his acquaint- 
ance. Nothing certainly could be more probable than 
that Spenser, during this temporary sojourn in the 
metropolis, should embrace the opportunity of fre- 
quenting the play-house, where all the wits of the 
day and all his friends among the nobility made daily 
resort. On his return to Ireland, this poem, the Tears 
of the Muses, was published, suggested apparently by 
what he had seen in London during his late visit, and 
bewailing what he considered the low estate of litera- 
ture and the arts. In the poem, each of the Nine 
Muses in turn makes lament over the low condition of 
that particular art over which she presides. Among 
the rest, Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, bewails the de- 
generate state of her branch. In this lament occur the 
lines referred to: 


And he, the man whom Nature selfe had made 
To mock her selfe and Truth to imitate, 

With kindly counter under Mimick shade, 
Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late: 

With whom all joy and jolly merriment 

Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. 


After a few more lines, expressing her scorn for the 
baser sort of dramatists who were flooding the stage 
with their vile productions, she goes on to say: 


But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen 
Large streames of honnie and sweete Nectar flowe, 
Scorning the boldnes of such base borne men, 
Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe, 
Doth rather choose to sit in idle Cell, 
Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell. 


Here Thalia speaks of some dramatic writer who 
had raised high the expectations of the public, but 
who is “dead of late,” that is, who is so vexed at the 
ecurvility and ribaldry prevailing that he ceases writing 


Love's Martyr, in a new edition, 1601, has an | 


for the stage, resolving to sit idle for the time, rather 
than be mixed up with such base-born men. As there» 
was no other dramatic writer in 1591 to whom these 
lines could possibly apply, and as the phrase “ our 
pleasant Willy” points so clearly to William Shake- 
speare, it is hard to resist the conclusion that Shake- 
speare was meant, that he had thus, as early even as 
his twenty-seventh year, won emphatic recognition 
from the author of this Muerie Queene. Among the 
plays known to have been written prior to 1591, are 
Love's Labour’s Lost, Comedy of Errors, and Two Gen- 
tlemen of Verona, all in the comic vein, and all there- 
fore suited to bring their author under the notice of 
Thalia, the Muse of Comedy. 

Three years later, that is, in 1594, Spenser again 
visited London, and on returning to Ireland wrote 
another poem, Colin Clout’s Come Home Again, cele- 
brating in pastoral verse, and, as was his wont, under 
assumed names, the various persons he had met in and 
near the court. Astrophel is Sir Philip Sidney, the 
Shepherd of the Ocean is Sir Walter Raleigh, and so 
on. Among these descriptions is one generally sup- 
posed to refer to Shakespeare, though the reference is 
by no means so clear as in the former passage. The 
lines are the following: 


And there, though last not least, is AETION: 
A gentler shepheard may no where be found, 
Whose Muse, full of high thoughts invention, 
Doth like himselfe heroically sound. 


a GHEY 


Edward Spenser. 


Poets have in all ages been regarded as genus trri- 
tabile,— a waspish race. All the accounts, however, 
which we have of Shakespeare, concur in representing 
him as, on the contrary, a man of amiable disposition 
and conciliatory manners. It is not a little remarkable 
that all his contemporaries and those of the age imme- 
diately following (except one little outpouring of spleen 
which I shall notice presently), speak of him, when 
they refer to him at all, in terms not merely of admi- 
ration, but of tender affection,— a man not only to be 
reverenced, but to be loved. Milton, whose epithets 
are never given at random, speaks of ‘sweetest Shake- 
speare”” and ‘my Shakespeare.” Leonard Digges 
speaks of ‘our Shakespeare.” His fellow-actors, 
Heminge and Condell, in bringing out the first Folio, 
speak of ‘‘our Shakespeare.” Ben Jonson says ‘‘ Sweet 


xxix 


Swan of Avon,” ‘“‘my Shakespeare,” ‘my gentle Shake- 
speare.”’ Spenser, in the passage first quoted, speaks 
of “our pleasant Willy,” and “that same gentle spirit.” 
So here, when in speaking of Aetion he says, a ‘“‘ gentler 
shepheard may no where be found,” it seems but natural 
to infer that he means the same genial, love-inspiring 
spirit. 

Rakncther expression deserves notice. The Muse of 
Aetion, it is said, does “like himself heroically sound.” 
This seems to carry a plain reference to Shakespeare’s 


name, which in that day was often printed as two | 


words joined by a hyphen, Shake-speare, and as such 
considered significant, and played upon according to 
the fancy of his friends. 
the name into ‘‘Shake-a-Lance” and “‘Shake-a-Stage; ” 


Greene calls him a “Shake-scene;” Fuller refers to | 


the ‘‘ warlike sound of his surname, whence some may 
conjecture him of a military extraction,—Hasti-vibrans, 
or Shake-speare ;” and finally the coat-of-arms devised 
for him by the Herald’s office bears the crest of a fal- 
con brandishing a spear. These things look certainly 
as if Spenser was aiming at the same mark when he 
speaks of a poet whose Muse does like himself heroic- 
ally sound. Notice further the difference between the 
kind of praise now bestowed and that given three 
years before. Then the qualities spoken of were the 
“honey” and the ‘‘nectar,” the “joy” and the ‘‘jolly 
merriment.” Now, his Muse is ‘full of high thoughts’ 
invention.” This too is supposed to be explained by a 
comparison of dates. In 1591, Shakespeare had written 
little, if any thing, but comedy, with possibly the 
Venus and Adonis, and some of “his sugred sonnets 
among his friends.” But now, in 1594, three at least 
of his great tragedies had been put upon the stage, 
namely, Richard II., Richard I/I., and Romeo and 
Juliet. Well then might Spenser speak of the heroic 
sound of his name and of his high thoughts’ inven- 
tion. 

Shakespeare’s own admiration for the poet-lau- 
reate, found expression in a remarkable sonnet, pub- 
lished in the Passionate Pilgrim, and addressed to a 
friend who was equally an admirer of Dowland, a 
famous English musician of that day: 


If music and sweet poetry agree, 


As they must needs, the sister and the brother, 
Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, 
Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. 

Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch 
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; 
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such 
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. 
Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound 
That Phoebus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; 
And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned 
Whenas himself to singing he betakes. 
One god is god of both, as poets feign ; 
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. 


After Spenser, the next writer, chronologically, who 
refers to Shakespeare is Robert Greene. This occurs 
in a tract published in 1592. Greene was quite noto- 
rious in his day. He wrote chiefly for the stage, and 
was charged with various excesses in private life. 
In a fit of repentance, near the close of life, he wrote 
a tract called A Groat’s Worth of Wit; Bought with 
a Million of Repentance. It was addressed to ‘those 
gentlemen his quondam acquaintance who spend their 
wits in writing plays, and more particularly to Mar- 
lowe, Lodge, and Peele.” He urges these writers to 
cease writing for the stage; to take warning from his 
experience; and, if nothing else would move them, to 
be assured that the actors and the public were very 
unstable in their likes and their dislikes, and would 
soon abandon them for some new favorite. His 
words are: ‘‘Base-minded men, all three of you, if by 


XXX 


Thus Ben Jonson translates | 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


| ing Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele. 


my misery ye be not warned; for unto none of you, 
like [unto] me, sought those burrs to cleave; those 
puppets [the actors] I mean, that speak from our 
mouths, those antics garnished in our colors. Is it 
not strange that I, to whom they all have been be- 
holding; is it not like that you, to whom they all have 
been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that I am 
now) be both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust 
them not; for there is an upstart crow, beautified with 
our feathers, that with his Tyger’s heart wrapt in a 
Player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast 
out a blank verse as the best of you; and being an ~ 
absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the 
only Shake-scene in a country.” 

Here Greene is in ill temper with some young up- 
start, who, at first only a player, has presumed to 
write also for the stage, and who is obviously supplant- 
From the date, 1592, 
and from what we know of the other dramatic writers 
then living, the new “upstart” could have been none 
other than Shakespeare, and this inference derives 
additional strength from the epithet which Greene 
gives him, ‘tthe only Shake-scene in a country.” 

Thus the great dramatist, now only twenty-eight 
years old, and only six years in London, is already be- 
ginning to supersede his predecessors and contempo- 
raries, and to excite in consequence their jealousy and 
hatred. One of the epithets applied to him is es- 
pecially instructive —Johannes Factotum, literally, a 
John-do-everything, or, in good English idiom, a Jack- 
at-all-trades. Now the whole tenor of Shakespeare’s 
writings, as well as all the traditions concerning his 
life, go to establish the conclusion that he was remark- 
able for his common sense and his practical talents. 
His transcendent genius did not prevent his attending 
to ordinary business in an ordinary way—did not hinder 
him from being shrewd at a bargain and thrifty in the 
management of affairs. It is easy to see that these 
qualities, in connection with his genius as a writer, 
would naturally give him in a short time the chief 
control of the theatre to which he was attached. The 
disparaging epithets of Greene mark the precise time 
(a critical point in the history of any rising man) 
when, from superior business talents as well as from 
superior genius, the actual management of affairs had 
gone into his hands, but his superiority had not yet 
been fully recognized. He was still one who could be 
taunted by his declining rivals as an ‘ upstart,”—one 
who imagined himself able to write as good blank 
verse as any of his contemporaries —one who was 
‘in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a coun- 
try ’°—one who thought he could be writer, player, 
manager, and what not — in fact, a very and “ absolute 
Johannes Factotum.” 

Greene’s Groat’s Worth of Wit led incidentally this 
same year to a notice of Shakespeare by Henry Chet- 
tle, another dramatic writer of the period. Chettle had 
been instrumental in the publication of Greene’s pam- 
phlet, and finding that injustice had been done therein 
to some of the parties attacked, he published a tract of 
his own, called Hind-Hart’s Dream, intended to make 
reparation. In it occurs the following passage, refer- 
ring to Shakespeare: ‘‘ Myself have seen his demeanor 
no less civil than he excellent in the quality [which] he 
professes; besides, divers of worship have reported 
his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, 
and his facetious grace in writing, that approves his 
art.” The character which Chettle here gives of Shake- 
speare is precisely that already suggested, namely, that 
he was a man of genius, possessed of good temper. 
thrift, and common sense. 

I have dwelt a little upon these four passages, Spen- 
ser 1591, Greene and Chettle 1592, and Spenser agaia 


1594, because they are the first of all, and because, ob- 
scure as they are in some respects, they yet show how 
early Shakespeare became a man of mark. The other 
instances will be quoted more briefly. 

This same Henry Chettle a few years later refers to 
Shakespeare again, under the name of Melicert, taking 
him to task for not sounding the praises of Elizabeth, 
at the time of her death. 


Nor doth the silver-tonged Melicert 
Drop from his honied muse one sable teare, 
To mourn her death that graced his desert, 
And to his laies open’d her royall eare: 
Shepheard, remember our Elizabeth, 
And sing her rape, done by that Tarquin, Death. 


Henry Willobie, an Oxford man, in a volume called 
Willobie, His Avisa, published in 1594, the very year 
that the Lucrece was published, thus mentions the new 
poem: 

Though Collatine have dearly bought 
To high renowne, a lasting life, 
And found — that most in vaine have sought 
To have —a fair and constant wife, 
Yet Tarquyne pluckt his glistering grape, 
And Shake-speare paints poore Lucrece rape. 


Gabriel Harvey, who figured largely in those days as 
a literary critic, and who was much mixed up with 
the affairs of Spenser and Sidney, published in 1592 four 
letters ‘‘ especially touching Robert Greene and other 
parties by him abused.” In the third letter is a para- 
graph addressed to one of the parties thus abused by 
Greene. The circumstances of the publication make it 
wellnigh certain that the person thus addressed was 
Shakespeare. The passage is so accepted by Dr. In- 
gleby, one of the most careful and exact of Shake- 
spearian scholars. Harvey’s words are: ‘‘ Good sweete 
Oratour, be a devine poet indeede; and use heavenly 
eloquence indeede; and employ thy golden talent with 
amounting usance indeede; and with heroicall cantoes 
honour right vertue, and have brave valour indeede; as 
noble Sir Philip Sidney, and gentle Maister Spencer 
have done, with immortall Fame; and I will bestow 


more complements of rare amplifications upon thee | 


then ever any bestowed uppon them; or this Tounge 
ever affoorded.” 

Six years later, 1598, Harvey wrote: ‘The younger 
sort take much delight in Shakespeare’s Venus and 
Adonis ; but his Lucrece, and his tragedy of Hamlet, 
Prince of Denmarke, have it in them to please the wiser 
sort. 

Drayton, in his Matilda, also of 1594, gives the fol- 
lowing allusion to the new poem: 


Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath boasted long, 
Lately reviv’d to live another age, 

And here arriv’d to tell of Tarquin’s wrong, 
Her chaste denial, and the tyrant’s rage, 
Acting her paous on our stately stage, 

She is remember’d, all forgetting me, 

Yet I as fair and chaste as ere was she. 


In a work called Polimanteia, 1595, the following 
expression occurs: ‘All praise the Luerece of sweet 
Shakespeare.” 

The keturn from Parnassus, a play acted by the stu- 
dents of Cambridge, 1606, contains remarks on sev- 
eral contemporary poets -— Spenser, Constable, Lodge, 
Daniel, Watson, Drayton, Davis, Marston, Marlowe, 
Shakespeare, and Churchyard. Of Shakespeare the fol- 
lowing is said: 


Who loves Adonis’ love or Lucrece’ rape, 

His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life; 
Could but a graver subject him content, 
Without love’s foolish, lazy languishment. 


In the prose part of the play, the following dialogue 
occurs between the actors, Kemp and Burbage. 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


“Kemp. Why, here’s our fellow Shakespeare puts 
them all downe— aye, and Ben Jonson, too. O! that 
Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow; he brought up Hor 
ace, giving the poets a pill; but our fellow Shake- 
speare hath given him a purge that made him beray 
his credit. 

‘* Burbage. Its a shrewd fellow, indeed.” 

John Weever, in his Book of Epigrams, composed in 
1595, has a sonnet addressed ; 


Ad Gulielmum Shakespeare. 


Honie-tong’d Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue, 

I swore Apollo got them, and none other, 

Their rosie-tainted features cloth’d in tissue, 

Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother. 
Rose-checkt Adonis with his amber tresses, 

Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her; 
Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses, 

Prowd lust-stung Zarquine, seeking still to prove her; 
Romea, Richard, more whose names I know not, 
Their sugred tongues and WANES inden ae beauty 
Say they are saints, althogh that Sts they shew mot, 
For thousands vowe to them subjective dutie: 

They burn in love, thy childré, Shakespear hat thé, 
Go, wo thy Muse! more Nymphish brood beget them. 


These various extracts, 1 may remark in passing, are 
quoted, not for their value as poetry, but for their value 
as evidence, and in this respect there seems no possibil- 
ity of gainsaying their force. 

In 1598, Richard Barnefield writes: 


“And Shakespeare, thou whose hony-flowing Vaine 
(Pleasing the world) thy praises doth obtaine, 
Whose Venus and whose Lucrece (sweete and chaste) 
Thy name in fame’s immortall Booke have plac’t, 
Live ever you, at least in Fame live ever; 

Well may the Bodye dye; but Fame dies never.” 


In this same year are other incidental notices, either 
of Shakespeare himself, or of some of his writings. 
But I must omit these notices in order to dwell more 
at length upon the most important of all, the testi- 
mony of Francis Meres. Meres was a clergyman, 
‘Master of Arts in both universities,” ‘‘an approved 
good scholar,” and a compiler of school-books. His 
testimony is the more valuable both because of its ful- 
ness and explicitness, and because, from his very occu- 
pation as a compiler, he would be more likely than 
almost any other kind of writer to be a reflector and 
representative of public opinion. Meres’s book, called 
Palladis Tamia, or Wit’s Treasury, was published in 
1598. It was a text-book for schools, giving a brief 
account of the chief English poets, comparing them 
with the corresponding Greek, Latin, and Italian poets. 
In this work, after enumerating the great tragic poets 
of Greece and Rome, Meres says we have in English 
Marlowe, Peele, Watson, Kyd, Shakespeare, Drayton, 
Decker, Ben Jonson (the names are given in chrono- 
logical order). Again, in like manner, our writers of 
comedy are given — Lily, Lodge, Gascoyne, Greene, 
Shakespeare, Nash, Heywood, etc. After quoting the 
Greek and Latin poets who had excelled in lyric po- 
etry, he says, the best among our lyric poets are Spen- 
ser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, etc. In like manner, 
those famous for elegy are Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, 
Raleigh, Dyer, Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, 
and so on. Referring to the evegi monumentum of 
Horace, he says, we have in English like enduring 
monuments in the works of Sidney, Daniel, Drayton, 
Shakespeare. He even quotes Shakespeare as one ot 
those by whom the language had been improved: 
“The English tongue is mightily enriched and gor- 
geouslie invested in rare ornaments and resplendent 
(h)abiliments by sir Philip Sidney, Spencer, Daniel, 
Drayton, Warner, Shakespeare, Marlow, and Chap- 
man.” Some of Meres’s particular expressions are re- 
markable. ‘As the soule of Euphorbus was thought 
to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete, wittie soule of 


XXXl 


THE LIFE OF THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued fabs /atite Toutes att cama ¥éasd (tion ycknniseeinanalee a ata 
speare ; witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his 
sugred Sonnets among his private friends, &e.” 

“As Epius Stolo said, that the Muses would speak 
with Plautus’ tongue, if they would speak Latin; so 
I say, that the Muses would speak with Shakespeare’ 8 
fine-filed phrase, if they would speake English.” 

“As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for 
Comedy and Tragedy among the Latines, so Shake- 
speare among y* English is the most excellent in both 
kinds for the stage: for Comedy, witness his G'étlemé 
oF Verona, his Errors, his Love's labor's lost, his Love's 
labour’s wonne, his Midsummers-night dreame, and his 
Merchant of Venice; for Tragedy, his Richard the 2, 
Richard the 3, Henry the 4, King John, Titus Andron- 
icus, and his Romeo and Juliet.” 

Here, then, in 1598, we have Shakespeare, after a 

career of only twelve years in the metropolis, quoted 
publicly in a text-book as among the great English 
authors whose works alone are a monument “ ere pe- 
rennius ;”’ his name placed conspicuously in four suc- 
cessive lists of writers who have distinguished them- 
selves severally i in Comic, Tragic, Lyric, and Elegiac 
poetry, and in still another list of those who by “the 


Ben Jonson, 


(From an old and rare print.) 


elegance of their writings have enriched and beautified 
the language, his name, “too, occurring in these various 
eulogies more frequently than that of any other English 
writer, even Spenser and Drayton, who, in this respect 
come next, standing at considerable distance away; 
and, lastly, we find quoted by name, besides the Venus 
and Adonis, the Lucrece, the Sonnets, no less than 
twelve of his great dramas, the whole coupled with 
the significant judgment of the critic (after naming 
all the great lights of English literature down to that 
day, except Chaucer) “that the sweet witty soul of 
Ovid seemed to live in mellifluous honey-tongued 
Shakespeare, and that if the Muses should ever deign 
to speak English, they would speak with Shakespeare’s 
tine-filed phrase, y 

To say, after this, that Shakespeare was not known 
or recognized in his own day, is as absurd asit would 
be to say the same of Spenser, Sydney, Raleigh, and 
Ben Jonson. What admirer of Shakespeare even now 
eould well speak of him in higher terms of praise than 


XXX1i 


did this Francis Meres in 1598? All this, too, be it 
remembered, when he was, as it were, only at the be- 
ginning of his car eer, and with eighteen years of the 
most productive and most conspicuous part of his life 
still before him. Was either Longfellow or Tennyson, 
with all the prestige of university honors and influence, 
and with all the machinery of modern book- makin 

and advertising, better known or more fully recognize 

at the age of thirty-eight than was Shakespeare at 
that age? Could either of them at that age have been 
ranked as best of English writers, in each of the four 
classes of Lyric, Elegiac, Comic, and Tragic verse ?—or, 
in each of these styles, have been safely placed in com- 
parison with the greatest of Grecian and Roman wri- 
ters? Ben Jonson, who was as competent to speak of 
Shakespeare as would be Longfellow to speak of Ten- 
nyson,—even more competent, for Jonson and Shake- 
speare were intimately acquainted personally, wrote 
for the same stage, lived in the same city, dined at the 
same tavern, where they had those famous “ wit-com- 
bats” of which Fuller speaks—Jonson, in the lines 
prefixed to the first Folio, speaks of Shakespeare in 
terms, not only of the createst affection, but of the 
most exalted eulogy,—speaks not only of his unpar- 
alleled genius, but of his consummate art; and extols 
him as surpassing, not only Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, 

and all other English writers, but even the ancients 
whom Ben worshipped, — surpassing even Aristoph- 
anes, Terence, and Plautus in comedy, Aéschylus, Eu- 
ripides, and Sophocles i in tragedy! 

The strange hallucination that Shakespeare was un- 
known among his contemporaries may have come in 
this way. Soon after his death, all stage-plays were 
at a discount under the sway of the Puritans. On the 
overthrow of the Commonwealth and the i incoming of 
the Stuarts, French notions of taste were in the as- 
cendant. The stage was indeed revived, but it was 
that of France, not the good old English drama. Then 
again with William of Orange and Queen Anne came 
the reign of Classicism. And so, for one cause and 
another, for a full century after the close of the great 
Elizabethan period, Shakespeare, it is admitted, was 
under a cloud. 

No more thorough evidence of this can be given 
than that, even so late as 1798, Steevens, one of the 
great Shakespearian editors of the last century, could 
write of the Sugared Sonnets, whose praises the men 
of Shakespeare’s own day could never tire of sound- 
ing, that it was not within the omnipotence of an Act 
of Parliament to compel people to read them, and he 
actually refused to print them in his extended edition 
of Shakespeare’s works, regarding those wonderful 
lyrics as so much worthless rubbish, and alludes to 
them in the following quaint language : “We have not 
reprinted the Sonnets, etc., because the strongest Act 
of Parliament that could be fr amed would fail to com- 
pel readers into their service.’ 

In his own day, however, Shakespeare was the ac- 
knowledged sun of the literary firmament. We of the 
present century have but revived and raised some- 
what the estimate in which the English people held 
him two hundred and fifty years ago, 

Before dismissing this topic, it is worth while to no- 
tice, in these many references to Shakespeare by his 
contemporaries, how uniformly he is mentioned in 
terms of affection. This would seem, as before ob- 
served, to indicate the possession on his part of an 
amiable and obliging disposition, and gives plausibility 
to the tradition handed down by Aubrey, showing the 
origin of the friendship between Shakespeare and Ben 
Jonson. ‘His acquaintance with Ben Jonson,” says 
Aubrey, ‘began with a remarkable piece of humanity 
and good nature. Mr. Jonson, who was at that time 


— —— 


altogether unknown to the world, had offer’d one of 
his plays to the players, in order to have it acted: 
and the persons into whose hands it was put, after 
having turn’d it carelessly and superciliously over, 
were just upon returning it to him with an ill-natur’d 
answer, that it would be of no service to their com- 
pany, when Shakespear luckily cast his eye upon it, and 
found something so well in it, as to engage him first to 
read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. 
Jonson and his writings to the publick.” 


We no longer ‘‘damn him with faint praise,” after | 


the fashion of the time of Alex. Pope, nor give him 
half-hearted, patronizing commendations, after the 
fashion of the time of Dr. Sam. Johnson, but rather, 
like the renowned scholar and dramatist of Shake- 
speare’s own day, look up to him with admiring, almost 
adoring wonder, as the most exalted of the Dit Majores 
of the dramatic art, the very Jupiter Olympus of the 
poetic pantheon, in whose presence the greatest even 
of the great Greek and Roman masters are content to 
stand at a respectful distance! Such was the trumpet- 
note of praise sounded by Rare Ben Jonson, in Shake- 
speare’s own day, two centuries and a half ago. Have 
we even at this day gone much beyond it? 

I have not thus far referred to the Shakespeare-Ba- 
con theory. The whole question seems to me to be 
contained in a nutshell. Stripped of verbiage, it is 
simply this: could the Creator who gave the world 
Dante and Homer have made a man of equal or even 
greater genius in Stratford-upon-Avon? Granted the 
genius, and all the other conditions of the problem are 
easy enough. Whoever had the genius to conceive 
these plays, would, in Shakespeare’s surroundings, 
have had all the needed opportunities for educa- 
tion and acquired knowledge exhibited in the plays. 
The advocates of the Bacon theory quietly assume, 
in the face of ail the lately accumulated evidence 
to the contrary, that Shakespeare was without edu- 
cation and without the means of acquiring knowledge. 
They go back to the old exploded notion of Queen 
Anne’s day, that Shakespeare was a man of clown- 
ish ignorance, and that the plays, if by him, were 
the product of an inspired idiot. I could understand 
the argument, if applied to a man in the condition of 
John Bunyan. But Shakespeare wasa man of letters. 
He had ample means of being such, and he was ac- 
cepted as such by the men of letters with whom he 
lived in familiar, daily intercourse. Besides, it is little 
less than monstrous to suppose that the greatest poetry 
of all time, and such an immense body of it, was the 
product of one whose acknowledged writings, enor- 
mous likewise in quantity, show no eyidence of spe- 
cial poetic gifts. Bacon’s genius lay in the domain of 
science and philosophy, not of song, the few poor spec- 
imens of verse he has given only showing how much 
he was out of his element in that species of composi- 
tion. We might as well suppose Aristotle capable of 
writing the Jliad, Wickclitfe the Canterbury Tales, 
John Hampden the Paradise Lost, or John Stuart Mill 
the Jdylis of the King, as suspect the author of the 
Nooum Organum capable of the Midsummer-Night’s 
Dream, Lear, Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and Macbeth. 
If these wondrous creations were not by the Bard of 
Avon, assuredly they were not by the author of Jn- 
stauratio Magna and De Augmentis Scientiarum. 


fii Bialypre 


Shakespeare’s Signature. 


j 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER XIM. 


RELATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMPANY TO 
QUEEN ELIZABETH AND KING JAMES. 


Ee company to which Shakespeare belonged was 
under the patronage of Hunsdon, the Lord Cham- 
berlain, a kinsman and favorite of Queen’ Elizabeth, 
who had given the Lord Chamberlain use of the splen- 
did palace of Somerset House, in which palace, it can 
hardly be doubted, the Chamberlain’s company often 
played for the amusement of the Queen and Court. 
Shakespeare’s plays, and Shakespeare himself, were 
well known to Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, one of the 
best authenticated traditions in regard to him is that 
the comedy of the Merry Wives of Windsor was writ- 
ten at her express suggestion. The refraining of 
Shakespeare from adulation, considering how grateful 
it was to the ears of the royal maids, speaks also 
trumpet-tongued for his manly independence. Blue 
eyes, blonde complexion, and golden hair, all pre- 
dicable of Elizabeth herself, had become, by a sort 
of legal presumption, the only types of female love- 
liness. Yet in the face of this, the dramatist has 
the courage, perhaps, considering the imperious tem- 
per of the Queen, we might call it the audacity, to 
admire a regular brunette: He thus writes to some 
sweetheart : 


Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, 

Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, 

Have put on black, and loving mourners be, 

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. 

And truly not the morning sun of heaven 

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the East, 

Nor that full star that ushers in the even 

Doth half that glory to the sober West, 

As those two mourning eyes become thy face: 

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart 

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, 

And suit thy pity like in every part. 

Then will I swear beauty herself is black 

And ali they foul that thy complexion lack. 
Sonnet cxxxii. 


Spenser, or Sidney, or Raleigh, would as soon have 
cut off his right hand as to express admiration for such 
a woman. 

Shakespeare, in this as in many other matters, was 
wiser than his time; he well knew that in the age to 
come his one delicate allusion to the Maiden Queen, in 
the passage in Midsummer’s-Night’s Dream, already 
quoted, would be counted of greater worth than all 
the open flatteries poured out by his contemporaries 
with such lavish profusion. 

Elizabeth was fond of theatrical exhibitions, and it 
was probably in consequence of this inclination of hers 
that the play-houses, which at different times, under 
the influence of the Puritan party, were ordered to be 
closed by the authorities of the city of London, were 
yet enabled to continue their performances, with little 
interruption, to the close of her reign. 

On the accession of James, the Puritan party re- 
newed their efforts to suppress the play-houses, and at 
first met with some success; but soon after reaching 
London, the new monarch changed his mind and took 
the Lord Chamberlain’s Players (Shakespeare’s com- 
pany) under his own protection, allowing them hence- 
forth to be called the King’s Players, and giving them 
a royal license with special privileges. The date ot 
this license is 1603, and the name of the players, as 
given in it, are Fletcher, Shakespeare, Burbage, Phil- 
lipps, Heminge, Condell, Sly, Armin, Cowley, — nine, 
Shakespeare being second on the list. We note also, 
that in a list of the comedians who represented the 
dramatis persone at the performance of Ben Jonson’s 
Every Man in His Humor, at the Blackfriars, in 1598, 
Shakespeare’s name heads the list. 

xxxiil 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


The first occasion, apparently, on which this com- 
pany played before King James was when the Ear! of 
Pembroke, Dec. 2d, 1603, gave, at his seat at Wilton, 
a great entertainment to the King. An entry of the 
fiscal accounts of that date show that £30 (= £150) 
was paid on that occasion to John Heminge ‘on 
behalf of his Majesty’s Players of the Globe,” to 
perform at the festival before the King; and we know 
from another source that both Pembroke, who gave the 
entertainment, and his brother, the Earl of Montgom- 
ery, were great admirers and favorers of Shakespeare. 

Ben Jonson speaks expressly of the favor with 
which both Elizabeth and James regarded Shake- 
speare: 


“Those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
That so did take Eliza and our James.” 


There are two traditions on this subject which it 
may be well to notice here. The first is that on one 
occasion, during the progress of the play,* her Majesty 
purposely dropped her glove in such a way as to oblige 
the poet to stop his acting and pick it up, — which he 
did, saying (as a king, in character), 


* And though now bent on this high embassy, 
Yet stoop we to take up our cowsin’s glove.’ 


The other tradition, pretty well authenticated, is 
that ‘‘ King James I. was pleased with his own hand 
to write an amicable letter to Mr. Shakespeare.” John 
Davies, of Hereford, a contemporary poet, seems to 
have thought the dramatist not unworthy of such 
royal companionship.. In a poem, The Scourge of 
Folly, 1607, Davies says: 


> To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shakespeare. 


Some say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing, 
Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in sportt 
Thou hadst bina companion fora king, 

And beene a king among the meaner sort: 

Some others raile; but, raile as they thinke fit, 
Thou hast no rayling, but a raigning wit: 

And honesty thou sow’st, which they do reape, 
So, to increase their stocke, which they do keep. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SHAKESPEARE’S PEOUNIARY AFFAIRS — HIS EXTRAORDI- 
NARY BUSINESS THRIFT— ACCUMULATION OF PROP- 
ERTY AT STRATFORD — AMBITION TO BE A RETIRED 
XOUNTRY GENTLEMAN —EVIDENOES OF HIS TAOT IN 
BUSINESS MANAGEMENT — EVIDENCES OF HI8 KINDLY 
DISPOSITION AND CONCILIATORY MANNERS. 


HERE are other evidences of Shakespeare’s pros- 
perity besides those drawn from the annals of the 
Blackfriars and the Globe. In 1596, John Shakespeare 
and wife recovered by law, evidently by the aid of mo- 
ney received from London, the estate of Asbies, the 
marriage portion of William’s mother, which had been 
alienated during the period of the father’s pecuniary 
misfortunes. In 1596, again, the grant of arms to 
John Shakespeare by the herald’s office was consum- 
mated evidently through influence put forth in London. 
In 1597, the poet bought the principal dwelling- 
house in Stratford, an old mansion formerly belonging 
to the Clopton family, and called the Great House. 
Shakespeare, on acquiring this property, fitted it up 
for his own residence, and changed its name to the 
New Place. 


*The royal party in those days sat upon the stage, near where 
our proscenium boxes now are. 
+ Had you not been an actor. 


XXXIV 


From a document dated 24 Jan., 1597-8, we learn 
that Shakespeare’s influence with Lord Treasurer Bur- 
leigh is invoked by the Stratford burghers, to aid them 


_in getting from the government some abatement of 


taxes, as well as a portion of the government grant 
for the relief of certain cities and towns that had 
suffered by the plague or by fire. From the same 
document we learn that ‘the is willing to disburse 
some money on some odd yard land or other at Shot- 
tery,” the birthplace and early home of his youthful 
sweetheart, Anne Hathaway. In Feb., 1598, in an 
inventory of corn and malt in Stratford, taken in 
apprehension of scarcity, William Shakespeare is 
entered as possessing ten quarters, being the third 
largest holder in his ward. In this year also we find 
him selling a load of stone to the corporation of 
Stratford. In October of the same year he is assessed 
in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate, showing 
him to be a property holder in London, his rates being 
13s. 4d. In this same month, too, Richard Quiney of 
Stratford, [father of the Quiney who afterwards mar- 
ried Shakespeare’s youngest daughter, ] writes to his 
“loving good friend and countryman, Mr. William 
Shakespeare,” asking the loan of £30,—showing that 
the poet was not only a property holder but a money- 
lender. Four years later, 1602, Shakespeare, for and 
in consideration of the sum of £320 of current Eng- 
lish money, purchased 107 acres of arable land in the 
parish of old Stratford, the negotiation being con- 
ducted by his brother Gilbert. Later in the same 
year he bought a house in Walker Street, near New 
Place, Stratford; and later still, for the sum of £60 
($1500), ‘‘one messuage, two orchards, two gardens, 
and two barns, with their appurtenances.” Three 
years later, 1605, he made his largest purchase, buy- 
ing the unexpired lease of a portion of the tithes of 
Stratford, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, 
for the sum of £440. Shakespeare’s annual income 
from these tithes, as we learn from another document, 
was £120 (7. e. $3000 now). Later still, 1612, he bought 
a house, with ground attached, near the Blackfriars 
Theatre, London, for the sum of £140. We find him 
also, 1604, bringing an action against Philip Rogers, in 
the Court of Stratford, for £1 15s. 10d. being the price 
of malt sold to him at different times; and, again, 1609, 
instituting process for £6 debt and 24s. damages and 
costs, against John Addenbrock of Stratford, — all 
these things showing clearly that ‘“ poetry and act- 
ing” did not make the man of genius negligent in 
matters of business. 

Now, putting together these various facts, we find 
that the dramatist was steadily advancing in fortune 
as well as in fame, and that, at the end of twenty 
years from the time of his going to London, he had, 
by asteady pursuit of his profession, risen to be a man 
of mark in the theatrical world. Every step in his 
history, so far as we are able to trace it, shows that 
he gained his success, not by sudden and capricious 
flights of genius, but by hard work and persevering 
industry. As his writings show him to have been one 
of the greatest of geniuses, so his life shows him to 
have been one of the most industrious and methodical 
of workers. He chose one profession; he pursued it 
without intermission for a period of thirty years;. he 
pursued it in connection with the same company; he 
pursued itin the same place. He rose, not by a bound, 
in consequence of some particular performance dashed 
off in a heat and a hurry, which is the vulgar idea of 
genius, but step by step, year by year, slowly, steadily, 
surely, triumphantly. He produced, in the twenty- 
five years devoted mainly to authorship, no less than 
thirty-seven great plays, or an average of one and a 
half plays a year, the latest plays ever the best, each 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE 


succeeding year showing a higher style of workman- 
ship, an ever-growing productiveness and power. He 
is another proof, if any were needed, that one would 
not go far astray in defining genius to be an enormous 
capacity for labor, or, as Longfellow puts it, ‘the in- 
finite capacity of taking trouble.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


PROBABLE PERIOD OF HIS WITHDRAWAL FROM THE STAGE 
AND FROM LONDON —STATE OF HIS AFFAIRS AND OF 
HIS FAMILY AT THE TIME OF HIS RETIREMENT. 


ib is not certainly known at what time Shakespeare 
ceaséd to appear on the stage as an actor. The 
year 1604, however, is generally regarded as the prob- 
able time. The growing importance and popularity 
of his plays and his continued increase in wealth make 
it improbable that he continued to act later than the 
date named. The last record of his name in the com- 
pany of the King’s Players is on April 9, 1604, when 
he stands second on the list, the only one above him 
being Burbage, who had for a long time stood at the 
head of his profession as an actor. The general belief 
is that Shakespeare ceased to appear as a player soon 
after this, in other words, when he was forty years 
old, and had been eighteen years in London. This 
may be considered as the culminating point in his 
personal history. 

I have already expressed the opinion that Shake- 
speare possessed an unusual degree of common sense, 
that he was amiable, conciliatory, and prudent; in 
short, that he had that class of qualities which fit a 
man for business, while they are vulgarly thought to 
be incompatible with genius. This is a class of quali- 
ties which it is difficult to show. Of indiscretion the 
proofs are generally positive and tangible. But pru- 
dence and discretion in the managoment of affairs 
must be established by negative evidence. It is cer- 
tainiy, however, no unmeaning circumstance that dur- 
ing the whole period that Shakespeare exercised a 
controlling influence in the theatrical company, its 
affairs were managed, not only with thrift, but with- 
out those quarrels and jars for which the profession 
in all ages has been notorious, and also without those 
causes of offence which the other theatres were per- 
petually giving to particular individuals or classes, 
civil, political, or religious. It is noticeable also that 
almost immediately after Shakespeare’s withdrawal 
from the management, the company were beset with 
difficulties, and numerous complaints were lodged 
against them for offences against morals, manners, or 
taste. Thus, December, 1604, John Chamberlain writes 
of a certain tragedy by the King’s Players, in which 
kings and princes are brought upon the stage, ‘‘ I hear 
that some great councillors are much displeased with 
it, and so it is thought it shall be forbidden.” Again, 
1605, the Mayor of London complains that “‘ Kempe, 
Armyn, and others, at the Blackfriars, have not for- 
borne to bring upon their stage one or more of the 
worshipful Aldermen of the City of London, to their 
great scandal, and the lessening of their authority.” 
Again, in 1606, it is complained that they brought 
upon the stage the Queen of France in a manner very 
offensive to the French ambassador; also, ‘‘ They 
brought forward their own king [James] and all his 
favorites in a very strange fashion; they made him 
curse and swear, because he had been robbed of a 
bird, and beat a gentleman because he had called off 


the hounds from the scent. They represent him as 
drunk every day.” In consequence of these irregu- 
larities, three of the players were arrested, and the 
performances were prohibited. These indiscretions 
and difficulties among the King’s Players, occurring 
in quick succession after Shakespeare had ceased to 
be of the company, speak trumpet-tongued of those 
which did not occur during the eighteen years that he 
was in the management. 


dah 


Sah 
iM i Hi 


aT! 
ta 


James I. of England and VI. of Scotland. 


After ceasing to be an actor, Shakespeare’s connec- 
tion with the stage was that only of a writer of plays, 
and this connection he continued to tke end of his life. 
This, however, did not necessarily require his residence 
in London. Even while living in London, he was wort, 
according to Aubrey, “to go to his native county once 
a year.” Various documents show that he early con- 
templated the project, which he finally executed, of 
retiring from London, to spend the close of life in his 
native village. We have already seen how regularly, 
from year to year, he invested in and around Strat- 
ford the money accumulated from his professional 
labors. At least seven years before he ceased being an 
actor, and fifteen years before retiring from London, 
he had become a property-holder in his native town. 
The village tradition, in the generation after his death, 
was that Shakespeare, ‘“‘in his elder days, lived at 
Stratford, and supplied the stage with two plays every 
year, and for it had an allowance so large that he 
spent at the rate of £1,000 a year.” This, doubtless, 
is an exaggeration, certainly as to the amount of 
money spent. At the same time, the tradition obvi- 
ously had some foundation in truth. He had already, 
some years before, bought the largest and finest resi- 
dence in Stratford, that built by Sir Hugh Clopton in 
the reign of Henry VII., and known as ‘‘ The Great 
House,” and afterwards as ‘‘The New Place;” and 
there is good reason for believing that his style of 
living there was that of a ‘fine old English gentleman, 
all of the olden time.” 

The time when Shakespeare retired entirely from 
London is not known. The most probable conjecture 
is that which places it in 1612, when he was forty- 
eight years old, and after a city life of twenty-six 
years. His father, mother, and two younger brothers 

XXXV 


THE LIFE OF 


were now dead. Gilbert, however, the brother next | 


younger than William, was still living. His sister 
Joan had been married [to a Mr. Hart, of Stratford] 
and was also still living, as were also her husband and 
several children. His wife also, now fifty-six years 
old, was still living. His oldest daughter, Susanna, 
had been married some five years before to an eminent 
physician of Stratford, Dr. John Hall, and had one 
child four years old. His youngest daughter, not long 
after to be married to Thomas Quiney, vintner and 
wine merchant of Stratford, was still at home. It is 
not at all unlikely that both daughters, with the son- 
in-law and the grandchild, all lived together in the 
Great House, and that the other house belonging to 
him in the village was occupied by his brother Gilbert, 
who had looked after the poet’s property during his 
absence in London. 

When, therefore, the great dramatist retired from 
the metropolis, crowned with honor and laden with 
wealth, he was not in the condition of most even suc- 
cessful adventurers, who after a life of distant toil and 
struggle seek to spend its close among the green fields 
which had gladdened their eyes in childhood. They 
return ordinarily too late, when their own faculties 


Chancel of Stratford Church, 
With Shakespeare's Tomb and Bust. 


=== . ——— 


of enjoyment are exhausted, and most of the friends | son. 


of childhood are gone. Shakespeare, in 1612, was still 
in the prime of life and in the full vigor of his facul- 
ties. He had about him a large family circle, and 
children and children’s children were around his 
hearth-stone. The popular tradition, minute docu- 
mentary evidence, his whole recorded career, his 
whole character, go to show that his last days were 
eminently peaceful and serene. The thought con- 
tained in the 146th Sonnet, the nearest approach we 
have in any of his writings to an expression of his 
own personal feelings on the subject of religion, might 
well befit this period of his life, though written some 
years earlier: 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 

Leagued with these powers that thee aray, 

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 


Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end? 


XXXVvl 


SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 
A SERENE SUNSET—THE PORTRAITS OF SHAKESPEARE, 


cree ria died, after a short illness, April 23, 
1616, aged exactly fifty-two. During the quarter 
of a century that he had been embarked upon the great 
ocean of metropolitan life, he had no doubt often been 
vexed and agitated. His profession was one peculiarly 
fitted to produce disquiet and perturbation. But agi- 
tation, while it upturns and dislodges the feeble plant, 
inakes the hardy to send its roots more deeply and 
firmly into the soil. The soul that is well balanced 
acquires Only additional composure and self-possession 
from conflict. The conflict of life in which Shake- 
speare had been engaged had not only been eminently 
successful as to all external circumstances and rela- 
tions, but had left him calm, contented, and peaceful 
within. From a meridian of intense activity and 
splendor, he went, like Chaucer before him, gracefully 
and composedly to his long repose: 
So fades a summer’s cloud away, 
So sinks the gale when storms are o’er, 
So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Of the portraits of Shakespeare there are three 
at least which have good evidence of being taken 
from life. These are the Stratford bust, the 
Droeshout engraving, and the oil painting known 
as the Chandos portrait. 

The bust was made apparently from a cast of 
the features taken after death, and was executed 
soon after that event; how soon we do not know, 
but certainly before 1628, for it is referred to in 
the First Folio, published in that year. Shake- 
speare is buried in the church of Stratford-upon- 
Avon, near the north end of the chancel, and 
there is a slab over his tomb, with the quaint 
inscription so often quoted, and said to have been 
written by Shakespeare himself: 


Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare 
To digg the dust encloased heare: 
Blese be ye man yt spares thes stones, 
And curst be he yt moves my bones. 


To the right and left of him in the chancel, are 
the tombs of several other members of his family: 
his wife, his oldest daughter Susanna, his son-in- 
law, Dr. Hall, and Thomas Nash, who married his 
grand-daughter Elizabeth. On the north wall 
of the chancel, and facing these tombs, and at 
an elevation of a little more than five feet, is an 
ornamental niche or frame-work of stone, con- 
taining the bust already mentioned, nearly life- 
size and extending down to the middle of the per- 
The poet is represented sitting, as if in the act 
of composition, his hands resting on a cushion, one 
holding a pen, the other a sheet of paper, while his 
eyes are looking, not at his work, but straight forward 
towards the spectator. The hands and face are of 
flesh color, the eyes a light hazel, the hair and beard 
auburn; the doublet or cloak was scarlet, and covered 
with a loose black gown without sleeves; the upper 
part of the cushion was green, the under part crimson, 
and the tassels gilt. This Stratford bust is of great 
value, as having been made so early, and as having 
in all probability been cut from some authentic like- 
ness. Asa work of art, however, it is open to obvi- 
ous criticisms. The skull has the smoothness and 
roundness of a boy’s marble, and about as much in- 
dividuality of expression. The eyes and eyebrows are 
unduly contracted, the nose has evidently been short- 
ened by an accident of the chisel, the cheeks are puffy 
and spiritless, the moustaches are curled up in a manner 
never found except in some city exquisite, the collar 


THE LIFK OF SHAKESPEARE. 


looks like two pieces of block-tin bent over, and finally 
the expression of the eyes, so far as they have any ex- 
pression, is simply that of easy, well-conditioned good 
nature, not overburdened with sense or intellect. 

In conjunction with this bust should be taken the 
picture lately discovered, and known as the Stratford 
portrait. It is the 
property of the 
town, and is ex- 
hibited among the 
other curiosities 
at the Shake- 
speare House. 
No one who has 
seen the bust can 
look upon the pic- 
ture without be- 
ing satisfied at the 
first glance that 
the two are con- 
nected. But was 
the picture made 
from the bust, or 
the bust from the 
picture? Strat- 
ford people 
strongly insist on 
the latter, believ- 
ing firmly that 
the picture was 
taken from life, 
and was the orig- 
inal of the bust. Critics and scholars outside of 
Stratford take, for the most part, the opposite view. 
Whichever theory is true, the picture without doubt 
is of great value, and is worthily placed for perpetual 
keeping in the same town with the bust to which it is 
80 closely connected. 

Next to the Stratford bust, in the matter of authen- 
ticity as a portrait of Shakespeare, is the engraving by 
Martin Droeshout prefixed to the first folio edition of 
the plays, that of 1623, and generally known as the 
Droeshout portrait. What portrait was used by him 
in making this engraving of Shakespeare is entirely a 
matter of conjecture. The probability is that it was 
some coarse daub by the actor Burbage, who had some 
pretensions as a painter, and who would be very likely 
to make a picture of his distinguished fellow-actor. 
If such a picture were hanging somewhere about the 
theatre, nothing would be more natural than for the 
actors, Heminge and Condell, in bringing out an edi- 
tion of thei friend’s plays, to use for the engraving 
this picture with which they were familiar. All this, 
however, is pure conjecture. What more concerns us 
is to know that Ben Jonson has testified in the strong- 
est manner to the correctness of the likeness. His 
words, printed on the page facing the engraving, are 


as follows: 
This Figure, that thou here seest put, 
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; 
Wherein the Grauer had a strife 
with Nature, to out-doo the life; 
O, could he but haue drawne his wit 
As well in brasse, as he hath hit 
His face; the Print would then surpasse 
All, that was ever writ in brasse. 
But, since he cannot, Reader, looke 
Not on his Picture, but his Booke. 


The Stratford Bust. 


That the original from which the engraving was made 
must have been poor and bald as a work of art is mani- 
fest on the slightest inspection. This, however, is by no 
means incompatible with its having been a faithful 
likeness. The work of the engraver corresponds in 
this respect to the work of the painter. The engrav- 
ing is to the last degree hard and stiff; it evidently is 


the work of one whose aim was to make a likeness 
rather than a work of art. 

In comparing the face and head thus presented with 
those of the bust, we observe that while there are 
great differences, both in detail and in the general im- 
pression, it is easy to see the same man underlying 
both. There is the great distance between the eyes 
and the amplitude of forehead, so noticeable in all the 
likenesses. The flesh of the face is not so full and 
puffy as in the bust. The nose, not chopped off as in 
the bust, is however as straight as a stick, instead of 
having that delicate aquiline formation observable in 
one portrait which I shall show you. The beard is 
shaven from the chin, but a few hairs are sprouting 
on the under lip, and there is a very light moustache. 
The forehead is high and bold, as in all the portraits, 
and the hair hangs in long, smooth locks over the ears 
and the back of the head. The costume is evidently 
some theatrical display put on for the occasion and 
smacking very much of the stage-tailor. There is a 
doublet buttoned up to the chin, and a plaited lawn 
ruff standing out all round in a most uncomfortable 
and ungraceful position, and apparently stiffened in 
the edges and elsewhere with wire. One feature, the 
most noticeable of all, is the projection of the fore- 
head. In all the other likenesses, without exception, 
the forehead, with its noble expanse, recedes gradually 
and evenly. But in the Droeshout engraving, the fore- 
head is like some jutting cliff, projecting over, almost 
overhanging, the brow, in a way that is hardly less than 
monstrous. This misshapen character of the forehead 
may without difficulty be accepted, not as a part of the 
likeness of the poet, but as part of the unskilful etch- 
ing of the engraver. It certainly looks not unlike a 
huge goitre transferred from the throat to the brow. 

Of the painted likenesses of Shakespeare none ranks 
so high as that known as the Chandos portrait. The his- 
tory of the picture is tolerably complete. It belonged 
originally to John Taylor, painter, brother of Joseph 
Taylor, a player in Shakespeare’s company. It was 
left by will by Taylor to Sir William Davenant. From 
Davenant it passed in 1668 to John Otway, from him 
to Betterton the actor, from Betterton to Mrs. Barry, 
from Mrs. Barry, through two other hands, to the 
Duke of Chandos, from whom it takes its name. It 
was finally bought in 1848, at public sale, by the Earl 
of Ellesmere, and by him presented in 1856 to the Na- 


The Chandos Portrait. 


tional Portrait Gallery, where it now is. Its authen- 
ticity is undoubted, though it bears evident signs of 
having been touched up and tampered with. The pic- 
ture is of life size, in oil, on canvas. The nose is 
straight and long, as in the Droeshout engraving, but 
is thinner, and more delicately formed. There is not 
the same distance between the eyes, nor the same 


XXXVii 


THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 


breadth of forehead, that is to be seen in the Droes- 
hout, though the forehead is still ample and strikingly 
noble. There is more general softness than in any of 
the other portraits. The picture is decidedly artistic, 
and the artist apparently, to some extent, sacrificed 
literal likeness to artistic effect. The complexion is 
dark; there is a pinkishness of color about the eyelids ; 
the lips are inclined to be full and sensuous; the ear 
that is visible is tricked out with a ring; the hair, 
a dark auburn, that in the Droeshout is plaited and 
smoothed down, hangs here in easy, unstudied profu- 
sion on the sides and back of the head, while most of 
the lower part of the face is covered with a soft beard 
of the same color. No lines of deep thought are in 
the face, no furrows on the brow. ‘There is an equal 
show of softness, almost of effeminacy, in the cos- 
tume. The dress, so far as it can be made out, is of 
black satin, and the collar is of fine plain lawn, folding 
over easily but simply. 


The Droeshout Portrait. 


At the first glance, on looking at the Chandos por- 
trait and then at the Droeshout, one can hardly believe 
them to be representations of the same person. Yet, 
on placing them side by side, and deliberately tracing 
the lines of each, one after the other, the substantial 
identity of the two is clearly established. 

In addition to the three portraits which I have 
named, to wit, the Stratford bust, the Droeshout en- 
graving, and the Chandos painting, there are many 
others of varying authority and celebrity. Of these I 
shall mention but two, the Terra-Cotta bust, and the 
German Death-Mask. 

In 1845, in tearing down an old tea-warehouse in 
London, the foundations were laid bare of the famous 
Duke’s theatre, built by Sir William Davenant, in 1662, 
in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Among the curious articles 
thus brought to light was a beautiful terra-cotta bust, 
which on examination proved to be beyond question a 
likeness of Shakespeare, yet having a character of its 
own quite independent of all the other acknowledged 
likenesses, and carrying us back to within at least 
forty-six years from the time of his death. This bust, 
after having been for some years in possession of its 
finders, Mr. Clift and his distinguished son-in-law, 

XXXVIil 


Prof. Owen, of the British Museum, was finally bought 
by the Duke of Devonshire, and by him presented to 
the Garrick Club of London, in whose possession it 
now is. The work is highly artistic in its style, in the 
position of the head and person, and in the character 
and arrangement of the costume. It has the refine- 
ment of the Chandos painting without its effeminacy, 
is more intellectual than the Stratford bust, but not so 
massive or robust as the Droeshout engraving. 

It remains to say a few words of the German Death- 
Mask. The history of its discovery, which is some- 
what curious, will be given as briefly as possible. 

Count Francis von Kesselstadt, who died at Mayence, 
in 1843, the last of his line, had a valuable collection 
of curiosities and works of art, which had been for 
several generations in possession of the family, and 
which at his death were sold at auction in Mayence. 
Among the articles then sold was a small oil painting, 
which is known to have been in the possession of the 
family for more than a century, and which in the 
family traditions was invariably regarded and spoken 
of as a portrait of Shakespeare. It bore indeed an 
inscription to that effect, Den Traditionen nach, Shake- 
speare. The picture came, in 1847, into the possession 
of Ludwig Becker, court painter of Darmstadt, and 
after his death into the hands of his brother, the pres- 
ent possessor, Dr. Ernest Becker, private secretary 
of the Princess Alice of Darmstadt. It represents its 
subject as lying in state after death, on a bier, with a 
wreath round the head, covering in part the baldness 
of the crown, and with a candlestick, and the date 
1637, dimly seen in the background. From certain 
peculiarities in its appearance, Mr. Becker and other 
artists and antiquarians who were consulted, came to 
the conclusion that it had been painted from a death- 
mask, and he accordingly set about making inquiries 
on the subject. He first found that a plaster of Paris 
cast of some kind had been in the possession of the 
Kesselstadt family, but that on account of its melan- 
choly appearance, it had received little consideration, 
and what had become of it no one seemed to know. 
After two years of fruitless search, he at length, in 
1849, found the lost relic in a broker’s shop in Mayence, 
among rags and articles of the meanest description. <A 
comparison of this cast with the picture convinced Mr. 
Becker, on artistic grounds, that the two were related 
to each other, and were representations of the same 
person. On the back of the cast is an inscription, the 
letters and figures being in the style common two cen- 
turies and a half ago, and the inscription having in all 
respects the appearance of being cotemporary with the 
cast. An examination of the cast, while‘in England, 
by experts at the British Museum, showed that the in- 
scription had been cut at the time the cast was made. 
A microscopic¢ examination by Prof. Owen showed also 
that the hairs still adhering in the plaster were human 
hairs. The inscription on the back of the cast, in 
deeply cut letters, is as follows: 


t A° Dn 1616 


The cross is the usual mark in such inscriptions to sig- 
nify “died.” The letters A° Dm are the familiar ab- 
breviations for Anno Domini. It is then clearly a cast 
of some one who died in 1616, the year of Shake- 
speare’s death; it is also, in the opinion of the Beckers, 
clearly connected with the Kesselstadt picture. This 
cast, then, of 1616, it is claimed, is the original from 
which was painted the picture of 1637, which picture 
is, according to the Kesselstadt tradition, a portrait of 
Shakespeare, and has in fact a very strong likeness to 
hin. 

Further, it is known that the Stratford bust, which 


THHE LIFE OF 


gives unmistakable evidence of having been Boyaieed 
from a cast, was made in London, by a ‘“‘tomb-maker,” 
as he is called, by the name of Gerard Johnson, and 
that this Johnson was a Hollander, a native of "Am- 
sterdam. 

Thus far we have terra jirma under our feet. What 
follows takes us into the region of conjecture. The 
conjecture is that the tomb-maker, Johnson, having 
completed the bust, laid aside the cast upon his shelf 
among piles of similar disused materials, and that 
some acquaintance of his from the father land, poking 
about among the rubbish, saw this striking effigy, 
and learning its origin beg: coed or bought it, and carried 
it away with him into Germany, where, in course of 
time, it found a lodgment in the Kesselstadt family. 
Such was the theory put forth by Ludwig Becker 
on bringing the mask and the picture to England, 
in 1849. Mr. Becker, in 1850, sailed for Melbourne 
to join an Australian exploring expedition, and left 
the mask and picture, with the documents relating 
to them, in charge of Prof. Owen of the British 
Museum, where, in consequence of Mr. Becker’s 
death in’ Australia, they remained for several years, 
and were then returned to the brother, Dr. Ernest 
Becker, of Darmstadt, in whose possession they 
now are. 

Of the opinions expressed in regard to this mat- 
ter by the many eminent men who investigated the 
question while the mask was in England, I quote 
only two, as given me by Prof. Owen. The late 
Baron Pollock, after examining the mask, and 
weighing carefully, as a man of his professional 
habits would do, the evidence by which its claims 
were supported, said: “If I were called upon to 
charge a jury in regard to this point, I would in- 
struct them to bring in a verdict for the claimant.” 
Lord Brougham did not seem disposed to go quite 
so far. He would neither acquit nor condemn, but, 
like a canny Scot, gave as his verdict, “non liquet. » 

The Kesselstadt picture, though its chief value 
lies in its connection with the mask, is yet not 
without some curious interest on general grounds. 
Artists and critics all agree in referring it to the 
age named in the inscription, 1637. It is in the 
style of the Vandyke school of art, then prevalent 
in England, and was, in all probability, the work of 
some pupil of Vandyke’s. Besides the evidence of 
its age from the style and the date, there are 
equal testimonies in the costume,—the open work 
at the seam of the pillow-case, the folds of the 
white linen sheets, the cut and collar of the shirt, 
—all pointing to the age of Shakespeare,— nearly 
all to be seen of almost exactly the same fashion 
and pattern, at this very day, at Ann Hathaway’s 
cottage, where the old-fashioned bedstead and its 
furniture are still preserved, just as they were two 
centuries and a half ago. 

The mask or cast creates immediately in the mind 
of the beholder, even when nothing has been said to 
him in regard to its claims, the impression that it rep- 
resents some remarkable man. The experiment has 
been frequently made, and uniformly with this result. 
It was exhibited, without a word of explanation, to 
Herman Grimm, the celebrated art critic of Berlin. 
“At the very first glance,” says Grimm, “I thought 
to myself that I had never seen a nobler countenance.” 
“What a noble, clean-cut, aquiline nose; what a won- 
derfully shaped brow! I felt that this must have been 
a@ man in whose brain dwelt noble thoughts. I in- 
quired. I was told to look at the reverse of the mask. 
There, on the edge, cut in figures of the 17th century, 
stood a.p. 1616. I could think of no one else who 
had died in this year except one who was born in the 
year Michael Angelo died,—Shakespeare.” 


Cc 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Another impression, that one can hardly fail to re- 
ceive from the mask, is the absence of any marked 
nationality in the features. The same thing is true of 
the well-known mask of Dante, in Florence; there is 
nothing Italian about it. So there is nothing distine- 
tively English in this cast which claims to be the death- 
mask of Shakespeare. It gives us, as do his writings, 
the idea of a generic man,—a representative of the 
human race rather than of any distinct nationality. 
Another characteristic of the mask, equally marked, is 
the exceeding fineness and delicacy of the lines which 
make up the countenance. Grimm notices this pecu- 
liarity. No one, in fact, can fail to observe it who 
looks upon the mask, 

While the mask differs, in one respect or another, 


| : fe ) Mk 
a 


Monument at Stratford. 


from every recognized likeness of Shakespeare, there 
is no marked feature in any one of them which cannot 
be found in the mask. The variation in each case 
being easily explainable by the personal peculiarity, 
caprice, or unskilfulness of the particular artist. Thus 
the bust represents a round, full-faced man, decidedly 
puffy in the cheeks, while in the mask the face is thin 
and spare, and wears a thoughtful and rather melan- 
choly look. Now it is well known that the flesh after 
death always falls away, giving this character to the 
face. So universal is this result that artists, in mould- 
ing a bust, or painting a picture, from a death-mask, 
always make allowance for the falling away of the 
flesh, and fill it out to the supposed fulness of life, 
either from conjecture, or from some photograph, or 
other evidence of the ordinary condition of the face 
in health. Gerard Johnson, in undertaking to supply 


XXXiX 


THE DIRE SOR 


this supposed falling off in the flesh, simply overdid | 


the matter, and gave us a portly, jovial Englishman, 
instead of the thoughtful author of Hamlet and Lear. 
Underlying the superabundant fulness of flesh, how- 
ever, the eye can easily trace in the bust all the essen- 
tial lines of grace and thought to be seen in the mask. 

The bust, as compared with the mask, is noticeable 
for the shortness of the nose, and for the extraordinary 
distance (one and a quarter inches) between the nose 
and the mouth. John Bell, the sculptor, asserted on 
anatomical grounds, that the maker of the bust had 
met with an accident at the point of the nose, and 
then, instead of doing his work over again, he had cut 
away enough of the lower part of the nose to give the 
feature the requisite amount of nostril. The bust cer- 
tainly has the appearance of having undergone some 
such manipulation. 

Another point, in which the mask and the bust 
differ, is the distance between the eyes, and also be- 
tween the eyebrows. The unoccupied space in the 
centre of the forehead, between the beginning of the 
ridge of hair on one side and the beginning on the 
other, is larger than I recollect to have seen in any 
human being. A corresponding width exists between 
the two eyes, the distance from the centre of one eye 
to the centre of the other being two and three-quar- 
ter inches. This feature gives to the face, as seen in 
the mask, an amplitude of forehead that is truly majes- 
tic, and one, when looking at it, cannot help feeling, that 
he understands better than he did before, where those 
great creations of genius came from, that have so long 
filled him with amazement. The bust-maker, on the 
contrary, through inadvertence, or possibly mistaking 
certain accidental irregularities of the plaster for a 
continuation of the hair, has run the brows more 
closely together, and then, to maintain consistency, 
has in like manner brought the eyes more closely 
together, to make them correspond with the brows. 
The effect of the narrowing of the forehead is further 
heightened by the fulness and puffiness of the cheeks 
already described; and the result of the whole is to 
give us the impression of a merry, good-natured farm- 
er, instead of the majestic thinker that looks at us 
from the mask. And yet we can see how; through 
inadvertence, misconception, and unskilfulness, the one 
might have grown out of the other. 

The mask has met with a slight accident, the tip 
of the nose on one side having crumbled, or having 
been broken, marring a little the nostril on that side. 

The features as revealed by the mask have a manly 
beauty, of the intellectual type, that is very noticeable, 
and that has called forth spontaneous admiration from 
all who have looked upon it. There is also an inde- 
scribable expression of sadness that no one fails to 


Shakespeare’s House Restored. 


SHAK ESPEALBE. 


notice. Mrs. Kemble, on seeing it, burst into tears. 
Grimm suggests in this connection another idea, 
namely, that in the first moments after death the dis- 
guises of life disappear, and the real character comes 
out in the countenance. ‘Though life,” he says, 
‘‘may prove deceptive on this point, not so death. It 
is as if, in the first moments after death had laid his 
sovereign and soothing hand upon man, the features 
reassumed before our eyes, as final imprint, that 
which they enclosed as the actual gift of creative 
nature, namely, the very sum and substance of life. 
Strange resemblances, wonderful confirmations of 
character, reappear in these first moments after the 
last moments.” 

Some of the hairs of the moustache, eye-lashes, and 
beard are seen in the mask, having adhered to the 
original concave shell and been thence transferred to 
the convex mask. These hairs, on examination with 
a glass, are found to be of a reddish brown, or auburn, 
corresponding in this respect with what we know 
historically to have been the actual color of Shake- 
speare’s hair. If the mask be what is claimed for it, 
we have here literally a bit of Shakespeare himself. 

The eyes are closed, and the left eye shows a slight 
defect from some cause. The moustache is rather 
full, and in the shape now frequently worn, the ends 
hanging down diagonally to the right and left, so as to 
cover the corners of the mouth. The ‘tomb-maker,” 
in the Stratford bust, has curled them up in a way 
which alters the whole expression. of the face, giving 
it a gay and jaunty air. The rest of the beard is 
shaven, except a small tuft under the chin, of the cut 
now called an ‘‘imperial.” The nose is thin, delicate, 
slightly aquiline, and the profile altogether is extraor- 
dinarily beautiful. The boldness of the outline, as 
one looks at the mask in profile, raises the expectation 
of a narrow face and head, instead of the broad, com- 
manding face and forehead which meet the eye on 
turning the mask, and looking at it full in front. 

The impression which these various likenesses make 
upon the mind of the observer, especially the impres- 
sion made by the mask, is that of majesty and force: 
what a noble face this man had! how worthy of the 
noble thoughts to which he has given utterance! We 
feel instinctively like applying to him the words which 
he has himself put into the mouth of Hamlet, when 
addressing his father’s portrait: 


See, what a grace was seated on this brow; 
Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; 
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; 
A station like the herald Mercury, | 
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; 

A combination and a form indeed 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man! 


(As it appeared 1878.) 
xl 


EASING CAIN ATE OY SS Te SS 


OF THE 


PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


THE TEMPEST. 


See Page 1. 


Fae, St Nithis comedy, Shakespeare is thought 
(S & yy _ by able critics to have given us his most 
ye ™ finished literary composition, and one 
: My in which the great poet has expressed 
his highest and serenest view of life. 
One of his latest productions, first pub- 
lished in 1623, no source of the story of the play can 
with any certainty be pointed out. Malone supposes 
it to have been written in the year 1611, and probably 
produced in the latter part of 1612 for the first time. 
Shakespeare, who was fond of music, makes admirable 
use of this art in The Tempest. Indeed, the serious 
parts of the drama are well suited for an opera. 
SCENE.—The sea with a ship, afterwards 
; .an uninhabited isle. 


In a cave hewn out of the solid rock lived the aged 
Prospero and his good and beautiful daughter, Miran- 
da. This home was on an island, and thither Miranda 
had come with her father when she was hardly three 
years old. The cave in which they resided was 
divided into several cells, one of which, serving as 
Prospero’s study, was provided with a number of 
books on astrology and magic, the knowledge of which 
Prospero had made exceedingly useful since his ar- 
rival on this island, which had been enchanted by the 
witch Sycorax, who died there shortly before his coming. 
Prospero by his art released many good spirits which 
the sorceress had imprisoned in the trunks of giant 
trees, because the spirits had refused to obey the 
wicked behests of the old enchantress. These liber- 
ated spirits were, after his coming, the instruments of 
the obedient will of Prospero. Ariel was the most 
prominent, who, gentle as he otherwise was, bore a 
deep-seated grudge towards the monster Caliban, the 
son of Sycorax. Caliban was found by Prospero dur- 
ing one of his excursions through the island, and was 
brought by him to the cave, where Caliban was taught 
to speak, but, owing to his perverted nature, little good 
and useful could he learn, and therefore was employed 
to do the more menial work, such as carrying wood 
and water. Ariel’s duty was to compel the monster to 
perform these services. Ariel, invisible to all other 
eyes but those of Prospero, would often torment and 
harass Caliban. By the aid of these powerful spirits, 
Prospero ruled the winds and the waves of the sea. 
Thus he raised a violent storm, in the midst of which 
he showed his daughter a large ship, which he told 
her was full of human beings like themselves. Mi- 
randa begs her father to have mercy on their lives. 
The father soothes her agitation, and informs her that 
no person of the ship’s company shall be hurt, that all 
transpiring would be done on behalf of his dear child. 


He now relates to her the cause of their inhabiting this 
island. ‘I was Prince of Milan,” said he, ‘‘and you a 
Princess and only heir. My younger brother, whose 
name was Antonio, I intrusted with all my affairs of 
state, and devoted myself in retirement to profound 
study. My brother, deeming himself the duke, with 
the aid of the King of Naples, a powerful prince and 
deadly foe of mine, effected my downfall. Knowing 
that they durst not destroy us because of the strong 
love of my people, they carried us on board a ship, 
and when some leagues out at sea Antonio forced both 
of us into a small boat without sail or mast. Buta 
faithful lord of my court, named Gonzalo, had secretly 
hidden water and provisions on board, and also some 
invaluable books. Our food lasted until we landed on 
this island, and ever since my pleasure has been to in- 
struct my darling child. This tempest I have raised 
so that by this accident the King of Naples and your 
treacherous uncle might be brought to this shore,” 
Prospero having concluded his narrative touched 
Miranda with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep. 
At this instant Ariel appears and gives a vivid ac- 
count of the tempest to his master. Of the ship’s crew 
not one soul has perished, and the vessel, invisible to 
them, is safely moored in the harbor. Meantime Fer- 
dinand, the duke’s son, reaching the island, meets 
Miranda. They mutually express surprise, and fall in 
love. Ariel, bidden by his master, now brings the 
king, Antonio, and the noble Gonzalo before Pros- 
pero, who embraces his brother and forgives him his 
past treachery. Prospero then dismisses Ariel from 
his service, buries his wand and books in the earth, 
vowing never henceforth to make use of the magic 
art. He then returns with the king, his brother, 
Gonzalo, Ferdinand, and Miranda to his native land, 
where, soon after their arrival, the nuptials of the hero 
and heroine, Ferdinand and Miranda, are celebrated, 
and ‘honor, riches, marriage-blessing ” await them. 


The characters in this play, while real and living, 
are conceived in a more abstract way, more as types, 
than in any other work of Shakespeare. Prospero is 
the embodiment of the highest wisdom and moral at- 
tainment; he is the great enchanter, and altogether 
the opposite of the vulgar magician. With the com- 
mand over the elemental powers which study has 
brought to him, he possesses moral grandeur and 
command over himself. He sees through life, but 
does not refuse to take part in it. Gonzalo is human 
common sense incarnated. All that is meanest and 
most despicable appears in the wretched conspirators. 
Miranda is framed in the purest and simplest type of 
womanhood, while Ariel is a being of life and joy 
knowing no human affection; in Caliban is his oppo- 
site, a creature of the passions and appetites. There 
is a beautiful spirit of reconciliation and forgiveness 
presiding over all, like a providence, 

xli 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
See Page 18. 


HERE was no edition of this comedy until 1628, 

but according to Malone as well as Chalmers, it was 
written in 1595. Though this play furnishes fewer 
occasions for music than some others, yet musicians 
are employed in the plot as well as musical allusions. 
Shakespeare in this play introduces all the musical 
terms in use in his time; as, a tune, a note, sing out, 
too sharp, too flat, harsh descant, the mean base, etc. 


SCENE.— At times in the cities of Verona | 


and Milan, or on the frontiers of Mantua. 


Valentine and Proteus were two young gentlemen, 
who lived in the city of Verona, between whom a 
firm friendship subsisted. They pursued their studies 
together, and passed their leisure hours in each other’s 
company, except when Proteus visited a lady whom 
he loved; and these visits to Julia and his passion for 
her, were the only points on which the two gentlemen 
differed. Valentine, who was not in love, often wearied 
to hear his friend so incessantly talking of his Julia, 
and occasionally would taunt Proteus for his passion- 
ate and idle fancies. One morning, Valentine came to 
Proteus and informed him that they must separate 
for a time, as he was going to Milan. Proteus, how- 
ever, tried to induce his friend not to leave him; but 
without avail. The two friends parted with vows of 
unalterable friendship.. After his companion had left, 
Proteus wrote a letter to Julia, which he intrusted 
her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. Julia, 
though loving Proteus as much as he did her, acts 
coquettishly, refuses to accept the letter, and orders 
her maid to leave the room; but being curious to 
know the contents of the missive, calls Lucetta in 
again, and asks her what o’clock it is. Lucetta, who 
knew that her mistress rather desired to see the letter, 
without heeding the question, again presents the re- 
jected epistle. Julia, incensed at this presumption on 
the part of her servant, tore the missive in pieces and 
threw them on the floor, ordering Lucetta out of the 
room. 

When Julia found herself alone, she gathered the 
fragments up and began to piece them together, and 
made out the words, ‘‘love-wounded Proteus,” but 
she could not make out the whole, and mortified at 
her own perversity in destroying such sweet and lov- 
ing words, she pens a much kinder letter to Proteus 
than she had ever done before. While Proteus was 
in raptures over his letter, he was interrupted by the 
appearance of Antonio his father, who asks him what 
letter he was reading, and is told that it is one he re- 
ceived from his friend Valentine, at Milan. His father 
desires to read the news, but the son, greatly alarmed, 
assures him that there is nothing new, further than 
Valentine is well beloved by the Duke of Milan, who 
greatly benefits him with favors, and desires his friend 
Proteus to be the partner of his fortune. Antonio, 
deeming the advice of Valentine very worthy of at- 
tention, resolves to send the son at once to Milan, to 
spend some time there in the Duke of Milan’s court. 
Proteus, knowing how peremptory was the will of 
his father, bid Julia a mournful farewell. They ex- 
changed rings, and mutually promised to keep each 
other forever in remembrance. Proteus set out on 
his journey, and, arriving at Milan, found his friend 
Valentine really in favor with the duke; and more- 
over Valentine had become as ardent a lover as Pro- 
teus ever was. The lady of his love was Silvia, 
daughter of the duke, and his love was returned, 
though they concealed their affections from the duke, 


xlii 


who intended his daughter should marry the courtier 
Thurio, whom Silvia despised. While these two rivals 
were, one day, on a visit to Silvia, the duke himself 
entered the room, and informed them of the arrival of 
Proteus, who soon thereafter made his entrance, and 
was introduced by his friend to the fair Silvia. Val- 
entine imparted to him in confidence the whole history 
of his love, how carefully they had concealed it from 
the duke, and that, despairing of ever obtaining the 
father’s consent, he had urged Silvia to leave the palace 
that very night and go with him to Mantua. Then he 
showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which 
he intended to aid Silvia to get out of one of the win- 
dows at dark. Upon hearing this confidential recital, 
strange to say, Proteus resolved to go and disclose the 
plan to the duke. The duke, after hearing the intelli- 
gence, resolved to frustrate Valentine’s intentions, and 
by artifice makes Valentine betray the secret himself, 
and after upbraiding him for his ingratitude, banished 
him from the court and city of Milan. While Pro- 
teus was thus treacherously betraying his friend, 
Julia, who is inconsolable over the absence of her 
lover, resolved to dress herself and her maid Lucetta 
in men’s clothes, and thus set out for Milan. Here she 
was hired by Proteus as a page, who, not knowing 
that she was Julia, sent her with letters and presents 
to Silvia— even sending her the very ring she gave him 
as a parting gift at Verona. Silvia, utterly amazed at 
this, rejects the suit of Proteus and refuses the ring, 
and Julia (disguised as the page Sebastian) praises 
Silvia and confides to her that Proteus had a love in 
Verona, who, as she knew, fondly loved him. Valen- 
tine, who hardly knew which course to pursue after 
his banishment, was set upon by robbers, who prevail 
on him to become their captain, threatening, if he re- 
fuses their offer, they would kill him. Valentine ex- 
acted of them a promise never to outrage women or to 
rob the poor. Silvia, to avoid a marriage to Thurio, 
at last resolved to follow Valentine to Mantua, whence 
she presumed him to have fled, and in company with 
Eglamour, an old courtier, sets out on her journey, 
but on reaching the forest where Valentine and the 
banditti dwelt, was seized by one of the robbers, who 
intended to take her before their captain. Proteus, 
who had heard of Silvia’s flight, pursued her to the 
forest, and still accompanied by Julia, his page in dis- 
guise, appears at this moment. While Proteus was 
rudely pressing Silvia to marry him, all were amazed 
by the sudden appearance of Valentine. 

Julia, having thus proved, by her disguise of the 
page, the insincerity of her lover Proteus, produces 
in an affected mistake the rings he has made presents 
of to herself and Silvia, and at the same time dis- 
covering her sex, exposes his duplicity to his second 
mistress. Proteus, who now realizes that the page 
Sebastian is no other than Julia, and thrilled with this 
proof of her constancy and true love for him, took 
again his own dear mistress and joyfully resigns all 
pretensions to Silvia to Valentine, who so well deserved 
her. Proteus and Valentine while enjoying their 
happy reconciliation, were surprised by the appearance 
of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in 
pursuit of Silvia. Thurio, when sternly rejected by 
Silvia, drew back in trepidation, leaving Valentine, his 
rival, in full possession of lady Sylvia. The lovers and 
the duke return to Milan, where the nuptials are con- 
ducted with all due pomp and ceremony. 


Shakespeare has in this play settled down in the field 
of Italian story, which is to be hereafter the scene of 
his greatest triumphs. The Two Gentlemen of Vero- 
na and its incidents were great favorites with Shake- 


THE’ PEOLES 


—_ 


spéare, as is evident by his use of them in after plays. 
The heroine of the drama is without doubt Julia; she 
suffers most, she loves most, and she says the best 
things. The hero Valentine is a most generous, frank 
tellow, with a touch of dulness withal, as he cannot 


understand, for instance, Silvia’s love messages when | 


she gives him back his own love-letter; Speed has 
to explain it to him. There seems a contradiction in 
Silvia’s character in her giving Proteus her picture; 
it looks like yielding to coquetry, but as Julia does not 
seem to feel it so, perhaps we cannot complain. Notice 
the quick Italian turn for intrigue in Proteus, and in 
the duke’s instantly forming the plan to entrap Val- 
entine. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


See Page 35. 


HIS is the only Shakespearian comedy which is en- 

tirely without serious characters and situations; 
nevertheless, it shows an earnest intention and demon- 
stration — although jocosely carried out —to prove 
the sacredness of wedlock. Queen Elizabeth, whose 
ear was perpetually assailed by fulsome panegyric, and 
who encouraged all sorts of silly shows, May games, 
and buffooneries, was not insensible to Shakespeare’s 
talent; and having been much delighted with the 
character of Falstaff, as delineated in the first and 
second parts of Henry the Fourth, advised, or, per- 
haps we may rather say, commanded, the bard to por- 
tray the fat knight in love. Such is the tradition of the 
origin of the play, some incidents of which may have 
pleased the daughter of Henry VIIL., although they 
are somewhat repulsive to modern taste and delicacy. 
According to Ohalmers, this comedy was written in 
1596, while Malone asserts 1601 as the proper date. 


SCENE.— At Windsor, or near to it. 


Falstaff, the droll hero of the trilogy of Henry IV. 
and V., is unable, on account of his limited income, to 
defray the costs of his extravagant tastes. He hits 
upon the odd idea, which is doubly amusing from his 
age and physical defects, of trying his luck in love, and 
thus replenish his empty purse. He writes love-letters 
to Mrs. Page and to Mrs. Ford simultaneously. His 
followers, Nym and Pistol, angry at him, resolve to in- 
form the husbands of this shameful conduct. Both 
ladies having received letters of the same import, show 
them to each other, and mutually agree to retaliate 
upon Falstaff. As a mediator, they choose their tal- 
ented friend Mrs. Quickly, who informs Falstaff that 
both ladies accept his suit, and expect to see him. 
Page has implicit confidence in his wife’s fidelity, but 
Ford does not trust his wife, and disguising himself, as- 
sumes the name of Brook, asking Falstaff’s assistance 
-In his designs upon Mrs, Ford. He learns from Fal- 
staff that this lady had promised to meet him. Just 
as the knight is about to enjoy the company of Mrs. 
Ford, Mrs. Page informs him that the injured husband 
is on his way hither, having half the inhabitants of 
Windsor at his back. The unlucky lover is hastily 
thrown into a clothes-basket and covered with a quan- 
tity of dirty linen. He is carried to a bleachery and 
there thrown into a shallow ditch. But, despite this 
involuntary bath, Falstaff is not yet the wiser, and 
runs again into the trap set for him. In Ford’s house 
he is found again by the jealous husband. The ladies 
this time dress him up in the garb of an old woman, 
who is known as the disreputable sorceress, or old 
witch of Brentford. Ford, who had forbidden this 


hag to enter his threshold, drives Falstaff, after giving | 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


him a severe thrashing, from his abode. Mrs. Ford 
now imparts to her husband the whole affair, cures 
him of his jealousy, and, in company with Mr. and Mrs. 
Page, prepares the third practical joke at Falstaff’s ex- 
pense. A rendezvous at night is planned, under the 
oak of the fabulous hunter, Herne, where, according 
to a popular superstition, fairies and elves carry on their 
revels at midnight. Mrs. Ford and Mrs: Page, in pur- 
suance of their plan to revenge on Falstaff his attempt 
on their chastity, decoy him, under pretence of an am- 
orous meeting, into Windsor Park at midnight, where 
he is attacked by Evans and all the kin and kindred of 
the family. Ford and Page, who-are dressed as gob- 
lins, torment him with torches, and pinch and plague 
him in various other ways. Falstaff is represented 
ludicrously disguised, having a buck’s head forced on 
his head, and seated beneath the oak with his mis- 
tresses, who affect surprise at their being discovered. 

In juxtaposition, and yet distant from the story of 
seduction and deception, a case of elopement is enacted 
in the play, as a counterpart of the former in its sub- 
stance, particulars, and final result. Mr. and Mrs. 
Page have a marriageable daughter, Anne Page, for 
whose hand and heart three lovers woo—Squire Fen- 
ton, whose love is good and true, is responded to by 
Anne; and Slender, the cousin of the country Justice 
Shallow, a dunce with an annual rent of £300, who is 
the favorite of Anne’s father, and last, the dandified 
French Doctor, Caius, who is favored by Mrs. Page. 
Under Herne’s oak, where Anne is enacting the queen 
of the fairies, Slender, according to the father’s plan, 
is to elope with the daughter; but the mother, having 
planned a like affair, wants her to elope with Dr. 
Caius. The shrewd Anne apparently accedes to each 
plan, but on her part plots and prepares with her lover 
a different understanding, in consequence of which 
Slender indeed elopes, according to the plan of the 
father, with a fairy dressed in white; Dr. Caius, after 
the plan of the mother, with one in a green garb; but 
neither of the two have Anne Page, nor even another 
girl, but only disguised boys. Fenton and Anne, how- 
ever, gain their purpose, and reach the church, from 
which they return husband and wife. The parents 
yield, with great resignation and heartiness, to the 
inevitable, and after a general reconciliation, from 
which even the fat and guilty Falstaff is not excluded, 
the comedy closes. 


In Falstaff, bubbling over with humor combined with 
that consummate conceit which makes his character 
so ineffably droll, we have a picture that only Shake- 
speare could draw. Falstaff is the representative, in 
his idleness and self-indulgence, of the debauched pro- 
fessional soldier of the day. But this lewd court 
hanger-on, whose wit always mastered men, is out- 
witted and routed by the Windsor Wives: ‘‘ Wives 
may be merry, and yet honest too,” is the healthy 
moral. The play has no pathos about it: it is only 
merry; but, nevertheless, it is admirably constructed. 
The double plot works through it without a hitch; 
and the situations are comically first-rate, though we 
confess the tone is lower than in both Shakespeare’s 
earlier and later works. There are no grandees in the 
play; it seems a play of contemporary manners and a 
direct sketch of English middle-class life. The sweet- 
ness of ‘sweet Annie Page” runs all through it. She 
is the young English girl of Shakespeare’s admiration 
—not seventeen, pretty, brown-haired, small-voiced, 
whose words are few, but whose presence is every- 
where felt. True to her love, she is ready-witted, 
and dutiful to her parents, only disobeying them for 
the higher law of love. Her real value is shown by 
the efforts of those three lovers to get her. Fenton is a 


xh 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


gay, wild young fellow; he meant to marry for money, 
but is won from it by love. He is frank and resolute. 
Slender is a well worked-up character; and those are 
inimitable scenes with Annie Page. The admixture 
of the German, the Frenchman, and the Welshman, 
points to considerable freedom of intercourse in Queen 
Elizabeth’s day. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
See Page 56. 


DRAMA deriving its name from an old adage, for 

the argument of the play is to show the triumph 
of grace and mercy over the punishment of justice, 
since no man is so secure against transgression as to 
set himself up as judge over his fellow-creatures. This 
comedy is founded upon George Whetstone’s The His- 
torie of Promos and Cassandra, which appeared in 
print in 1578. Malone thinks it was written in 1603, 
while Chalmers thinks the date of its writing is 1604, 
when Shakespeare was in his fortieth year. Though 
this play has less music in it than some of Shake- 
speare’s productions, yet at the beginning of Act [V.a 
song from the poet’s own Passionate Pilgrim is sung. 


SCHNE.— City of Vienna. 


Under the mild government of the Duke of Vienna, 
the laws had lost all their wonted vigor; intrigue and 
immorality became general among the young people 
of the metropolis because these vices could be prac- 
tised with impunity: especially was the marriage vow 
no longer kept sacred. At this juncture the duke re- 
solves suddenly on a governmental change in the ad- 
ministration of the land from mildness to great severity, 
and, for the purpose of more thoroughly carrying out 
this plan, he determines to absent himself for awhile 
from his dukedom, meantime leaving the government 
in the hands of Angelo, Lord Deputy, during his 
absence. Angelo is instructed to watch over the exe- 
cution of the laws with strictness. The duke, disguised 
as a monk, meanwhile secretly observes Angelo and 
his conduct from the neighborhood of the city. A 
young nobleman, named Claudio, is taken in custody 
on the charge of seducing a lady named Juliet, and 
sentenced to be beheaded under the severe laws of the 
new régime. Claudio’s sister, the beautiful and vir- 
tuous Isabella, a novice under probation, appears 
before the Lord Deputy and beseeches him to spare 
the life of her beloved brother; but in vain: the law 
must have its course; her suit is rejected. But it so 
happens, that the charming interceder, by her dazzling 
beauty as well as by her innocence and virtue, inflames 
the passions of Lord Angelo, and he demands, as the 
price of the forfeited life of her brother, the virtue of 
the sister, who of course with utter scorn rejects his 
advances. Isabella then visits her brother in prison, in- 
forms him of the ill success she has met with and of 
the baseness of Angelo. She admonishes him to fortify 
himself with courage and resignation to endure his ap- 
proaching fate. But the terror of death overpowers 
the hitherto courageous Claudio, and he entreats his 
sister to yield to Angelo’s desire, to save her brother’s 
life. This cowardly request Isabella refuses with 
horror, and vehemently upbraids Claudio. Neverthe- 
Jess, Isabella is induced, by the urgent entreaties of the 
duke (who, in the disguise of a friar, is present), to 
seemingly promise Angelo, but in her place, and. at 
midnight, to send the former mistress of the Lord 
Deputy tohim. This lady is Mariana, the betrothed of 
Angelo, and one who had been deserted by him on 
account of the loss of her marriage dower (but who 


xliv 


retained her old love for her truant lover). According 
to the customs in vogue at the time, those betrothed 
were considered very much as if wedded. Mariana 
takes no offence at this proposed midnight meeting, 
and when she departs from Angelo, who has mistaken 
her for Isabella, she reminds him of his promise by 
saying, ‘‘ Remember now my brother!” Meanwhile, 
however, Lord Angelo, fearing an exposure hereafter 
from Claudio, had already given new orders for his 
execution. The unfortunate man is only saved from 
his doom by the intercession of the disguised duke 
himself, who persuaded the provost to put off the exe- 
cution, and to deceive Angelo by sending him the head 
of a man who had died that morning in prison. Fi- 
nally, the duke appears in his true character, forgiving, 
rewarding, and punishing. Angelo, who sincerely re- 
pents of his intended misdeeds, but which wickedness, 
without merit on his part, had been frustrated, receives 
forgiveness; but has to make atonement for his wrongs 
towards Mariana by marrying her. Claudio is induced 
to marry Juliet, the lady whom he had seduced. _Isa- 
bella, the heroine, the true and good, does not re-enter 
the convent, but, the duke falling in love with her, is 
made the Duchess of Vienna; and bestowing happi- 
ness and blessing all around, henceforth shines by the 
duke’s side as his noble wife. 


In the character of Isabella we have a beautiful por- 
traiture of a noble Christian woman, steadfast and 
true, firm in strength and energy, and among the 
highest type of women Shakespeare has drawn —— 
equal or superior to Portia, the wife of Brutus, Corde- 
lia, or Volumnia. The scene in court, and the trial, as 
it were, before the duke, and the exposure of Angelo, 
are graphically portrayed. There is a tone of deep 
and serious feeling running all through the play — its 
dealing with death and.the future world, the weight 
of reflection, the analysis of Angelo’s character, the 
workings of conscience, the lovely saintliness of Isa- 
bella, although we must look on her as no hard re- 
cluse, but as ‘‘ Isabel, sweet Isabel! with cheeks of 
roses, gentle and fair.” She believed that the son of 
her heroic father was noble, like herself; and when 
she found he was willing to sacrifice her honor for his 
life, her indignant ‘‘ take my defiance, die, perish,” was 
the fit answer to her brother’s base proposals, which 
brings the blood tingling in sympathy to the reader’s 
cheek. In Angelo we have a terrible analysis of 
character, a self-revelation to any man who has striven 
for purity, has fancied himself safe, and in the hour of 
trial has failed. Claudio is the type of the self-indul- 
gent, life-enjoying man of the world, to whom death 
has the greatest terrors. His words on “after death” 
are among the most poetical in Shakespeare. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
See Page 78. 


HE Menaechmi of Plautus have furnished our 

poet the matter for this lively, entertaining, and 
ingeniously executed play, which is so full of a witty 
spirit. It is one of his earliest dramatic efforts, and 
perhaps was written before the year 1591, though 
Malone fixes the date at 1593. In the Comedy of 
Frrors music has no mention. 


SCENE.— Ephesus. 


Various and prolix disputes and contentions between 
the cities of Syracuse and Ephesus caused, in retalia- 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


tion for the precedent set by the former city, the 
enactment of a cruel law, according to which all 
intercourse between these two places was abolished, 
and any inhabitant of Syracuse seen in Ephesus was 
punished with death and confiscation of his estate if 
he were not able to pay aransom of one thousand 
marks. Ignorant of this law, Aigeon, an aged mer- 
chant of Syracuse, is found in the streets of Ephesus, 
arrested, and by the duke condemned to be executed. 
Upon the question, what has induced him to visit 
Ephesus, he relates that his wife had borne him twins, 
who had so extraordinary a resemblance to each other 
that he had purchased of their poor parents two twin 
brothers, whom he had brought up to attend upon his 
own sons. Suffering shipwreck Algeon had been 
separated from his wife, with their older son and his 
comrade. The younger son, who, after he had grown 
to manhood, had been afflicted with an irrepressible 
longing to go in search of his lost mother and brother, 
was still engaged in this search; both sons he now 
deemed lost to him, since for seven years he had sought 
for them on all seas, but in vain, and it was thus he had 
come to Ephesus. The duke, influenced by a feeling of 
pity, grants AZgeon one day to procure the thousand 
marks for his ransom. A%geon’s sons, of exact form 
and size and bearing the same name—that of Antipho- 
lus — were at this time in Ephesus with their servants 
the Dromios, who were also counterparts of each 
other. The younger Antipholus had just arrived with 
his Dromio; the older brother, however, had already 
lived twenty years in the city, having, as a coura- 
geous soldier, once saved the duke’s life, and had in the 
course of time become a rich and highly respected 
merchant. He married a rich heiress of Ephesus 
named Adriana, whose beautiful and wise sister Luciana 
resided with them. The twins and their followers, 
who bear such striking resemblance to each other, 
cause many vexatious and entangling mistakes, and 
thus, quite naturally, many very comicaily amusing 
scenes are enacted, and errors upon errors follow. One 
bewitching mistake confounds the other. The errors 
which are occasioned by confounding the two gentle- 
men and their servants with each other, cause the 
Antipholus of Syracuse to believe that he is under the 
influence of magicians, and therefore seeks refuge in a 
cloister, whose abbess, A‘milia, charitably grants to 
him a place of refuge. Adriana, who presumed the 
fugitive to be her husband, complains to the duke of 
the conduct of the abbess, who refuses to give up the 
fugitive, who is deemed insane, before his cure is 
effected. One word draws another, until it becomes 
finally apparent that the jealous Adriana is the wife 
of the Ephesian Antipholus, whom she had often tor- 
tured with her silly suspicions. After confessing her 
behaviour to the abbess, the latter seriously expostu- 
lates with her. Meanwhile, evening comes and Atgeon 
is to be executed, when opportunely at this juncture 
the twin pairs, and those with whom they have been 
confounded, all meet in the vicinity of the convent. 
The penetration of the duke at once solves this mys- 
tery of errors. The excellent abbess is none other 
than Aimilia, the long lost wife of Algeon and the 
loving mother of the two Antipholus. The noble 
duke now pardons Ageon, without the payment of 
ransom; Adriana is permanently cured of her jealous- 
ies, while Antipholus of Syracuse marries her sister 
the good and fair Luciana. 


In the Comedy of Errors, which commentators be- 
lieve to be either the first or the second written of the 
dramas of Shakespeare, he has exquisitely brought in 
the pathetic element in geon’s story and threatened 


death, the mother’s love and suffering, and the re- 
uniting of the family at the end of the play. He has 
also presented the beautiful element of the affection 
of Antipholus of Syracuse for Luciana—the first intro- 
duction of that serious and tender love which is never 
after absent in Shakespeare’s plays, The sweetness of 
Luciana in dissuading her sister from jealousy, in her 
advice to Antipholus of Syracuse, her sister’s supposed 
husband, in Scene 2 of Act III., before she consents to 
her suitor’s love, is very beautiful in its tender thought- 
fulness. Adriana, though jealous and shrewish, really 
does not mean to be, and truly urges that her love is 
the cause. The contrast between the two brothers of 
Syracuse and of Ephesus is finely marked. The An- 
tipholus of Ephesus was a man without a father’s or a 
mother’s training, and with no purpose in life like his 
brother. He is a brave soldier, but has no true view 
of love and marriage; he has taken a wife, yet con- 
sorts with acourtesan. Antipholus of Syracuse, brought 
up under a father’s watchful care, is a far better type 
of aman. The search for his lost twin brother has 
given him a purpose in life; and although his temper is 
somewhat too unrestrained and he beats his servant 
too often, yet he reverences women, and declines the 
opportunity to avail himself of the mistake of his 
unknown brother’s wife. Of the two Dromios, the 
Syracusan seems to have been the better. He is 
more humorous and cool and takes his troubles better 
than his master. The noble and pathetic figure 
of Aigeon forms a fine background to the play, his 
long search for his wife appealing to all hearts. This 
drama forms a fine acting play, the humor being 
brought out most comically. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


See Page 92. 


HE more serious parts of the material on which this 

comedy is founded, were known to the reading pub- 
lic of England, at the time of our poet, through various 
works, such as the episode of Ariodant and Genevra, 
in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, which already then ex- 
isted in two English translations. The nearest resem- 
blance to this play is a novel of Bandello, entitled, 
““Timbreo di Cardonia, and Felicia Leonata.” The 
other comical parts of the play, and the persons rep- 
resented therein, seem to be altogether Shakespeare’s 
own creation. According to Malone, the play was 
written in 1600; while Chalmers reports it a year 
earlier, that it was printed in quarto, and was entered 
at Stationers’ Hall, August 23, 1600, under the name of 
Benedick and Beatrice. There is much music in the 
play, especially in the masquerade, Act II., Scene 2, 
and several songs are introduced. In the last Act, 
Scene 8, the epitaph and song are beautiful, and well 
calculated for music. 


SCENE.— Messina. 


Leonato, the Governor of Messina, has an only 
daughter, named Hero, who lives with his niece, Bea- 
trice, in her father’s palace. Beatrice is a lively, mirth- 
ful, and witty girl, the very counterpart of the sedate 
Hero. Returning from a happily ended war, appear 
as the guests of Leonato, Don Pedro, Prince of Arra- 
gon, with his favorites, Claudio and Benedick, all old 
friends and acquaintances of the governor and his 
family. Claudio sues for the quiet Hero, wins her 
love, and, through the mediation of the Prince, obtains 
the consent of her father. Benedick and Beatrice, 
both animated by a spirit of thoroughly inexhaustible 


xlv 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS 


humor, begin a real contest of wits, incessantly teas- 
ing each other, and both to all appearances utterly 
forswearing love and matrimony. By an amusing 
plot, however, both, while deeming themselves unob- 
served, are made witnesses to pre-arranged conversa- 
tions, from the purport of which it is intended to con- 
vince them that Beatrice is inspired with love for 
Benedick, and Benedick is madly in love with Beatrice. 
Both are deceived by the trap set for them; but nothing 
novel is produced thereby; they only obtaining the 
knowledge how their affairs are situated. The Prince 
of Arragon had also brought with him to Messina his 
bastard brother, Don John, a man discontented with 
himself and all the world, full of venom and rancor, 
who seeks pleasure in making mischief. He slanders 
the pure, innocent, and chaste Hero, as being a com- 
mon strumpet, and proposes to convince the Prince 
and Claudio of the truth of his assertion. by ocular 
proof. In the course of the night preceding the nup- 
tials, Margaret, Hero’s attending gentlewoman, clad in 
her mistress’s garments, is induced to hold an inter- 
view with her lover, Borachio, one of Don John’s 
followers, which might have been proof of Hero’s 
guilt, had it really been she who had conversed with 
him. Claudio, whom the cunning rascal has induced 
to be a witness to this midnight meeting, becomes 
naturally enraged, and with youthful impetuosity, with- 
out further investigation of the charges, resolves on 
a terrible revenge. The marriage of Claudio with 
Hero is about to be solemnized, but is prevented by 
the artitices of Don John. In the church, in the pres- 
ence of all witnesses, Claudio denounces the innocent 
Hero as an impure woman, and charges her with un- 
chastity. Hero faints at the terrible accusation, her 
father is distracted, and the bridal company breaks up 
in confusion. 

But virtue finally is vindicated. Borachio, that fol- 
lower of Don Jolin who so vilely has aspersed the 
character of the noble Hero to Claudio, relates the 
circumstance to his companion Conrade; his story is 
overheard by the watch, who rush forward and take 
them both, the rogues, into custody, They are taken 
by the watchman to prison, are examined by the 
inimitable Dogberry, and the Sexton, who is constable 
of the night. The testimony of the watchman proves 
their connivance in the plot with Don John against 
Hero. The miscreant, Don John, who has attempted 
to escape, is retaken, and cast into prison, as a 
well deserved punishment. Hero, being supposed by 
Claudio to be dead (in consequence of the shock given 
at her intended wedding), had now her character fully 
cleared. Claudio, as an atonement for his error, agrees 
to marry Leonato’s niece, Beatrice. The lady is ac- 
cordingly introduced, veiled, but proves to be Hero 
herself. The marriage of the two lovers, with that 
also of Benedick and Beatrice, who continues her 
mirth to the very end, happily concludes the drama. 


This play is radiant with the most brilliant wit and 
the richest humor, and sparkles throughout with the 
poet’s keen fun and raillery, reflected through Dogberry, 
and Verges’ belief in him, with the merry passages be- 
tween Beatrice and Benedick. We cannot help feeling 
acutely, though, the needless pain caused to Hero, 
which might have been so easily avoided or lessened, 
but ‘‘ when the fun is fastest the sorrow must be sad- 
dest.” Claudio is a fine manly fellow, but a trifle too 
suspicious and too easily misled, without sifting charges 
against his affianced wife more thoroughly. Beatrice is 
the sauciest, most piquant, sparkling, madcap girl that 
Shakespeare ever drew, and yet she is a loving, deep- 
natured, true woman, too. Sharp sayings flow from her 

xlvi 


with the humorous ones. Of course sne says she don’t 
want a husband: what girl of her type ever acknowl- 
edges she does? What does she want with a husband ? 
In this mood she meets Benedick, and, sharp as he is 
among men, he cannot stand up to her. She over- 
whelms him with her quick repartees. But when 
she really finds she loves, how changed she is. When 
sweet Hero sinks under the cruel blow, unable to de- 
fend herself, how grandly flashes out the true and no- 
ble nature of Beatrice, worthy daughter of the gallant 
old Antonio. She knows Hero’s pure heart. Evi- 
dence, so called! suspicion! what are they to her. 
“OQ, on my soul, my cousin is belied!” When she 
gives herself to her lover — witty as she is to the last 
— we know what a jewel the man has gained. The 
brightest and sunniest married life we see stretching 
before them, comfort in sorrow, doubling of joy. 


LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST. 


See Page 112. 


ROMANCE or a drama from which our poet 

might have gleaned the material for this play, is 
thus far not known. The argument on which this 
comedy rests is the important contrast between the 
fresh and youthful, ever new blooming reality of life 
and the abstract, dry, and dead study of the strictly 
pedantic life. Shakespeare wrote the play, according 
to Malone, in 1594; according to Chalmers, in 1592. 


SCENE. — Laid in Navarre. 


The young and kind-hearted Ferdinand of Navarre 
conceived the somewhat fantastic idea of spending, in 
company with three knightly followers, Biron, Longa- 
ville, and Dumain, three years in strict seclusion from 
the outer world. In pursuance of this aim, they have 
sworn a sacred oath, especially binding themselves to 
abstain from all social intercourse with women, and to 
devote themselves to the study of wisdom and learn- 
ing. Their plan, however, is forthwith defeated by the 
arrival of the fair Princess of France, with her attend- 
ing ladies — Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine. This 
party, on account of pressing affairs of state, request 
an immediate audience, which cannot be denied. All 
these knights of wisdom and abstinence fall in love 
with these ladies, who are just as amiable as they are 
good and subtle. A quick encounter of contending 
wits ensues, during which the gentlemen tease and de- 
ride each other for breaking their vow, each at the 
same time trying to justify himself, but all aiming to 
win the hearts of the fair French ladies. The latter, 
on their part, try to ,cleverly defend themselves by 
vieing with one another in witty retorts, and by cley- 
erly ridiculing the courtiers for their foolishly conceived 
but quickly violated plan of affected struggle after wis- 
dom. Intermingled in the play, as the most amusing 
and diverting contrasts, are the comical episodes be- 
tween two bombastic and learned pedants, Holofernes 
and Nathaniel, as well as the pranks of the arrant 
knight and braggadocio, Armado, a youthful and 
haughty page, who acts the part of a privileged fool. 
The entire plot of the story and of the actors is sud- 
denly interrupted by the announcement of the death 
of the sick and aged father of the Princess of France ; 
and the drama closes with a very earnest lesson, and 
that, though expressed by the king in a jesting mood, 
is exacted by the ladies (though in another shape) as 
an expiation and for repentance. <A duetto between 
Spring and Winter (Cuckoo and Owl) makes a charm- 
ing epilogue, which in a poetic form sheds a light over 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


the sense and meaning of the whole. The finale of the 
comedy thus reverts back to the beginning. 


The London wits of the day, with their assumed 
consequence and abounding conceit, naturally amused 
the Stratford-bred Shakespeare, and parts of this, his 
first written play, were designed to give them a covert 
reproof, and to show them they could be beaten at 
their own weapons, by a country lad, too, and that all 
their city cleverness, on which they so much prided 
themselves, was as nothing beside good heart and 
work. The best speech in the play is, of course, 
Biron’s, on the effect of love in opening men’s 
eyes and making the world new to them. How true 
this is every lover since can bear witness. but still 
there is a ‘‘chaffiness” about it very different from 
the humility and earnestness of the lovers who figure 
in most of Shakespeare’s other plays, except, perhaps, 
that of the worthy Benedick. The fair Rosaline, too, 
in her witty passages, reminds us of Beatrice. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 
See Page 133. 


MMHE comedy of Midsummer-Night’s Dream is the 

most extravagant, yet the most artistic, the most 
amusing, and withal the most thoughtful, the most 
poetical, and nevertheless the liveliest, which the 
phantasy of a poet ever created for the glorification of 
phantasy itself. The greatness of the author’s genius 
revels nowhere so much as here, where he gives his 


imagination full play, and raises his fancy to a flight | 


above mankind, and beyond the limits of the visible 
world. Two songs alluded to in the last scene of this 
play are lost. Malone assérts that this drama was 
written in 1592, while Chalmers has reasons for stat- 
ing 1598 as the date. 


SCENE.— Athens, and a wood not far from it. 


Oberon, king of the fairies, beseeches his wife, Ti- 
tania, to grant to him her beautiful adopted boy as a 
page; and upon Titania refusing this request, he seeks 
to revenge himself by wetting her eyes with the sap 
of a flower while she is sleeping. This lotion has the 
magical power of causing her to become exceedingly 
enamored with the first being she beholds on awaken- 
ing. The person whom her eyes first observe is a 
weaver of Athens, named Bottom, a rough and en- 
tirely illiterate man, and who has, at this time, come, 
with several other mechanics, to the grove, where 
Oberon and Titania were holding their fairy court. 
These artisans had entered the, wood to have a re- 
hearsal for the play of Pyramus and Thisbe, which 
they design to act at the nuptial festivities of Duke 
Theseus of Athens, who was soon to be married to 
Hippolyta. But before Titania’s awakening, Puck, a 
serving spirit to Oberon, who was ever ready for fun 
or frolic, had, by magic, adorned the weaver, Bottom, 
with the head of an ass. At the time this is taking 
place, a young pair, Lysander and Hermia, in love 
with each other, had likewise hied themselves to this 
enchanted grove, having fled from Athens on account 
of the cruelty of the father of Hermia, and the strict- 
ness of the laws of Athens, which forbade their union. 
They are overtaken at night by Demetrius, a lover, 
whose suit for Hermia the father of this lady favors, 
and by Helena, a youthful friend of Hermia, who loves 
Demetrius, but finds her love rejected. Oberon, the 
fairy king, feels pity for fond Helena, and commands 
Puck to wet the eyes of the flint-hearted Demetrius 


| gentler in disposition. 


with the same magic fluid which had already proved so 
efficacious on his queen, Titania. Puck, by some mis- 
take, enchants instead Lysander, but finding out his 
error, also enchants Demetrius. The consequence is, 
that both Lysander and Demetrius, on awakening, fall 
in love with Helena, whom they both perceive at the 
same moment. As a result, Helena now thinks the 
declarations of both these suitors malicious mockery, 
while Hermia, who, meantime, had arrived upon the 
scene, is inconsolable to discover herself thus so sud- 
denly deserted by the hitherto faithful Lysander. 
Meantime Titania has yielded to the wish of Oberon, 
and the latter, joyful over the reconciliation with his 
wife, removes the magic spells from Lysander and 
Bottom; only Demetrius’ spell will not leave him, or 
rather the spell she supplied by the magic which the 
devoted fidelity of Helena imparts to him, whose love 
he now rewards in turn with his love. The Duke 
Theseus, of Athens, whose marriage is also about to 
be celebrated, obtains the consent of Hermia’s father 


| to her union with Lysander, and thus it happens that 


three marriage ceremonies take place, on which occa- 
sion the artisans enact their very jovial and grotesque 
play of Pyramus and Thisbe, which they have so 
faithfully and amusingly rehearsed. Congratulations 
and fairy dances: conclude the nuptial feasts and the 
drama. 


The finest character in the play is undoubtedly The- 
seus, and in his noble words about the artisans’ play, 
the true gentleman is shown. Theseus is Shake- 
speare’s early ideal of a heroic warrior and man of 
action. His life is one of splendid achievement and 
joy; his love is a kind of happy victory; his marriage 
atriumph. But his wife’s character is poor beside his. 
There is not much marked difference of character be- 
tween the lovers Demetrius and Lysander, nor is there 
much distinction between Helena and Hermia, except 
that in person Helena is the taller of the two and the 
Though the story is Greek, yet 
the play is full of English life. It is Stratford that has 
given Shakespeare his out-door woodland life, his 
clowns’ play, and the clowns themselves— Bottom, 
with his inimitable conceit, and his fellows, Snug, 
Quince, ete. It is Stratford that has given him all 
Puck’s fairy lore—the pictures of the sweet country 
school-girls, seemingly parted and yet with a union in 
partition. There is exquisite imagery running through 
the play—a wonderful admixture, though it be, of deli- 
cate and aerial fancy beside the broadest and coarsest 
comedy. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


See Page 150. 


N this play our bard celebrates the idea of a univer- 
sal philanthropy, in the first place, as a Christian 
charity, but more especially in its tenderest and most 
gentle emanations, as friendship, connubial love, as 
well as grace and mercy, in opposition to the strict 
tenet of the law. George Chalmers fixes 1597 as the 
date of this comedy, while Malone reports 1598 as the 
exact time of its appearance. The musical elements 
of this interesting drama are beautiful, numerous, and 
celebrated. In it is found the initial of a well-known 
and now proverbial eulogium on modulated sounds: 
““The man who has no music in his soul,”’ etc. 


SCENE.—Partly in Venice and at Belmont. 


A rich and fair heiress named Portia, who lives at 
Belmont, near Venice, is, according to the last will of 


xlvii 


THE PLOTS 


her father, prohibited from marrying, except the suitor 
who comes to woo should correctly choose one of three 
caskets — one of them gold, one of silver, and one 
of lead. The latter contains the portrait of the 
fair lady; and the suitor fortunate enough to choose 
the casket containing Portia’s picture, is to be Portia’s 
husband. Bassanio, a young nobleman of Venice, is 
so fortunate, and carries off the prize. But he is 
scarcely betrothed to his love, when he receives news 
from Venice telling him that his noble-hearted friend 


Antonio, whose generous means furnished him for his | 
successful journey to Belmont, is completely ruined | 


by the wreck of ships at sea, and that the bond which 
Antonio, in over confidence, had given to the Jew Shy- 


lock on Bassanio’s account for a sum of money, could | 


not be met when due. Shylock now insists literally 
on the cruel penalty provided as a forfeit — a pound of 
Antonio’s flesh to be cut from any part the Jew 
pleased to take it. Bassanio, supplied by his bride 
with ample means, and presented with a ring which 
he vowed to her he never would part with, hastens 
towards Venice to the rescue of his friend. Portia, 
his spirited lady love, meanwhile, procures for herself, 
by the aid of a renowned lawyer, who is a friend of 
her family, letters of introduction, and thus fortified, 
and in the disguise of a Doctor of Laws, is introduced 
to the Duke of Venice as a lawyer who would be 
able, even in such a difficult case as that now pending 
between the merchant of Venice and the Jew Shylock, 
to decide in strict accord with the laws of Venice, and 
yet, withal, in the interest of human equity. By 
virtue of Portia’s ingenious sagacity, Antonio, the un- 
fortunate merchant who had become security for her 
husband Bassanio, is rescued from his cruel persecutor. 
In her disguise as an advocate of law, Portia refuses 
every offer of reward, but requests and finally obtains 
from the unwilling Bassanio that ring which she had 
given to him on his departure from her, under the 
most solemn vows never to part withit. The same 
scene is likewise enacted by her waiting-maid Nerissa, 


who is in the disguise of an attending clerk, and who | 


is betrothed to Bassanio’s friend and companion Gra- 
tiano. Portia and her waiting-maid now hasten to 
their home. They arrived at Belmont before their 
husbands, whose embarrassment on account of their 
having parted with their rings, the pledges of their 
love, causes great railing and merriment, until finally 
the entire intrigue is explained. Through the play 
is interspersed the suit, elopement, and marriage of 
Jessica, the daughter of Shylock, who, converted to 
Christianity, becomes the wife of Lorenzo, a young 
Venetian for whom Portia, in her role as counsellor of 
law, obtains the legal right to inherit the fortune of 
his unwilling father-in-law, Shylock. Cruel and re- 
pulsive as the character of the latter appears in the 
story, the thoughtful reader cannot help but some- 
times pity him as one of the persecuted Jewish race, 
a race often embittered and driven to desperation by 
the remorseless cruelty practised towards them by the 
peoples and laws of the Middle Ages. 

To understand the plot of this play, which is com- 
plicated, by three points, we have, first the main point 
in the history of the forfeited bond; then a secondary 
plot, the affair of the three caskets, and, as a final epi- 
sode, the elopement of Jessica and Lorenzo. 


A true and noble woman the poet portrays in Portia. 
In the language of Jessica, ‘the rude world has not 
her fellow,” and to this all who have studied the play 
will agree, echoing the words of Mrs. Fanny Kemble, 
when she says, ‘‘ Shakespeare’s Portia, then, as now, is 
my ideal of a perfect woman.” 


xivili 


She is one of those | 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


women that the poet shows us first in gloom and then 


—* 


brings into the sunshine of love. She is gloomy, natu- 
rally, at the momentous chance that her fate hangs on, 
until it gives her the man she loves. She has wit and 
humor, and good judgment, too. She is unselfish, for 
she allows her husband to leave her so soon to save 
his friend. Note her quick insight and wit; on the 
call for action, her self-reliance; the admirable hand- 
ling of her case in court; the reserving of her power 
to the last, hoping to raise Shylock to the nobleness 
she would have him reach. See how the essence of 
all the virtues of woman is in her speech for mercy, 
which will echo through all time. In the trial scene 
she keeps her happy, roguish humor, chaffing her hus- 
band about giving her up, and insisting on his ring 
(this latter scene is remarkably effective on the stage). 
No words can praise Portia too highly. Jessica, “the 
most beautiful pagan and most sweet Jew,” is ro- 
mantic and impulsive. Love is her ruling passion, as 
greed is that of her father’s. 

Antonio is a noble gentleman. There is a beautiful 
and touching unselfishness about him, as note his 
message to Bassanio, who was a fine enough fellow, 
but far inferior as a character to the woman whose 
love he won. In Shylock, we have the embittered 
hate of ages of cruelty and oppression flaming up te 
strike when chance allowed it. 


AS YOU LIKE IT. 


See Page 170. 


HE material of this play the poet gleaned from the 

story entitled ‘‘ Rosalinde, Euphues Golden Legacie, 
etc.,”” which its author, Thomas Lodge, wrote at sea, 
on a voyage to the Canary Islands. The drama was 
written in 1600, when Shakespeare was thirty-six 
years old. There are various remarks on music and 
several songs embodied in this comedy. 


SCENE.—Is laid first near Oliver’s house; 
afterwards in the usurper’s court, and in 
the forest of Arden. 


A French duke, who had been deposed and banished 
by his younger brother Frederick, withdrew with a few 
faithful followers to the forest of Arden, leaving his 
only daughter Rosalind at the court of the usurper as 
a companion of the latter’s only daughter Celia: these 
ladies love each other like sisters. This affection 
which subsisted between them was not in the least 
interrupted by the disagreement between the fathers, 
and becomes not the less tender when Rosalind falls in 


love with the brave Orlando, who, in a wrestling match 


with a hitherto unexcelled athlete, wins the victory in 
the presence of the assembled court; but Orlando 
having learned from Adam, his father’s aged steward, 
of the deadly enmity of his older brothe” Oliver, seeks 
safety in flight. Adam affectionately accompanies him, 
and proffers Orlando the money he has saved. But the 
faithful servant, through infirmity and fatigue, is un- 
able to proceed far on the journey. Orlando cheers 
his drooping spirits and urges him to go forward. The 
older brother, Oliver, was charged by the usurping 
duke with having aided the flight of Orlando, and the 
duke orders him to arrest and bring back the fugitives. 
Rosalind, having been banished from her uncle’s court, 
left it clad in the disguise of a page, and chance led her 
towards the forest of Arden. Celia, the usurping 
duke’s daughter, loving Rosalind tenderly, accompa- 
nied her in her flight in the garb of a shepherdess. 
More for the purpose of pastime and sport than for 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPHEARE’S PLAYS. 


— 


protection, the twe ladies entreat the clown Touch- 
stone to flee with them. Arrived at the forest of 
Arden, they purchase from a shepherd his estate with 
‘house and herd, and still disguised live there for a 
time as brother and sister, when they are agreeably 
surprised by the arrival of Orlando, who has joined 
the followers of the banished duke. Rosalind then 
hears from Orlando’s brother Oliver an account of 
Orlando being wounded, and, seeing the bloody hand- 
kerchief which he has sent her as a proof of his at- 
tachment, faints in the arms of Celia. Rosalind, after 
having assured herself of the love and constancy of 
the knightly Orlando, fully bestows her affections on 
him, and with the consent of her father, to whom 
she has made herself known, is wedded to him. The 
contrite Oliver, who owes his life to the valor and 
courage of his brother Orlando (who rescued him twice, 
while travelling through the country, from the fangs of 
a serpent, and again from a lion while asleep in the 
forest of Arden), marries the fair Celia, with whom 
he has fallen in love at first sight. Meantime, Duke 
Frederick, becoming alarmed at the large number of 
his subjects who are leaving for his brother’s support, 
marches at the head of an army to the Arden forest 
to annihilate the followers of the deposed duke. At 
the outskirts of the forest, however, the usurper is 
met by a pious hermit, who beseeches him to desist 
from his cruel undertaking. Stung by his conscience, 
he voluntarily restores the dukedom to his brother, 
and resolves to spend the remainder of his life in a 
religious house. A messenger proclaiming this re- 
solve is sent by the now penitent duke to his brother, 
who again ascends his throne, while all the banished 
courtiers return to the city and are restored to their 
former dignities—all but the melancholy Jaques, 
who, disgusted with worldly show, goes into retire- 
ment. 


This story goes back to the old Robin Hood spirit of 
England, to the love of country, of forest, and of adven- 
ture. Rosalind’s rippling laughter comes to us from the 
far-off woodland glades, and the wedded couple’s sweet 
content reaches us as a strain of distant melody. Miss 
Baillie says of Rosalind: ‘The way in which she de- 
lights in teasing Orlando is essentially womanly. There 
are many women who take unaccountable pleasure in 
causing pain to those they love, for the sake of heal- 
ing it afterwards.” Rosalind is fair, pink-cheeked, and 
impulsive; what she thinks she must speak out, true 
woman as she is. There is a great want in her life; 
but she meets Orlando, and the want is filled by love. 
It was she who planned this country expedition, and, 
though she could find it in her heart to cry like a 
woman, she feels she must comfort poor Celia as the 
weaker vessel. But sad as she is, she needs only the 
news of Orlando’s nearness to throw off her melan- 
choly instantly, and to jump into the liveliest of gay 
humors; and the deliciously sprightly fun of her chaft 
of Orlando is unsurpassable. Orlando is a fine young 
fellow with whom we all must sympathize; there is 
such a charm in his manliness, and there is, too, a fresh- 
ness about him and the energy of a healthy, active life. 
Oliver is a poor creature; but whitewashed, and re- 
formed, we believe he made a good husband to Celia 
“the tender and true.” The melancholy Jaques gets 
off some immortally excellent things of the philoso- 
phizing kind, as note his exquisite words on the 
“Seven Ages of Man.” Touchstone’s fun with Corin 
the shepherd and William is most amusing; to quote 
Miss Baillie again: ‘‘He is undoubtedly slightly cracked; 
but then the very cracks in his brain are chinks which 
let in the light.” 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
See Page 190. 


HIS comedy is founded on an old play, the author 
of which is unknown, although even the dialogue 
is partly kept intact in our poet’s production. But 
the change Shakespeare wrought is so complete that 
the play must be acknowledged as only his. It origi- 
nated in 1596, or possibly a few years earlier. 
In The Taming of the Shrew no other use is made of 
music than to introduce minstrels at the wedding. 


SCENEH.— At times in Padua and in Petru- 
chio’s country-house. 


The plot of the drama is as follows: A lord on his 
return from the chase finds a drunken tinker, named 
Sly, asleep on a bench before an ale-house. For the 
sake of sport, the lord orders him carried to his own 
rooms, where Sly is dressed in costly garments and 
placed in one of his finest beds. When the drunkard 
wakes he finds himself surrounded by the attending 
servants, who succeed in making him believe that he 
is a nobleman who had for many years suffered from 
insanity. Upon the introduction of a train of players, 
Sly becomes convinced that he is really a lord, and 
they are ordered to entertain him with the enactment 
of a comedy, the purport of which is about the follow- 
ing: — 

A rich gentleman of Padua, named Baptista, has 
two daughters, Katharina (Kate) and Bianca; but the 
father refuses to listen to the suitors of the younger 
daughter until Katharina, the older sister, is married. 
Katharina’s fiery temper has caused her to be known 
as the Shrew, and her loud-tongued scolding frightened 
every suitor away. The wooers of Bianca, although, 
as rivals, much inclined to look at each other with un- 
favorable eyes, yet agree to make common cause, and 
that each endeavor to procure a husband for Katha- 
rina, In this they are fortunate in finding a gentleman 
named Petruchio, himself heir to rich estates, and who 
has come especially to Padua for the purpose of form- 
ing a suitable marriage. By virtue of his burlesquely- 
tender actions, he determined to break Kate’s haughty 
temper, and by an affectation of continued violence 
frighten her into submission to his will. Grumio, 
Petruchio’s servant, comically assists him in this ef- 
fort. Katharina, finding at last opposition vain, be- 
comes the dutiful wife, and Petruchio, finding her 
obedient to his most absurdly assumed whims, pro- 
fesses his affection and drops the part of the tyrant. 

Meanwhile Lucentio, a nobleman of Pisa, has suc- 
ceeded, under the guise of a teacher, in gaining access 
to Bianca, and has used the hours ostensibly devoted 
to instruction for the purpose of exchanging declara- 
tions of love, while his servant, Tranio, assuming his 
master’s name and address, attends to all further affairs 
which are necessary to forward the intentions of Lu- 
centio. To make this certain, the presence of Lucen- 
tio’s father, by the scheme of Tranio, is to be repre- 
sented by a travelling schoolmaster; but at this critical 
moment the real father of Lucentio arrives quite unex- 
pectedly at Padua, and meets on the street the servant 
of his son in the latter’s dress. Tranio has the temer- 
ity not to recognize the father of his master as such, 
and is about to be taken to prison by an officer of 
the law, when Lucentio, who meanwhile had been se- 
cretly married to Bianca, opportunely appears with his 
bride by his side, and effects a general reconciliation. 
Gremio, the oldest of Bianca’s rejected suitors, is satis- 
fied with receiving an invitation to be the guest at the 
festivities in honor of the wedding; Hortensio, the 
younger lover, seeks consolation by marrying a young 

xlix 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS 


widow, and takes formal lessons from Petruchio in the 
art of Taming the Shrew. Petruchio’s young wife, the 
tiery Katharina, carries finally the prize away as the 
most submissive wile of the three, and, because of her 
amiability and goodness, receives from her father a 
largely increased dowry. 


The fair Kate, the shrew, stands boldly out in marked 
individuality. She has been brought up a spoiled 
child, strong-willed, and overindulged by her father’s 
seakness and her sister’s gentleness. Then she may 
be said to have a grievance, for she is not to be mar- 
ried, while her mild sister is. She is soured by neg- 
lect, and bullies her sister from envy. Petruchio comes; 
he admires her, and she likes him, too, as the first man 
who has had the nerve to overrule and attempt to con- 
trol her. She is bewildered by his assurance and cool- 
ness, while conscious that she has forfeited, by her 
childish bad temper, a woman’s right to chivalrous 
courtesy, and she feels she has no right to complain 
of her lover’s roughness. As a woman, too, she likes 
the promise of finery, and decides to marry him; even 
has learned, by this time, to love him, as note how 
she cries when he comes late. Having got him, she 
is baulked of the wedding feast (cruellest of all blows 
for a bride). Under the influence of the wedding, she 
is so tender, at first, that we almost regret that Pe- 
truchio had not taken advantage of this tenderness, 
and tried taming by love; but then, if he had, we 
should have lost some of the very best scenes of the 
play. However, Kate decides to stand up for her 
rights, and how she is defeated and humbled, and 
finally gives up the effort, becoming the model wife, 
the story relates. 

Petruchio really makes himself, for effect, worse 
than he is. He is one of those determined men that 
like the spice of temper in a woman, knowing the 
power in him to subdue. He teases and tantalizes 
Kate in such a pleasant, madcap fashion, that we like 
him, although, probably, he tries her too far and too 
severely. No doubt they proved a happy couple. 
Kate could obey Petruchio with a will, for he had 
fairly beaten her at her own game, and won her 
respect. Grumio is an excellent comic character, one 
of the best of the kind from Shakespeare’s pen. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


See Page 210. 


1 erm supposes this drama was composed in 
the year 1606. The story was originally taken 
from Boccacio, but came more immediately to Shake- 
speare from Painter’s “ Giletta of Narbon,” in the first 
volume of the ‘‘ Palace of Pleasure.” Of this comedy 
there is no edition earlier than the first folio. The 
music of this play consists of flourish of cornets, 
marches, and sound of trumpets. 


SCENE.—Partly in France and Tuscany. 


Helena, a gentlewoman, the daughter of an eminent 
deceased physician, lives with the widowed Countess 
tousillon, whose son she passionately loves. The young 
Count Bertram of Rousillon has to obey the command 
of his liege lord, and moves to his court. The 
king suffers from a disease which baffles the skill 
and the medicines of the physicians, so that they, as 
well as the king himself, despair of a cure. Helena, 
however, has with the inheritance from her father 
come in possession of an almost infallible remedy. 


i 


ena does not despair in her hope and love. 


Encouraged by the countess, to whom she nad confided 
her love, she journeys to Paris, and succeeds in indue- 
ing the king to confide in her method of curing him. 
She agrees to suffer condign punishment in case she’ 
shall not succeed in restoring the king’s health; on 
the other hand, should she cure the monarch, he 
promises that she shall be married to the man of her 
choice, and besides receive a rich dowry. Under her 
ministering care the king recovers entirely, and chooses 
the young Count of Rousillon for her spouse, who, de- 
spite all unwillingness and resistance at first, finally 
yields to the behests of his sovereign, and is married te 
Helena. Bertram has no affinity for his young wife, 
and moreover considers their marriage a mésalliance, 
flees from Helena soon after the marriage ceremony 
is over, and hies himself to Florence, where he enters 
the service as a soldier—meanwhile informing Helena 
by letter that she should never again see him in 
France, nor greet him as her husband, until she could 
wear on her finger the ring which he claims to have 
inherited from his ancestors as a family relic, and could 
nurture a child of his paternity on her breast. 
Despite these two seemingly impossible conditions, Hel- 
Without 
his knowledge, she follows her truant lord, reaching 
Florence in disguise, where, with the assistance of the 
chaste daughter of an honest widow named Diana, 
she is soon in a condition to demand the fulfilment 
of her husband’s strange conditions, and returns to 
France simultaneously with Bertram, where she has 
been announced as dead. As soon as the count is con- 
vinced of the truth of her assertions, he is thrilled with 
manly emotion at such enduring love, and, in rapture 
over her high-spirited devotion, clasps Helena in his 
arms, henceforth bestowing all his affection on her. 
The unmasking and punishment of a villain named 
Parolles, a follower of Bertram, forms a diverting en- 
tertainment and an embellishment to the scenes, an epi- 
sode of which calls to mind some of the parts of Fal- 
staff's experience. 


In this play the object of Shakespeare was no doubt, 
covertly, to teach a lesson to the English people on the 
pride of birth, in the poor, lowly-born Helena, richest 
and highest in the noblest qualities, and proving also 
how much true love could take a woman through 
unspotted and unsmirched. Coleridge calls Helena 
‘‘Shakespeare’s loveliest character ;” and Mrs. Jameson 
says: ‘*There never was, perhaps, a more beautiful 
picture of a woman’s love, cherished in secret, not 
self-consuming in silent languishment, not desponding 
over its idol, but patient and hopeful, strong in its own 
intensity, and sustained by its own fond faith. Her 
love is like a religion-— pure, holy, deep. The faith of 
her affection combining with the natural energy of her 
character, believing all things possible makes them so.” 
Quick as she is to see through Parolles, she cannot see 
through Bertram, for love blinds her eyes. How beau- 
tiful is the confession of her love to Bertram’s mother ; 
and what a fool Bertram appears in leaving his sweet, 
unselfish young wife, and how his brutal letter only 
brings out by contrast her truth and nobleness. How 
earnestly she wants to save him. She knows the ur- 
gence of his “important blood,” and takes advantage 
of it to work a lawful meaning in a lawful act, and so, 
without disgrace, fulfils the condition her husband’s 
baseness has made precedent to her reunion with him. 
Shakespeare has, indeed, proved in the character of 
Bertram (one who prides himself on his noble birth) 
its worthlessness, unless beneath a noble name rested 
a noble soul. Bertram, to speak mildly, is a snob, a 
liar, and a sneak, and it requires all the love of the 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPHEARE’S PLAYS. 


lower-born lady, of God’s own make, to lift him to a 
level that obtains any of our regard. He has physical 
courage, but cf moral courage he has none, and is un- 
able to judge men. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; or, WHAT YOU WILL. 
See Page 232. 


[\HE sources which our poet made use of for this 

comedy are found in the novel entitled ‘‘Apollo- 
nius and Silla.” According to some, he is said to have 
probably used two Italian comedies of similar name, 
namely, ‘“GlVinganni” and “Glingannate.” Twelfth 
Night was written in 1599; but there is no edition of 
an earlier date than the first folio, in 1623. This com- 
edy opens with a beautiful eulogium on music, which 
prevails throughout. The use of Hvirati, in the same 
manner as at present, seems to have been well known 
at this time, as appears in Act I. 


SCENEH.—Laid in a city in Illyria, and the 
sea-coast near it. 


Sebastian and his sister Viola were twins of the most 
remarkable resemblance to one another. Having both 
escaped the danger of perishing by shipwreck, Viola is 
rescued by the captain and taken to the coast of Illyria. 
Through the aid of her benefactor, the maiden, dressed 
in male attire, enters into the service of Duke Orsino. 
Intimate acquaintance with this handsome and excel- 
lent man inflames the susceptible heart of Viola with 
the fire of a first love. But the duke loves Olivia, a 
rich and fair young countess. Viola, in her disguise 
as a page, introduces herself to Olivia, on behalf of her 
master, Orsino, who passionately loves Olivia, who is, 
however, in mourning for her brother; and, unable to 
return the duke’s affection, refuses at first even to listen 
to Viola’s message, but no sooner sees her than, igno- 
rant of her sex, she falls in love with the page; for- 
getful of the vow of entire seclusion from the world, 
Olivia unveils herself before Viola (Cesario), confess- 
ing her feelings, which, of course, are not returned. 
Viola, now perceiving the danger of her disguise, has- 
tens from the presence of Olivia, with the emphatic 
declaration that she would never love a woman. 
Meantime her brother, who too had been saved by the 
captain of a vessel, arrives likewise in Illyria. His 
benefactor, who had at a former time during a naval 
engagement inflicted great damage on the Illyrians 
(had even caused the death of their duke), is of course 
in imminent peril among these people. His liberty, his 
property, yes, even his life, are in jeopardy, and nothing 
but the love for his protége could have caused him to 
land. A ruffian who courts Olivia, and is jealous 
of the supposed rival Cesario, whom he deems the fa- 
vorite of the countess, attacks Viola, and Antonio, con- 
founding her with Sebastian, hastens to her relief. Of- 
ficers of the law appear upon the scene of the tumult, 
and, recognizing Antonio from his taking part in the 
naval combat, take him off to prison. After Viola’s de- 
parture from the scene of the trouble, Sebastian, who 
is insearch of Antonio, appears, and is himself attacked 
by Viola’s adversary. The countess, who having now 
interceded with the duke, mistakes Sebastian for Or- 
sino’s page, and as such loads him with caresses. Se- 
bastian, astonished at his good fortune and struck 
with her beauty, falls in love at first sight. A priest 
at hand solemnizes the marriage ceremony without de- 
lay. Viola, who makes herself known as Sebastian’s 
sister, by her womanly charm, spirit, and faithful love, 


wins the heart of the duke, and on the same day she is 
made the “mistress of her lord” and Ilyria’s duchess. 


Viola is the true heroine of the play. She is sad 
for her brother’s supposed death; but she is thankful 
for her own escape, and looks disaster full in the 
face, taking practical steps for her future life. The 
duke wants sympathy, and she gives it to him; she 
knows the duke loves music, and she gives it to him to 
cheer him in his love-lorn state. Note the real love 
that Viola describes, and the fancied love the duke 
feels for Olivia. That is a touching scene between 
Viola and the duke, where the music makes her 
speak in so masterly a way of love; and where Viola, 
in answer to the duke’s fancied greatness of his love, 
gives him such hints of her own far greater affection 
for him, that no man not blinded by phantasm could 
have failed to catch the meaning of her words. Then 
comes that scene when the man she adores threatens 
her with death, and she will take it joyfully from 
him whom she declares then she loves more than life, 
and finally the reciprocation of her love by the duke. 
The duke has a fanciful nature; he is a dreamy, musi- 
calman. Still, he is not to be despised. His is a rich, 
beautiful, artistic nature, fond of music and flowers, 
and his love once obtained makes him a husband ten- 
der and true. The comic characters of the play are 
Shakespeare’s own. The self-conceit of Malvolio is 
refreshing. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 
See Page 251. 


HE plot is taken from the ‘ History of Dorastus 

and Fawnia,” by Thomas Green, and was written, 
according to Chalmers, in 1601, and according to Ma- 
lone in 1604; and first appeared in the folio of 1628. 
Schlegel, the great German translator and Shake- 
spearian scholar, says that the title of this comedy 
answers admirably to its subject. It is one of those 
histories which appear framed to delight the idleness 
of a long evening. There are two somewhat absurd 
songs, some other musical illusions, and a pedler’s 
song woven into this drama. 


SCHENE.— Sometimes in Sicilia and at times 
in Bohemia. 


Polixenes, King of Bohemia (a country we must 
imagine in this play to extend to the sea-coast), is on 
a visit to the court of his lifelong friend Leontes, King 
of Sicilia, and after a sojourn of nine months at last 
resolves to depart. The urgency of Leontes to induce 
his friend to continue his visit somewhat longer being 
without avail, he requests his queen Hermione to try 
her fortune in accomplishing that end; and the queen 
really succeeds in persuading the guest to defer the 
return to his own country for another week. But 
suddenly in the king’s heart a suspicion now arose by 
reason of this success wrought by the persuasive elo- 
quence of his wife, and he became at once inflamed by 
such a violent fit of jealousy that he even seeks to take 
his noble friend’s life. By an honorable confidential 
friend, whom he sought to employ as a tool to carry 
out his revenge, Polixenes is prevented from further 
designs upon the King of Bohemia. But Leontes is 
still jealous of his wife, and with Polixenes enters her 
apartment and demands the delivery of his only son, 
Mamillius. Hermione remonstrates, and is ordered to 
prison; while there she is delivered of a daughter, 
Perdita. The infant is brought by Paulina, wife of 
Antigonus, a lord of his court, to its father, but is 


li 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


ordered out of his sight. The oracle to whose de- 
cision the case is submitted, declares the queen inno- 
cent, and prophesies that Sicilia’s crown will remain 
without an heir until the abandoned child is found 
again. At the same time the death of the crown 
prince is announced, upon which news the queen 
faints and is taken away for dead. Thus ends the first 
three acts in the drama. 

The fourth act is ushered in by a prologue, and is 
laid sixteen years later in Bohemia. The ship in which 
Antigonus, the Sicilian lord, carried the infant princess 
out to sea, had been driven by a storm upon the coast 
of Bohemia, where the child was left by him, dressed 
in rich clothes and jewels, with a paper pinned to its 
mantle with the name Perdita written thereon. An- 
tigonus never returned to Sicily, for he was torn to 
pieces by a bear as he was going back to the vessel. 
The deserted baby was found by an old shepherd, who 
took it home to his wife, who nursed it carefully. Per- 
dita, the banished infant of Leontes, brought up to 
womanhood as the shepherd’s daughter, gains the af- 
fections of Florizel, the son of the King of Bohemia. 
The king Polixenes attends the sheep-shearing (a 
rustic festival) in disguise, at which the loving pair 
are both present, discovers himself, and forbids their 
intimacy. 

Camillo, a courtier of Sicily, who had been sojourning 
at Polixenes’s court, proposes to Florizel and Perdita 
that they shall go with him to the Sicilian court. To 
this proposal they joyfully agreed, taking with them 
the old shepherd, the reputed father of Perdita, who 
has still preserved Perdita’s jewels, baby-clothes, and 
the paper which he had found pinned to her garments. 
They all arrive at the court of Leontes in safety, who 
receives them with great cordiality. The king had 
bitterly repented of his former jealous frenzy, and is 
now entirely satisfied at having found his long-lost 
child. Polixenes, King of Bohemia, in pursuit of his 
son, arrives also in Sicily, and now everything that 
was obscure is cleared up, and Queen Hermione, be- 
lieved to be dead, returns from her place of seclusion, 
and the play ends in transports of joy and happiness. 


In the Winter’s Tale, we see the contrast between 
town and country. The play is fragrant with Perdita, 
with her primroses and violets, so happy in the recon- 
ciliation of her father and mother, so bright with the 
sunshine of her and Florizel’s young love. So long as 
men can think, Perdita shall brighten and sweeten their 
minds and lives. Thereis something so ineffably touch- 
ing in the lost and injured daughter meeting the injuring 
father and forgiving him. Above all rises the figure 
of the noble, long-suffering wife, Hermione, forgiving 
the cruel and unjust, though now deeply repentant, 
husband who has so cruelly injured her. She is among 
the noblest and most magnanimous of Shakespeare’s 
women; without a fault, she suffers, and for sixteen 
years, as though guilty of the greatest fault. If we 
contrast her noble defence of herself against the shame- 
less imputation on her honor with that of other hero- 
ines in like case—the swooning of Hero, the ill-starred 
sentences of Desdemona, the pathetic appeal, and yet 
submission of Imogen—we will see how splendidly 
Shakespeare developed this one of his finest crea- 
tions. When Camillo’s happy suggestion that Florizel 
should take Perdita to Sicily and Leontes has borne 
fruit, and Shakespeare brings the father and daughter 
together, and then brings both into unison before us 
with the mother, though so long dead, the climax of 
pathos and delight is reached; art can no further go. 
Paulina is a true lover of her mistress, and a lovely 
character in her earnestness and courage. Although 


hi 


the story is told of Sicily, we see all through that the 
great poet has English scenes in his mind’s eye. The 
lovely country around Stratford is always before him 
as he writes. 


THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN. 
See Page 275. 


| more than one respect this tragedy is not only 
the prologue, but the basis of the entire dramas of 
Shakespeare which treat upon the history of England. 
It appears to have been written in 1596, but not pub- 
lished till 1623. It was founded on the old play en- 
titled The Troublesome Reign of King John. The 
action of this present tragedy occupies a space of about 
seventeen years, beginning at the thirty-fourth year 
of King John’s life. There is no music in this play 
but trumpets and the din of war. 


SCENE.—Sometimes in England and France. 


After the demise of Richard, surnamed Ceur de Lion, 
John wrung the English crown from the weak hands 
of his nephew Arthur, whose claims were supported 
by King Philip of France. But in the hope of incor- 
porating England with his kingdom by the plan, the 
French monarch is prevailed to sanction a marriage 
between the dauphin and a niece of King John, and 
is about to withdraw his aid from Arthur, when the 
arrival of the Cardinal Pandulph, the pope’s legate, 
prevents him consummating the agreement, and the 
dogs of war are again unloosed. Oonstance, mother 
of Arthur, having in vain endeavored to interest the 
French king and the legate in behalf of her son’s 
claim to the crown, appeals in paroxysms of despair 
to heaven, and denounces Arthur’s uncle, John, the 
usurper of the throne and her son’s rights. 

Philip of France in a decisive engagement is de- 
feated, and the captured Arthur is handed over by his 
uncle to the keeping of a certain Hubert, chamberlain 
to the king. John, feeling insecure from the superior 
claim of Arthur, orders Hubert to put out his eyes in 
prison. Hubert, moved to pity by the youth and inno- 
cence of the victim, spares him. But on quitting him, 
the prince, in dread of another attempt, leaps from the 
ramparts, and is found dead by Pembroke. A number 
of discontented barons resolve to free themselves from 
the yoke of the tyrant, and to this end invite the 
Dauphin of France to assume the English crown, with 
the sanction of the pope. On the arrival of the 
dauphin, John is compelled to yield an ignominious 
abdication by abjectly placing his royalty at the dis- 
posal of the cardinal, who then endeavors to stay the 
advance of the dauphin. His intercession proves, 
however, unsuccessful; and hostilities are about to be 
resumed, when the news of the loss of a French trans- 
port having a large number of troops on board, together 
with the news of the desertion of an English reserve 
force, causes the ardor of the French prince to cool, 
and inclines him to make peace. Meantime, King 
Johnis poisoned by a monk, and his son Prince Henry 
succeeds to the throne. The departures from history 
which Shakespeare in this play introduces, are all de- 
signed in the interest of dramatic art, and not with the 
pretext of adhering to strict historic truth. 


The character which stands foremost in King John 
is Constance, with that most touching expression of 
grief for the son she has lost. Deserted and betrayed, 
she stands alone in her despair, amid false friends 
and ruthless enemies — an eagle wounded, but defiant. 


CHE TREES AOLVSHAKESPHA RES RLAYS. 


Considered as a dramatic picture, the grouping is 
wonderfully fine. On one hand, the vulture-like am- 
bition of the mean-souled and cowardly tyrant John; 
on the other, the selfish, calculating policy of Philip; 
between them, balancing their passions in his hand, 
is Cardinal Pandulph, the cold, subtle, heartless le- 
gate; the fiery, reckless Faulconbridge; the princely 
Lewis; the still unconquered spirit of old Queen 
Elinor; the bridal loveliness and modesty of Blanch; 
the boyish grace and innocence of young Arthur; the 
noble Constance, helpless and yet desperate — form an 
assemblage of figures that, taken altogether, cannot be 
surpassed in variety, force, and splendor of dramatic 
and picturesque effect. 


THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD I. 
See Page 295. 


M\HE principal source from which Shakespeare drew 

the argument of this play was Holinshed’s His- 
tory of England, and he has here adhered to this in- 
formation. Without detriment to this its practical 
source, he has followed history literally, with an al- 
most perfect fidelity. Inasmuch as the first edition 
of this tragedy appeared in 1597, there is good reason 
to believe that it was written in 1596. Here we have 
music in abundance. Military instruments are admi- 
rably described. All instruments played with the bow, 
in Shakespeare’s time, were fretted except violins, and 
this is made obvious in this historical drama. 


SCENE.—Dispersedly in England and Wales. 


Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, eldest son to 
John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, denounces 
Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, as a traitor, and, 
among other accusations, charges him with abetting 
the murder of the Duke of Gloucester, the king’s uncle. 
Norfolk, the accused duke, denies the charge, and offers 
to prove his mnocence by single combat. The king 
consents to this, and orders the adversaries to ap- 
pear on a certain day at Coventry. They arrive there 
punctually, ready for the encounter; but just at the 
moment when the signal for commencement is to 
be given, King Richard protests. Knowing that his 
own skirts are not clear of the taint of his uncle’s 
death, hence afraid of the consequences of the duel, 
whatever the result of the latter may be, and also se- 
cretly dreading the adversaries, he banishes both no- 
bles, having first assembled the lords of his realm and 
received their assent. Thomas Mowbray, Duke of 
Norfolk, is sentenced to perpetual banishment, while 
the Duke of Hereford is exiled for ten years, which 
term the king reduces, out of regard for the aged John 
of Gaunt, to six years. The king also commands them 


to Ireland to avenge the death of the viceroy, Count Le 
Marche, who had been slain by the Irish during an in- 
surrection, Bolingbroke makes good use of his ab- 
sence, having heard of it previously; and, taking the 
name of Duke of Lancaster, returns to England, land- 
ing near Ravenspurgh, in Yorkshire. The Duke of 
Northumberland and his valiant son Henry Perey 
(Hotspur), having been insulted by Richard, at once 
join Bolingbroke’s forces. Discontented’men pour 
in from all quarters, and soon swell the forces of Lan- 
caster to an army of 60,000 soldiers, Even Langley, 
Duke of York, who had been left by Richard as regent 
in London, offers no resistance, being himself too weak, 
and, moreover, having been deceived by Bolingbroke, 
who represents that he had merely returned to have 
his banishment and the wrongful sequestration of his 
estates annulled. Bolingbroke, emboldened by con- 
tinued additions to his army, now enters London at 
the head of his troops, where he is hailed by the peo- 
ple as their deliverer from a justly hated tyranny. 
Other cities follow the example of the metropolis. 
Richard, having heard of Bolingbroke’s return from 
banishment and his attempt to usurp the crown, lands 
on the coast of Wales, from his Irish expedition, and 
receives the news of his rival’s progress and the danger 
to which himself and his followers are now exposed. 
But he can learn nothing but misfortune; for his fa- 
vorites, Bushy, Green, and Earl of Wiltshire, had al- 
ready been executed, the Earl of Salisbury’s army is 
scattered, his own troops are weak and inclined to 
desert, the people embittered, and the regent, York, 
though thus far a neutral, ‘neither as friend nor 
foe,” had gone over to Bolingbroke. In this despe- 
rate dilemma, Richard appeals to the victor, and invites 
him, through the agency of the Duke of Northumber- 
land and the Archbishop of Canterbury, to visit him at 
Flint, near Chester. The duke receives Richard, who 
with humbled face appears. Seated upon two misera- 
ble horses, Richard and Salisbury accompany Boling- 
broke to London. Richard is dethroned and con- 
demned to perpetual imprisonment. Bolingbroke as- 
cends the throne under the name of King Henry IV, 
The old Duke of York becomes a firm friend to the 
king; the Duke of Aumerle, son of the Duke of York, 
continuing the firm friend of Richard, notwithstanding 
his deposition, comes to visit the old duke, his father, 
with a paper so carelessly concealed on his person, 
that York, doubting his loyalty to Bolingbroke, seizes 
it, and finds a treasonable plot to restore Richard te 
the throne. The father vows to immediately inform 
the king, but the son himself and his mother intercede 
and obtain the king’s pardon. Richard dies in the 
fortress of Pomfret by the hands of assassins, whose 
leader, Sir Pierce of Exton, without equivocation, asserts 
that he had been induced by Henry IV. to commit the 
murder. This charge is afterwards denied by the king. 
Nevertheless, King Henry resolves, in atonement of the 


while abroad never to have verbal intercourse with | bloody deed, to take a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and 


each other, as he is afraid of their mutual explanations. 
Soon after Bolingbroke’s departure, his father, the 
Duke of Gaunt, dies, and the king perpetrates the 
injustice of confiscating the estate of the deceased 
duke, thus cheating the banished Henry Bolingbroke 
out of his inheritance. Enraged over this undeserved 
robbery, Bolingbroke awaits a good opportunity to re- 
turn to England for the purpose of dethroning King 
Richard. He knew how to ingratiate himself with the 
army and the English people, being either related by 
blood with all the great families, or connected by the 
bonds of friendship with them. Richard meanwhile is 
living in great luxury, surrounded by worthless favor- 
ties, and influenced by them to tyrannize over his people, 


who grow bitterly discontented. Richard having gone | 


with this vow, uttered at the coffin of his predecessor, 
ends the tragedy. 


No doubt one of the motives which induced the 
great poet—a sincere patriot, a lover of his country, 
and a keen observer of the times — to take up the role 
of the historical plays, of which Richard II. is one, 
was to point out the great dangers to the state, and 
to the sovereign, of unworthy favorites. The degen- 
erate son of the Black Prince, the flower of warriors, 
is pictured by Shakespeare as a mere royal sham —a 
king in words only —for act effectively he cannot. 
His nobles quarrel in his very presence; and the con- 
temptible meanness of his nature is shown in his ina- 
bility to take the reproof of the noble, dying Gaunt. 


hii 


% # 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


It is not until his death that we feel any pity for the 
weak and dethroned king. In Bolingbroke, the poet 
has drawn the wily and astute leader, prompt to seize 
and turn to his own advantage the errors of his rivals. 


THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


See Page 316. 


HE author that Shakespeare follows in this histor- 
ical drama is again the chronologist Holinshed. So 
far as the comical scenes with Falstaff and his follow- 
ers go, the play was perhaps already known in 1588 as 
a favorite, though weak and rude popular play, under 
the title of The Humous Victories of Henry the Fifth. 
The tragedy, however, was written in 1597, entered in 
Stationers’ Hall in February 25, 1597, and printed in 
quarto form in the following year. Falstaff furnishes 
the funniest music in this play. 


SCENE. — Entirely in England. 


The first part of the play covers a period of but ten 
months, viz., from the battle of Holmedon, on Septem- 
ber 14, 1402, until that near Shrewsbury, which was 
fought July 21, 1408. After the deposition and death 
of the unfortunate Richard, we find Henry IV.’s atten- 
tion drawn to the invasion of the Scots, who, under 
their heroic leader, Archibald, Earl of Douglas, threaten 
the borders of England, but are defeated and beat- 
en back by the celebrated Henry Percy, surnamed 
Hotspur. The report of this victory has scarcely 
reached the ears of the king, when he, despite all the 
customs and usages of the times, insists upon the de- 
livery of some of the prisoners made by his victorious 
general, Percy, and especially insisted on having the 
body of the gallant Douglas. Enraged at this claim, 
Hotspur liberates all his captured prisoners without a 
ransom, and, in conjunction with his relations and 
followers, plans an insurrection against his new lord, 
whose ascent to the throne they had so recently effected. 
After a treaty with the Scotch and Welsh leaders, the 
insurgents march on Shrewsbury, where the king, 
leading his men in person, advances on them. A de- 
cisive battle ensues, in which Hotspur is slain by the 
hands of Prince Henry, and the insurgents sutfer a 
total defeat, all their leaders being taken captive. 
Worcester and Vernon suffer execution, but Douglas is 
set free without ransom and permitted to return to 
Scotland. The earnest and tragical scenes of the play 
are in bright contrast with the comical parts, and these 
latter are interspersed on the following basis. Henry 
IV. is apprehensive of his son Henry, Prince of Wales, 
because the latter is a young man of remarkable talents ; 
but the suspicion is entirely ill-founded, since the prince 
has never acted in conflict with the duties and love due 
from child to parent. The prince does not feel alto- 
gether at ease at court, and, perhaps for prudential rea- 
sons, seeks to avoid meeting his cold-hearted father. 
Desirous of becoming acquainted with the life and do- 
ings of the peopie, even of the lowest orders, he sur- 
rounds himself with a band of jovial, careless characters, 
who under the lead of their princely leader perpetrate 
the wildest tricks and follies, even going so far as to 
commit criminal acts, The principal scapegrace, both 
as to physical appearance and intellectual calibre in 
this company, is Sir John Falstaff, the most amusingly 


entertaining character that author has ever described. | 


Among the funny scenes, Falstaff, having joined the 
royal army, in a skirmish with Douglas pretends to 
vbeslain. Prince Henry, recognizing his jolly old com- 
panion seemingly among the dead, ludicrously avows 


liv 


his intention to have him embowelled, but is no sooner 
gone than the knight jumps to his feet, and, congratu- 
lating himself on his narrow escape, insures his safety 
by immediate flight. 


In this drama we have the headlong valor of Hot- 
spur, the wonderful wit of Falstaff, the noble rivalry 
of Henry Percy and Henry, Prince of Wales. King- 
doms are striven for; rebels are subdued. Through 
every scene beats the full strong pulse of vigorous man- 
hood and life. The whole play is instinct with action. 
Every character lives, and what magnificent creations 
they are. Hotspur, Glendower, Henry and his son 
Prince Hal,’ Douglas, Poins, Lady Perey, and Mrs. 
Quickly. In comic power, though, Shakespeare culmi- 
nates in Falstaff, and who can say enough of him? He 
is the very incarnation of humor and lies, of wit and 
self-indulgence, of shrewdness and immorality, of self- - 
possession and vice, without a spark of conscience or 
of reverence, without self-respect —an adventurer 
preying on the weaknesses of other men! Yet we 
all enjoy him, and so did Shakespeare himself. Fal- 
staff’s most striking power is seen when that doughty 
knight is cornered. Look at the cases of Poins; of 
Prince Hal’s exposure of his robbery; of his false ac- 
cusation of Mrs. Quickly; his behavior in the fight 
with Douglas, and his claiming to have killed Hotspur. 
His affrontery is inimitable. He is neither a coward 
nor courageous. Like a true soldier of fortune, he only 
asks which will pay best — fighting or running away 
—and acts accordingly. He evidently had a sort of 
reputation as a soldier, and was a professed one, ob- 
taining a commission at the outbreak of the war. 

The power of the barons was at that time too great, 
and turbulence consequently followed. But a strong 
king is now on the throne—no fine sentiments fol- 
lowed by nothingness, no piously weak moralizing 
with him. What Henry has won he will keep, let who 
will say nay. Henry acts generously, for he offers 
peace even to the arch-rebel Worcester, his bitterest 
foe. It is refused, and then having doffed his easy 
robes of peace, and crushed his old limbs in ungentle 
steel, he orders only Worcester and Vernon to execu- 
tion. ‘Other offenders he will pause upon.” His 
real character, his astuteness and foresight, are shown 
in his talk with Harry, when he contrasts himself 
with Richard the Second. No wonder such a king 
regretted the heir he feared to leave behind him, little 
then knowing the stuff his son was made of. This 
son, Prince Hal, Henry of Agincourt, is Shakespeare’s 
hero in English history. See how he draws him by 
the mouth of his enemy Vernon; how modestly he 
makes him challenge Hotspur; how generously treat 
that rival when he dies; gives Douglas his freedom, 
and gives to Falstaff the credit of Hotspur’s death. 
And Hotspur we cannot help liking, with all his hot- 
headedness and petulance. But he believes too much 
in himself, and all must give way to his purposes. 
He is too aggressive. 


THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY TY. 


See Page 339. 


OLINSHED’S Chronicles has also been the source 
from which the poet delineated this second 
part of Henry IV. The time covered by this histor- 
ical drama extends over the last nine years of this 
king’s reign. This part was probably written imme- 
diately after the first part of the play had been finished, 
that is in 1598. It was entered at Stationers’ Hall, 
August 23, 1600. 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


SCENE.— Wholly in England. 


After the death of the ardent and heroic Percy 
{Hotspur), the insurgents lose all energy; and although 
Scroop, Archbishop of York, uses his clerical influence 
for the success of their cause and thus effect an in- 
crease of their numerical strength, yet all the leaders 
of the insurgents, with the exception of Mowbray, are 
more inclined to seek redress for their wrongs by a 
capitulation, than to hazard further their fortunes in 
battle. On the other hand, the leaders of the king’s 
army, Prince John of Lancaster and the Earl of West- 
moreland, do not incline to risk a decisive battle, and 
hence they invite the ringleaders of the insurgents, 
when both armies are confronting each other near 
Gaultree forest, to hold a conference. This leads to a 
compromise, according to which the insurgent vassals, 
by authority of the king, receive the assurance that 
their troubles shall be redressed, and at the same time 
a disbandment of the troops is stipulated for both 
sides. The royal troops, however, receive secret 
orders of a treacherous import, not only to keep to- 
gether, but to pursue the disbanded insurgent army, 
and to annihilate it. This they do, and Archbishop 
Scroop and his fellow-conspirators are without delay 
led off to execution. 

Meantime the king’s strength is failing him, and even 
the news of the destruction of his enemies does not 
tend to restore him. Feeling the approach of death, 
Henry orders the crown to be placed on his pillow. 
Prince Henry, during one of the king’s fainting spells, 
supposing him dead, takes the crown to try it on; but 
the king recovers, and commands the diadem to be re- 
stored to its place, upbraiding the son for his precipi- 
tancy; although the dying king is so well satisfied with 
the innocence of his motives for the action, that he 
fully excuses the prince. The king soon after this in- 
cident died, and the son having succeeded to the 
throne, on his return from his coronation was rudely 
saluted by Falstaff, who presumed on the former vi- 
ciousintimacy. Falstaff, however, was sternly reproved 
by the new monarch and discarded. 


There is a quieter tone pervading this second part: 
it hardly has the freshness and vigor of the first. 
Indeed, it would be difficult to keep up the first im- 
pressions of Falstaff and the impetuous valor of Hot- 
spur. Even Shallow cannot make up for them. The 
king leads, not at the head of his army, but in his quiet 
progress to the grave. The most striking speech in 
the play is that of Henry the Fourth’s on sleep. The 
lower rank of the people come more to the front in 
this play; and we have more prominence given than 
before to the low tavern life and the country squire 
and his servants. Though the hand of sickness is on 
the king, yet ‘‘ Ready, aye ready,” is still his word; and 
as soon as Hotspur is beaten, another army marches 
against Northumberland and the archbishop, whose 
two separate rebellions Shakespeare has put into one. 
How strong is the wish of the old king for the re- 
demption of his son, Prince Hal, from the slough in 
which he is wallowing. And in the king’s last speech 
to his gallant heir we see the man’s whole nature — wily 
to win, strong to hold, a purpose in all he did. For 
Prince Hal we have one unworthy scene, two credit- 
able ones. The shadow of his father’s death-sickness is 
on him, and he goes in half self-disgust to his old, loose 
companions; but there is not much enjoyment in his 
forced mirth; he feels ashamed of himself, and soon 
leaves Falstaif and his old life forever. He now deeply 
feels the degradation of being Falstaff’s friend. On 
hearing of the war again, the prince changes at a 


D 


touch and is himself. The next time we see him in 
his true self is at his father’s sick bed, where again he 
wins to him his father’s heart. When Prince Hal be- 
comes king, his treatment of his brothers, the Chief 
Justice, and Falstaff, is surely wise and right in all 
three cases. One does feel, though, for Falstaff; but 
certainly what he ought to have had, he got —the 
chance of reformation. What other reception could 
Henry, in the midst of his new state, give in public to 
the slovenly and debauched old rascal who thrust him- 
self upon him, than the rebuke he so well administered. 
In the second part, Falstaff has his old wit and humor, 
and his slipperiness when caught; but we have him 
now as more of the sharper, the cheat, and the preyer 
on others. The scenes with Shallow and Silence, and 
the choice of soldiers, are beyond all praise. We can- 
not help noting the use the old rascal intended to 
make of his power over the young king. Justice now 
overtakes the rogues. Falstaff dies in obscurity and 
poverty; Nym and Bardolph are hung in France; 
Pistol is stripped of his braggart honor. Poins alone, 
the best of the set, vanishes silently, so that the whole 
wild set breaks up and disappears, leaving the world 
to laugh over them and their leader forever. 


THE LIFE OF KING HENRY YV. 
See Page 364. 


N the writings of the chronologist Holinshed this 
drama is also founded. Shakespeare truthfully 
celebrates this, his favorite hero, as the ideal king and 
warrior; and history itself grants to the master of dra- 
matic art that in this opinion he is entirely justified. 
The year of the composition of this history is alluded to 
in the prologue to Act V. of the play, viz., 1599. One 
cannot mention the year without the thought of that 
great contemporary of Shakespeare, Edmund Spenser, 
burnt out of the Irish house he has lovingly described, 
losing there one of his children, and dying miserably in 
a tavern in King Street, Westminster, on January 13, 
1598, leaving behind him these last lines of his unfin- 
ished Faerie Queene asthe subject of his last thoughts, 
as his last prayer on earth : — 
“For all that moveth doth in Change delight: 
But thenceforth, all shall rest eternally 
With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight, 


O! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabaoth’s sight!” 
Book VII., Canto V1iII., stanza ii. 


One likes to think of the two poets knowing, hon- 
oring, and loving one another, of Shakespeare’s follow- 
ing Spenser to his grave in the Abbey, near Chaucer. 
There is manifest allusion to the different parts of mu- 
sic in the first act. 


SCENE. —In England and France. 


The incidents represented in this drama reach from 
the first year of Henry V.’s ascension to the throne to 
his marriage with Katharine, and are spread over a pe- 
riod of six years. Henry had scarcely come into pos- 
session of the English crown, when he prepared ways 
and means to carry out and fulfil his dying father’s in- 
junctions, and by conquests abroad seeks to obliterate 
the stain which tarnishes his title to the crown on ac- 
count of his father’s usurpation. In pursuance of this 
plan, he renews an old and outlawed claim to the 
crown of France, and, for the purpose of enforcing his 
right, makes preparation by gathering and equipping a 
large army. The French court, intimidated by such 
a claim and warlike demonstration, basely attempted 
the capture and assassination of the English monarch 


lv 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


through bribing three powerful noblemen who are in- 
timately connected with Henry. This plot is discov- 
ered, and the conspirators are executed. Henry, hav- 
ing invaded France on her breach of treaty, marches 
with his troops to Harfleur, summoning that city by 
herald to surrender, but being answered with contempt 
and defiance, he determines to take the town by storm, 
in which he succeeds. Afterwards, at the great battle 
of Agincourt, King Henry encounters the French army, 
which outnumbered him six to one, and gains a splen- 
did victory, which breaks the power of the French, al- 
though the culmination was not really reached until 
the capture of Rouen, Jan. 16,1419. The King of 
France is now compelled to yield to the severe condi- 
tions which the victor imposes, namely, to acknowl- 
edge Henry as heir to the French crown, and to give 
him his daughter, the Princess Katharine, for his wife. 
In this play Sir John Falstaff does not appear in action, 
but, according to Mrs. Quickly’s description, meets a 
quiet and gentle death, after a prolonged illness. 


There is but brief play of the tender passion in this 
drama, which is fairly resonant with the clash of con- 
tending armies, of fierce alarums, wounds, and death. 
There are some exceedingly fine scenes, as, mark the 
touching picture of the dying York and Suffolk, and 
the humility with which King Henry after the battle 
of Agincourt, on bended knees, ascribes the credit of 
the victory alone to God. 

Henry is the true warrior ; Shakespeare’s ideal king, 
evidently. See the good humor and self control with 
which the king receives the dauphin’s insolent mes- 
sage (sting him though it does), and his strong resolve 
to win or die; and see the devotion of all his thoughts 
and energies to carry out this resolve. See how he 
convicts traitors out of their own mouths, and sends 
them to death, not for his personal wrong, but for 
seeking England’s ruin. Note Henry as the soldier; 
the splendid patriotism and rhetoric of his speeches 
drives the warm blood to our cheeks as we read. How 
humble he is when victory is his, and how well he 
merits it by his foresight, skill, and valor. As a lover, 
the character of the king comes out well — no grand 
words, no pretence, but just a plain, blunt soldier, with 
a good heart. We can hardly realize that such a man 
was the father of that miserably weak creature, Henry 
the Sixth. 


THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


See Page 389. 


ens in producing this work, was per- 
haps indebted only to the Holinshed Chronicles, 
which, however, was handled with poetical freedom, 
without binding himself to dates regarding the histori- 
eal facts. It was written in 1597, as Malone informs 
us, but according to Chalmers in 1593. The play is 
ushered in with solemn music. 


SCENE.— Partly in England and France. 


The drama opens with the scene of Henry V.’s 
body lying in state previous to being solemnly buried 
at Westminster. The crown of England has scarcely 
been transferred from the head of the conqueror of 
France to that of his son, yet a tender child, when the 
French, animated by the spirited courage and valor of 
the maid Joan of Are, seize the favorable opportunity 
to reconquer their old possessions and to take the | 
oath of allegiance to Charles, their hereditary prince. | 


lvi 


Meantime, the quarrels of the dukes of York and 
Somerset, disputing the claims of the rival houses of 
York and Lancaster, appeal to Warwick, Suffolk, and 
their followers, then present, in confirmation of their 
respective claims. The lords thus appealed to de- 
clining to answer, Plantagenet, Duke of York, bids 
those who agree with him to approve it by plucking a 
white rose. Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, adopts for 
the same purpose, as his emblem, the red rose, that the 
partisans of each might be known. These troubles 
form the embryo of that interminable series of fierce 
internecine wars which shortly thereafter drenched the 
kingdom in blood. The heroic Talbot, Earl of Shrews- 
bury, and his son, John Talbot, near Bordeaux, with 
their little army of soldiers, were by the united armies 
of the encmy overpowered and sacrificed to the per- 
sonal jealousies of the English nobility, who failed to 
send reinforcements. The extraordinary success which 
attended the French armies under Joan of Are, sur- 


| named the Pucelle, in raising the siege of Orleans and 


everywhere repulsing the English, made the latter 
attribute her victories to magic. On being captured 
by the English under the Duke of York, she was, with 
a cruelty that marked the ferocity of the age, burned 
as a witch. Meantime, King Henry VI. is induced, by 
the artful suggestions of the Earl of Suffolk, to ask 
for the hand of Margaret, daughter of Reignier, Duke 
of Anjou. An alliance is formed quickly with her 
father, and the duke is sent to France to accompany 
the princess to England. With the consummation of 
this fatal marriage for England concludes the drama. 


In the play of Henry the Sixth, Shakespeare deals in 
three parts with a weak king, Henry the Sixth; in one 
part with a strong king, Richard the Third. The sub- 
ject is a splendid one for the dramatist. On the one 
side is the narrative of individual love; on the other, 
the overthrow of a kingdom and a throne. The love 
of Guinevere and Lancelot of old is reproduced in 
the guilty love of Margaret and Suffolk, leading to the 
bloody wars of York and Lancaster, which filled Eng- 
land with civil war and lost her the realm of France. 
The fair Margaret was turned by ambition into ‘the 
she-wolf of France.” Her pride was so overweening, 
that it caused her to level the noble Humphrey, the sole 
support of her husband’s throne, and thus makes room 
for all the angry turmoils of the nobles and the de- 
signs of the bad and crafty Gloucester to work their 
way. 

And then the ruined queen, bereft of husband, love, 
child, throne, has nothing left to console her, but 
waits grimly for the overthrow of her enemies, chuck- 
ling over the villanies of Richard and the storm that 
is gathering to overwhelm him at Bosworth Field. 
The characters of the far-seeing Exeter, the noble 
Talbot, that splendid soldier, the gallant Salisbury and 
the generous Bedford, stand out among a host of trai- 
tors, or worse, that figure on the scene. The cruelty 
of the English and the indifference of the French to 
that splendid woman, Joan of Are, appear in bold 
and sad relief. There is noble material for tragic po- 
etry here. On the side of Lancaster the chief personal 
force lies in Queen Margaret. The great Duke of 
York dies, but his place is filled by the portentous fig- 
ure of Gloucester, so terrible by his energy, his disre- 
gard of moral restraint, and his remorseless hatred to 
all who are opposed to him. Henry VI. is the feeblest 
of Shakespeare’s English kings. Possessed of that 
negative kind of saintliness which shuns evil, but 
shunning courageous effort also, he becomes the cause 
or occasion of almost as much evil as if he were ac- 
tively criminal. 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


See Page 410, 
SCENE.—In various parts of England. 


HE second part of this tragedy, considered by 
itself, comprises the period intervening between 
the marriage of the king to Margaret and the first 
battle of the St. Alban’s, covering a period of ten 
years. Scarcely have the nuptial ceremonies between 
King Henry and Margaret of Anjou been celebrated, 
when the new queen develops a plan to obtain un- 
limited control over her husband, and by the aid of 
several powerful nobles, especially by that of her lover 
Suffolk and of Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winches- 
ter, to force the Duke of Gloucester from his position 
of Regent. Their first attack is aimed at the wife of 
Gloucester, the ambitious Eleanor Cobham, who is 
accused of witchcraft, sentenced to recant in public 
and to endure an imprisonment for life. Immediately 
upon this, the virtuous Duke of Gloucester himself is 
taken in custody, and charged with high treason. All 
this is done against the will and desire of the king, 
who entertains no suspicion against the Regent, whose 
accusers, becoming aware that their evidence of guilt is 
insufficient, cause the Regent’s assassination, and on 
the day set for his trial he is found dead in his bed. 
The Duke of Suffolk is accused by the popular voice 
of having murdered the Regent, which obliges the 
king to send Suffolk into banishment. He was after- 
wards taken at sea by pirates, and in a little cockboat 
beheaded. Meantime, Salisbury and Warwick, who, 
from the first dispute in the Temple-garden, became 
convinced of Plantagenet’s claim to the crown, having 
had first removed from him the ‘attaint of blood,” and 
reinstated in the dukedom of York, now salute him 
as king. The scene of the terrible end of Cardinal 
Beaufort, uncle to Henry VL. is graphically delineated 
in the third act. -A prey to the keenest rémorse, the 
wretched prelate is represented on his death-bed. 
The king, with his nobles, pay him a visit; but the 
cardinal, disregarding all, raves incoherently about his 
crimes. At the moment of his death, the king de- 
mands a sign of his hope; but instead of giving it, he 
grins, gnashes his teeth, and expires, leaving Henry 
horror-struck. Meantime, the government of Ireland 
is intrusted to the Duke of York, who, before his 
departure, in order to test the feelings of the popu- 
lace, induces an Irishman, a bold commoner, named 
Cade, to announce himself as a descendant of Edmund 
Mortimer, and to aspire to the latter’s pretensions to 
the crown. 


THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


See Page 434. 


SCENE.—During part of the Third Act in 
France; during the rest of the play in Eng- 
land. 


anise play begins with the Duke of York’s trium- 
phant entrance into the city of London, where he 
wrests from the weak Henry an acknowledgment of 
his inherited right to the throne, and between them 
the agreement is consummated that the duke, as Re- 
gent, shall rule over England with the fullest sway, 
while Henry VI. shall, during his lifetime, remain in 
undisturbed possession of the throne and royal digni- 
ties. The opposing factions, however, soon cause a 
breach of this contract. The Duke of York, defeated 
in a battle near Wakefield, in Yorkshire, and captured, 


— 


is cruelly treated by the revengeful Queen Margaret, 
who places a paper crown upon his head and taunts 
him, and while offering a handkerchief dipped in the 
blood of his recently murdered son, asks the duke to 
dry his tears with it. Soon after this scene the Duke 
of York is murdered. The powerful assistance ren- 
dered by the Earl of Warwick, surnamed the ‘ King- 
Maker,” now gives the vanquished hosts of York 
strength to turn the tide of war and to defeat their 
adversaries near Towton, in Yorkshire, and Duke 
Edward is raised to the throne. King Henry flees to 
Scotland, but is afterwards captured and placed in the 
Tower. Queen Margaret and her son go to Paris to 
obtain possible aid from the King of France, whose 
willingness to aid them is much weakened by the 
presence of Warwick. The latter had received from 
his liege lord orders to sue for the hand of the 
Princess Bona, King Lewis’s sister. Suddenly a mes- 
senger arrives from England, bearing the news of 
Edward’s marriage to the beautiful widow, Lady Eliza- 
beth Grey. Enraged at this insult, Warwick concludes 
a treaty with Margaret and Lewis, and dethrones Ed- 
ward, who escapes to Burgundy. Here he obtains 
troops, which enable him soon to effect a landing at 
Ravenspurgh. The people of England flock to the 
standard of King Edward,—who, from his social and 
kindly manners, has always been a favorite with the 
populace,— and look upon Warwick and his allies as 
favoring the cause of the nobles. The city of London, 
too, espouses the side of Edward, and furnishes men 
to swell his constantly increasing army. Finally, in 
the decisive battle of Barnet, Warwick suffers com- 
plete defeat, and dies on the field. Prince Edward and 
his mother, Queen Margaret, being taken prisoners in 
the still more conclusive battle of Tewksbury, where 
the remnant of the Lancasterian power is really anni- 
hilated, are brought before the victorious Edward, 
who roughly charges the prince with rebellion, but is 
so forcibly answered by the royal youth, that Glouces- 
ter, Clarence, and their followers assassinate the prince 
almost in the king’s presence. The imprisoned king, 
Henry VL., is afterwards murdered in the Tower by 
the duke, Richard of Gloucester (afterwards Richard 
III.). With an expression of Gloucester’s intended 
villany upon the offspring of Edward, and the banish- 
ment of Queen Margaret by Edward LYV., the tragedy 
is concluded. 


THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD IIL, 


See Page 458. 


IZOSE deep mines of historical wealth, the Chron- 

icles of Hall and Holinshed, furnished Shake- 
speare with the data for this play, which was entered 
at Stationers’ Hall, by Andrew Wise, October 20, 1597, 
and published in a quarto volume the same year, 
though it was probably written in 1593. The length 
of time comprised in this drama is about fourteen 
years, covering the last eight years of King Richard’s 
life — beginning with Clarence’s imprisonment, 1477, 
and ending with Richard’s death at Bosworth Field, 
1485. 


SCENE. — England. 


The threatened extinction of the house of Lancas- 
ter, as well as the failing health of King Edward, 
impel the ambitious Richard, Duke of Gloucester, to 
begin his struggle for the throne by thrusting aside 
the Duke of Clarence, his older brother, whom he 
causes to be murdered in the Tower. King Edward 
died soon after this event, after having seemingly 


lvii 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


ws ~ 


reconciled his blood-relations and followers with the 
brothers and cousins of his wife, the Queen Elizabeth, 
and having appointed his only living brother, Richard, 
Duke of York, as guardian over his minor children, 
first conferring on him, during the minority of the 
Prince of Wales, the office of Protector and Regent. 
Richard, however, upon the death of his royal brother, 
immediately takes the two young sons of Edward — 
the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York — away 
from the control of the relations on their mother’s 
side, Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan, and has these un- 
happy noblemen, under the charge of high treason, 
executed. A like fate meets Lord Hastings, whom, 
having proved himself utterly averse to Gloucester’s 
plans of usurpation, he denounces as guilty of trea- 
son and sorcery at the Council table, and procures an 
immediate condemnation and execution. Through 
the powerful assistance and connivance of the Duke of 
Buckingham, who insidiously spreads a report of the 
illegitimate birth of the late King Edward, as well as 
of his two sons, Richard succeeds in having the crown 
formally offered to him, which offer he accepts, and 
with hypocritical reluctance. The sons of Edward, 
having been placed in the Tower, are, soon after the 
coronation of Richard, and by his order, murdered by 
his creatures, Deighton and Forrest, who execute 
their cruel task at midnight by suffocating the royal 
boys. 

The king’s next crime was the poisoning of his wife, 
so that he might be free to marry the oldest daughter 
of his brother Edward, Princess Elizabeth. Bucking- 
ham having opposed the murder of the sons of Ed- 
ward, soon becomes a thorn in Richard’s side, and he 
punishes that nobleman by a refusal to fulfil the 
promises that had been made him prior to Richard’s 
ascending to the English throne. This duplicity on 
the part of the king causes Buckingham’s defection, 
for which he is arrested and at last executed. 

Richard III. is interrupted in his schemes of vio- 
lence and murder. Henry, Duke of Richmond, lands 
with a large army near Milford-haven, and is march- 
ing towards London, when on the way thither he 
meets the army of Richard, who meets the death 
of a warrior in the battle of Bosworth Field. The 
crown now comes to the victor, who rules under the 
name of Henry VII., and by his marriage to Eliza- 
beth, daughter of Edward IV., unites in firm and 
enduring amity the houses of York and Lancaster, and 
thus forever settles the fierce quarrels and bloody con- 
flicts between the rival races of the White and of the 
Red Rose. 


It may be here stated that the ancestors of Shake- 
speare are said to have fought at the battle of Bos- 
worth Field, and derived their warlike name from 
military services rendered to the cause of Richmond 
in that famous action. 

Shakespeare has most powerfully depicted the con- 
tending motives and feelings in the character of Rich- 
ard III. His depressing and insulting his victims with 
the zest of grim humor, and his delight in gulling fools 
and in his own villany, are admirably and frequently 
brought out. Villain as he is, he has the villain’s 
coolness, too. He never loses temper, except when he 
strikes the third messenger. Richard is a skilful gen- 
eral, looking to things himself, and prompt to take 
proper measures. He dies a soldier’s death, and in 
the last and effective battle-scene, where, unhorsed, he 
so gallantly fights on, we almost admire him. The 
action of the play covers fourteen years—from Henry 
VI.’s murder, May 21, 1471, to Richard III.’s death, 
August 22, 1485. 

lyili 


THE LIFE OF KING HENRY VIIi. 


See Page 486. 


OT published until 1648, when it appeared in 

folio form. It is the Epilogue to the historical 

cycle of the bard’s dramas, and was probably written 
in 1601. 


SCENE.—Chiefly in London and Westmin- 
ster; once at Kimbolton. 


This historical drama comprises a period of twelve 
years, commencing in the twelfth year of King Henry’s 
reign (1521), and ending with the christening of Eliza- 
beth in 1533. The Duke of Buckingham (son of the 
sane duke who had been executed by order of the 
tyrant, Richard III.) becomes unfortunately entangled 
in personal disputes with Cardinal Wolsey, who, under 
the reign of Henry VIL. had obtained great influence 
and power, and now finds means and ways to bribe 
several intimate attendants of his rival, and thus to 
convict the duke of treason. Soon after this, Henry 
meets, at a grand masquerade given by Wolsey, Lady 
Anne Bullen, and, struck with her beauty, imme- 
diately singled her out from all the ladies present, 
and falls violently in love with her. Anne Bullen’s 
charms enhance the scruples he had long pretended 
to feel as to the legality of his marriage to Queen 
Katharine, his deceased brother’s widow. Cardinal 
Wolsey fears the connection of his monarch with an 
Englishwoman, who is suspected, moreover, to favor 
the doctrines of the Reformation; considering this 
affair also as prejudicial to his own dignity and that 
of the Pope, he sends a message to the Pope, to whom 
(Jueen Katharine had appealed, to delay the decree of 
divorce. This letter, and a statement of the immense 
possessions and wealth of the Cardinal, by a singular 
mistake, fall into the hands of the king, who, enraged 
at this treachery, immediately divests Wolsey of all 
his worldly pomp and offices, and the fallen favorite is 
only saved from being found guilty of treason by his 
sudden death. The new queen, Anne Bullen, is now 
crowned with great state and ceremony, while Queen 
Katharine dies heart-broken at her divorce from the 
king. Meantime, a conspiracy is planned against 
Archbishop Cranmer, to whom the king is indebted 
for the ecclesiastical consent to the divorce. Cran- 
mer meets his royal master, to whom he had been ac- 
cused by enemies who had been eagerly plotting his 
destruction for favoring the doctrines of the Reforma- 
tion. The prelate, glad of the opportunity, kneels, 
pleads his cause, and so well satisfies the king of his 
innocence, that he raises him, and restores him to more 
than his former share of favor. The play closes with 
the ceremony of christening Princess Elizabeth, the 
afterwards famed Queen Elizabeth of England. 


Written, as this play was, at a period treading close 
upon Shakespeare’s life, —in the reign of the great, 
but at times irascible daughter of Henry VIIi., Queen 
Elizabeth,— we can well understand how Shakespeare 
was obliged to temporize and sacrifice the opinions 
and unities largely to policy. The strongest sympa- 
thies which have been awakened in us by the play 
run opposite to the course of its action. Our sym- 
pathy is for the grief and goodness of Queen Katha- 
rine, while the course of the actor requires us to enter- 
tain, as a theme of joy and compensatory satisfaction, 
the coronation of Anne Bullen, and the birth of her 
daughter, which are in fact a part of Katharine’s in- 
jury, and would seem to amount to little less than the 


triumph of the wrong. This defect mars the effect of 
the play as a whole. The scenes in the gallery and 
council-chamber are full of life and vigor, and are, 
besides, picturesque and historical. 
between Gardiner and Cranmer. 
drawn with superb power. Ambition, fraud, and vin- 
dictiveness have made him their own, yet cannot 
quite ruin a nature possessed of noble qualities. In 
the fate of Cardinal Wolsey our second interest cen- 
tres; and his soliloquy upon his downfall from power 
is among the finest the poet ever wrote. The open- 
ing of the play—the conversation between Bucking- 
ham, Norfolk, and Abergavenny — has the full stamp 
of Shakespeare’s genius upon it, and is full of life, 
reality, and freshness. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


See Page 510. 


TRAGIC comedy, founded on Chaucer’s ‘‘ Epos 

Troilus and Creseide.” The play was written in 
1602, and entered in Stationers’ Hall, February 3, 
1603, but not printed till 1609. 


SCHENE.— Troy, and the camp of the Greeks 
in front of that city. 


Calchas, a Trojan priest, treacherously leaving the 
cause of his country, is taking part with the Greeks, to 
whom he becomes of great service. As a reward for 
these services, he demands the exchange of an eminent 
Trojan, named Antenor, for his daughter Cressida, who 
lives under the protection of her uncle Pandarus, in 
Troy, where her beauty and charms have made a deep 
impression on the heart of Prince Troilus, a son of 
Priam the king, Cressida has already accepted the 
suit of her lover, and was betrothed to him, when her 
happiness is interrupted by the arrival of Diomedes, 
who is ordered by her father to have her exchanged, 
and brought back to him. The lovers, on parting, 
swear eternal fidelity, and Troilus soon finds an oppor- 
tunity to reach the camp of the Greeks. Here he 
learns the sad news of the unfaithfulness of his be- 
trothed, who had already transferred her love to Dio- 
medes, and convinces himself, by obvious proof, of her 
defection. Meantime, Andromache and Cassandra, 
the wife and sister of Hector, alarmed at the prognos- 
tics they have had of his fate, write, entreating him 
not to go to battle, Andromache making his infant 
join in their prayers to dissuade him. But affirming 
his vow to the gods, his honor, and his fame, he 
resists, rushes to combat, and ‘is slain by Achilles. 
Troilus now vows to avenge the death of his brother 
Hector on the Greeks, and by such vengeance to stifle 
his grief. With a terrible curse against the pandering 
Pandarus, the drama is concluded. 


This is the most paradoxical and variously inter- 
preted of all the dramas of Shakespeare. This heroic 
comedy, tragic-comedy, or parody, as some have 
termed it, is not merely written as a pleasant satire 
on ancient knighthood and heroism, but is perchance 
wrought out to serve a counterpart to Falstaffianism, 
with the intent of quieting or soothing the noble he- 
roes of the 16th century with the dubious consolation 
that knighthood among the ancients was of no finer 
quality. The principal idea is rather intended to show 
the deeply founded and effective contrast existing be- 
tween the spiritual and intellectual formation of the 
ancient Greeks, as compared with the modern aim of 


Note that scene | 
° * | 
Cardinal Wolsey is 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


Christianity. The play points to the fact that the Trojan 


war — as extolled by Homer—in so far as its real issue 
was concerned, turned simply upon the recapturing of 
an adulterous woman who had eloped with her para- 
mour, and whose immoral conduct can by no means be 
excused on account of Paris’s ideal beauty. In this play 
the moral is rendered prominent, that the kidnapping 
of Helen did not deserve the great Greek war of re- 
taliation, since the honor of the people had not been 
more impugned by the action of Paris than by that 
of Helen. Thus the play causes the moral conviction 
of the reader to revolt against such an aim, and this 
effect of the drama becomes the lasting impression. 
The love-story of the faithful Troilus, and the false 
and lustful Cressida, which gives its name to the play 
(albeit it is not its real turning-point), serves only as 
a modified repetition of the history of Menelaus and 
his faithless spouse, Helen, and hence presents as all 
the more conspicuously glaring the crime that led to the 
famed Trojan war. 


CORIOLANUS. 


See Page 536. 


HAKESPEARE derived his material from Plutarch’s 
“Life of Coriolanus,” which he read in North’s 
translation. This tragedy was neither entered at Sta 
tioners’ Hall nor printed till 1623, but probably writ- 
ten in 1609 or 1610. 


| SCENE.—In the city of Rome and the ter- 


ritories of the Volscians. 


Caius Marcius, a scion of one of the oldest and 
noblest families of Rome, who, after his father’s early 
death, is educated by his mother, Volumnia, had 
already while a youth shown his valor as a warrior 
in the battles against banished Tarquin. Every war 
brought him fresh public acknowledgments of his 
merit and honor. Thus he had attained great dignity 
and renown, when a dispute between the senate and 
the people occurred, caused by the severe oppressions 
of the patricians and wealthy citizens, which the senate 
sustained. Owing to the humorous eloquence of 
Menenius Agrippa, however, the people were quieted, 
after granting them five tribunes and representatives 
in the senate-chamber. The people are now willing 
to serve as soldiers, a duty they had hitherto refused. 
But the patricians are at first discontented with the 
innovation, which is especially very violently opposed 
by Marcius. A war with the Volscians gives him 
occasion to renew his valorous deeds. The general, 
Cominius, who praises the greatness of his military 
exploits before the soidiers, gives him the name Corio- 
Janus, for the victories he attained near Caroli. Soon 
after this occurrence, he is a candidate for the Consu- 
late, but, against all precedent, he imprudently, in a 
speech, derides the people, and they withdraw their 
votes from him. Highly incensed at this defection, he 
assails the populace in an oration before the senate, 
demanding the abolishment of the tribunal. The 
people, embittered and enraged at this, threaten to 
throw him from the Tarpein rock, but he is rescued 
by the patricians. Failing to conciliate the plebeian 
faction, he is banished from Rome, and, burning with 
rage, vows the destruction of the city. He joins the 
Volscian forces, and by their prince, Aufidius, is made 
commander-in-chief of their army, then about to be 
Jed against his own countrymen. His mother, urged 
by the imperilled Romans, is prevailed upon to go with 
her kinsmen to the camp of the Volscians, to pacify, 


lix 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


> 


if possible, her son. Listening to her entreaties, Co- 
riolanus resolves to retreat, and thus Rome is spared. 
But the Volscians, fired by Tullus, are now displeased 
with Coriolanus, and call him to account for his action. 
He is about to defend himself in public, when Tullus, 
fearing the impression of his eloquence, under the 
tumult of his followers, assassinates him. His corpse 
is buried by the Volscians with all the honors due his 
noble memory. — 


Coriolanus is among the finest of the group of 
Shakespeare’s Roman plays. The hero lived in the 
early days of Rome, in those pure, old, austere times 
when the great city had driven Tarquin from his lust- 
ful throne; for it was against that monarch that Co- 
riolanus had won his first garland of oak by over- 
whelmingly defeating him. How nobly the pure white 
figure of Volumnia rises, clad in all the virtues that 
made the noble Roman lady. See how she over- 
comes her mother’s righteous indignation against her 
townsmen’s injustice to her gallant son; and how with 
happy victory won she returns to Rome to give the 
proud city its life! 

Coriolanus is in many respects a noble character 
and among the “flower of warriors; ”’ but his pride is 
overweening, and that flaws and ruins the jewel of his 
renown. ‘Treated with ingratitude, base and outra- 
geous though in his case it was, he cannot put his 
country above himself. His grip is on her throat, when 
his wife, Virgilia, stirs his mother to appeal to him, and 
in that scene in the Volscian camp, Coriolanus, who 
has thought himself above nature, cannot resist their 
appeals. His wife, mother, and boy prevail. Corio- 
lanus is himself again, and takes death, as he should, 
at the hands of his country’s foes. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 
See Page 564. 


fe play is the tragedy represented by human 

depravity in its most vindictive form —a thirst 
for revenge. Whence the poet gleaned the material 
for this play has not been accurately ascertained. 
It was one of his first attempts at a drama, and was 
written as early as 1587, though some say 1589, when 
Shakespeare was scarcely twenty-five years of age. A 
great many editors and critics have supposed the play 
spurious, for the color of style is wholly different from 
that of Shakespeare’s other plays, but nevertheless the 
evidence is now strong in favor of its genuineness. 


SCENE.—Rome and the adjoining country. 


Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman general, victorious 
in the war against the Goths, returns, crowned with 
honors, to Rome, bringing back with him, as captives, 
Tamora, the queen of the Goths, with her sons, Alar- 
bus, Chiron, and Demetrius. Of his own twenty-four 
sons, but four were left to him; the rest suffered death 
for their country on the battle-field. Through An- 
dronicus’s valor, Saturninus is raised to the vacant 
throne of the Empire. The emperor marries the cap- 
tured queen of the Goths, and is by her goaded to 
bloody deeds of revenge against Titus, who had 
ordered the slaying of her son Alarbus as a sacrifice 
for the fallen sons of Rome. Tamora now instigates 
her wicked sons, Demetrius and Chiron, to murder 
Bassianus, brother to the emperor and husband of 
Lavinia, daughter of Titus Andronicus, whose dead 
body they remove; and still further urged on to dia- 
bolical deeds by Aaron, a Moor (who is beloved by 


Ix 


qo wq_w_we “qq —,€,eOOroroOr ssa 


Tamora), they deprive Lavinia of her chastity, cut off 
her tongue and both her hands. Thus mangled, the 
widowed Lavinia alarms her young nephew by follow- 
ing him and being unable to speak. The miscreants 
themselves report the cruel deed to the emperor, and 
charge two sons of Titus with the crime of having 
murdered Lavinia’s husband. Titus, in the anxiety to 
save his sons, is insidiously advised by Aaron to cut 
off his own hand, which he sends as an expiatory sac- 
rifice to the emperor. The latter returns his hand, 
accompanied by the heads of his already executed 
sons. The great afflictions suffered by Titus weaken 
his reason. By means of a staff held in the stump of 
her arm, Lavinia writes the names of the murderers 
of her husband in the sand, and causes thus the form- 
ing of a plan of revenge between her father, her . 
uncle Marcus, and her now only brother, Lucius. 
Meantime, the empress bears a child. This illegal 
issue of the Moor, Aaron, by the empress, is, to avoid 
detection by her husband, the emperor, sent by its 
mother to be murdered. Demetrius and Chiron, the 
ready instruments of her crime, profess immediate 
compliance, and draw their weapons to dispatch it, 
but Aaron snatches his infant from its nurse, and 
vows vengeance to any one that touches it. To further 
conceal the foul deed, the Moor kills the nurse, and 
hastens with his child to the Goths. This same 
course is taken by Lucius, who now, like a second 
Coriolanus, advances against Rome at the head of a 
Gothic army. Dire punishment overtakes Saturninus 
and Tamora, who are slain; the latter had, however, 
before her execution, a thyesteic meal set before her — 
that is, the flesh of her own slain sons were served up 
for the repast. Aaron is buried alive; Titus (a second 
Virginius) stabs his own outraged daughter, and is 
himself slain by the hands of Saturninus. Lucius, the 
son, and Marcus, the brother of Titus Andronicus, 
press a kiss of love upon the pale lips of the mur- 
dered hero. Lucius, the favorite of the people, is 
proclaimed Emperor of Rome, and rules wisely and 
well the lately terribly disturbed empire. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 
See Page 584. 


NE of the earlier productions of our poet, and one 
of the most celebrated of his dramas, this play 
appeared first in print in 1597, and had, up to the year 
1609, been published in four editions, each issue with 
improvements and additions. It was written, without 
doubt, in 1592. 


SCENE.—For the greater portion of the 
play, in Verona; in the Fifth Act, once at 
Mantua. 


Between two patrician houses of Verona, the Capu- 
lets and Montagues, existed from time immemorial a 
deadly feud. The family of Montague had an only 
son, named Romeo; that of Capulet but one daughter, 
named Juliet. Romeo’s outward demeanor and edu- 
cation were the model of noble manhood, while Juliet’s 
form and features were in unison with the purity of 
her mind, the ideal of noble womanhood. They did 
not know each other, when it happened that the old 
Capulet prepared a festival for his friends, and Romeo, 
the young heir of the Montagues, introduces himself, 
disguised, with some gay friends, his cousins Benvolio 
and Mercutio, who are also in disguise, to this grand 
entertainment of their enemies. Here obtaining a 
sight of Juliet, Romeo falls at once in love with her. 


THRE, PLOTS 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


An interesting dialogue takes place between the lovers, 
which is interrupted by Juliet’s nurse. Tybalt, a fiery 
kinsman of Juliet’s, having discovered Romeo, vows 
revenge on the intruder. The interview, however, 
has succeeded in producing the most ardent passion 
between Romeo and Juliet, and the latter endeavors to 
secure the interest of her nurse, of whom she makes 
eager inquiries about her lover, but is tantalized by 
the nurse with the most provoking garrulity. The 
mutual impression the lovers have, is so ardent that 
already, on the following day, a secret marriage is the 
consequence, at which Friar Laurence, confessor of the 
two, is induced to officiate, because he hopes that by 
this marriage, sooner or later, a reconciliation between 
the two rival houses may be effected. Immediately 
after this ceremony, a duel is provoked by Tybalt, the 
fierce cousin of Juliet, with Mercutio, the gallant kins- 
man of Romeo. Mercutio is slain; and Romeo, who 
had endeavored to prevent this duel, allows himself, 
by his momentary passion, to be drawn into a conflict 
with Tybalt, in which he kills the latter. A tumult 
ensues, the heads of the Capulets and Montagues, with 
the prince, arrive at the scene, and the latter, not fully 
aware of the provocation, orders the banishment of 
Romeo. Romeo having ascended to Juliet’s chamber 
window, holds a stolen interview, and swearing eternal 
constancy, prepares to depart by the way he came. 
During this scene between the lovers, the nurse calls 
Juliet, who alternately answers her, and tenderly takes 
leave of her lover. Romeo, by the advice of the good 
Friar Laurence, hies to Mantua. Juliet, inconsolable 
over this separation, weeps bitterly. Her parents think 
that the death of her cousin Tybalt is the cause of her 
tears, and resolve to marry her to the kinsman of the 
prince, Count Paris, who now sues for her hand. 
Juliet, to avoid marrying Count Paris, and to preserve 
her faithfulness to Romeo, swallows an opiate fur- 
nished her by Friar Laurence, the effect of which is to 
produce the temporary semblance of death, and is 
found by her nurse and others in this trance on the 
morning of the intended nuptials. Universal grief 
follows, and Friar Laurence, with a view to moderate 
it, and to prove his friendship for Romeo, recommends 
the immediate interment of Juliet’s body. Meantime, 
the messenger sent by Friar Laurence is not admitted, 
because he had tarried in a pest-house, and returns 
home without seeing Romeo, while Balthasar, Romeo’s 
servant, although enabled to communicate with his 
master, only informs him of Juliet’s death and burial, 
not being aware of the rest. Romeo, in his despair, 
procures a deadly poison, returns to Verona, where he 
visits Juliet’s tomb at midnight, unacquainted, from 
the miscarriage of the friar’s note, with her reported 
death being but a trance. Count Paris, the intended 
husband selected by Juliet’s parents, meets Romeo; 
they quarrel, fight, and Paris falls. Romeo takes a 
final leave of his seemingly dead mistress, and swal- 
lows the poison. At this moment, Friar Laurence 
arrives, to await Juliet’s awakening. She, on learning 
the melancholy catastrophe, kills herself, and dies in 
the arms of Romeo. The friar previously requests 
her to follow him into a convent, but is frightened off 
by approaching footsteps. Juliet, imprinting an affec- 
tionate farewell kiss on the lips of the dead Romeo, 
takes his dagger and stabs herself. Meanwhile, Paris’s 
page has summoned the guards, who, on seeing what 
had taken place, call the prince, the Capulets and the 
Montague families to the scene, while other attend- 
ants bring Laurence and Romeo’s servant thither. The 
prince investigates the tragedy, and Friar Laurence 
rehearses the details of the melancholy story. His 
statement is corroborated by the page and Balthasar, 
and :lso by a letter from Romeo to his father. Over 


the bodies of their unhappy children, the deadly 
enmity of the Capulet and Montague families ceases, 
and they are finally and effectively reconciled by the 
great grief that has overwhelmed them. 


This drama is among the most powerful of the great 
poet in strong delineation of passion and richness of 
fancy. In Juliet we have the first striking figure of 
Shakespeare’s youthful conception of womanhood. 
The glorious figure of girlhood, clad in the beauty of 
the southern spring, stepping out for scarce two days 
from the winter of her grand but loveless home into 
the sunshine and warmth of love, and then sinking 
back into the horrors of the charnel-house and the 
grave, is one that ever haunts the student of Shake- 
speare. The deeper and richer note of love which 
the great bard has struck becomes deeper and richer 
still in Romeo and Juliet. Fierce Tybalt; gay, fiery 
Mercutio; gallant Benvolio; tender, chivalrous Ro- 
meo — we see them all in fancy as they move under 
the intense blue of the Italian sky. The day is hot; 
the Capulets are abroad; Mercutio’s laugh rings down 
the street; his jewelled cap flames in the sunlight. 
Such sights and sounds as these crowd on the mind’s 
eye as we read and think. ‘Passion lends the lovers 
power,” as the old song says. It is the time of the 
affections and warm youthful blood. But these vio- 
lent delights have violent ends, and Juliet, ‘‘ill-divining 
soul,” prepares us for the end that awaits the delicious, 
passionate love of the garden scene. Far above any- 
thing Shakespeare had yet written stands this and the 
lovers’ subsequent meeting and parting. The charac- 
ter of Juliet, too, is the guiding star of the play — far 
above Romeo, whose sentimental weeping for Rosa- 
line, and grief when he hears of the order for his 
banishment, call forth a well-deserved reproach from 
Friar Laurence. The Nurse, so thoroughly a charac- 
ter, is the first and only figure of the kind in Shake- 
speare (except, perhaps, Mrs. Quickly). The fussy, 
bustling, hot-tempered old Capulet is a capital figure, 
too. The play is ‘‘young” all through, not only in its 
passions, but in its conceits and its excess of fancy. 

The time of the action of the play is five and a half 
days. The ball is on Sunday night; the lovers are 
married on Monday, and pass the night together. 
Juliet drinks the sleeping draught on Tuesday night, 
and on Wednesday, instead of marrying Paris, is found 
seemingly dead and entombed. She sleeps more than 
forty-two hours. On Thursday Romeo returns, and 
poisons himself before Juliet wakes before the dawn 
of Friday. She stabs herself, and the families are 
roused from their sleep to come to the tomb, as pre- 
viously related. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


See Page 608. 


T has not yet been decided as conclusive whether 
Shakespeare obtained his basis for this tragedy 
from North’s English translation of Plutarch, or from 
Paynter’s older work, entitled ‘‘ Palace of Pleasure,” 
nor is the date of its composition stated as certain. It 
was probably written in 1605. 


SCENE.—Athens and the contiguous woods. 


Timon, a noble citizen of Athens, equally renowned 
for his patriotic love for the cause of his fatherland, 
as on account of his immense wealth, is charitable 
beyond prudence, without aim or measure. Sur- 
rounded by a crowd of parasites, he is distributing to 


}xi 


THE PLOTS 


one of them a rich jewel, nearly the last remains of 
his wealth. His friend, Apemantus, the cynical philoso- 
pher, warns him of the consequences of such prodi- 
gality, but his advice is not listened to. When reduced 
in fortune, he knocks at the door of his friends, who 
formerly had been his daily guests, but finds, as might 
be expected, closed doors and deaf ears. Filled with 
bitter rage, he once more invites these false friends for 
the last time, but places before them, in covered 
dishes, nothing but lukewarm water, a fitting symbol 
of their friendship, and, with terrible curses, throws 
the vessels at their heads. Abandoned and treated 
with the blackest ingratitude by those he had enriched 
and benefited, Timon spurns the hated city of his resi- 
dence, and, renouncing human society, seeks the shelter 
of the forest, where he becomes an inveterate misan- 
thrope. All invitations for a return to Athens he re- 
jects; neither Flavius, his honest steward, who offers 


to divide his savings with him; nor Alcibiades, his | 


general, who offers to revenge him; nor the senators 
of Athens, who offer him the highest office of honor, 
were able to change him. In this seclusion from the 
busy world, he draws from his bitter experience the 
motives of the people who come thus to meet him — 
not moved by pity or even curiosity, not for the pur- 
pose of consolation or atonement, but for the selfish 
and covetous reasons of thirst for gold, for it was 
rumored in Athens that, while digging roots, he had 
found a treasure which a miserly fellow had once bur- 
ied. Still a prodigal with his gold, not for charitable 
purposes, but animated by evil intentions, Timon meets 
all who visit his retreat only to bribe and excite, and 
so to lead to the destruction of the hated human race. 
A warrior under Alcibiades at last finds Timon’s grave, 
and reports the inscription, written by himself, wit- 
nessing to the loathing he felt for mankind until death. 


JULIUS CHSAR. 


See Page 627. 


MONG the materials used by Shakespeare in this 

play were North’s translation of the biographies 

of Julius Cesar, Marcus Antonius, and Brutus, by Plu- 

tarch; perhaps Appian and Dio Cassius were not un- 

known to him. It was probably written in 1602, soon 
after the completion of Hamlet. 

The political moral of the tragedy is, that the most 
unstatesmanlike and politically immoral policy is that 
which is not in keeping with the strictest requirements 
of the laws of right and equity. A treacherous or 
cruel deed, even carried out from noble or patriotic 
motives, cannot escape the Nemesis of retribution. 


SCENE.—In the city of Rome; afterwards 
at Sardis, and near Philippi. 


Julius Cesar, renowned for many gallant deeds, 
and for his brilliant victories loved by the Roman no- 
bility as well as by the people, after vanquishing the 
younger Pompey in Spain, thought that the time had 
now come to carry out the ambitious desire, so long 
entertained, of making himself the absolute ruler of 
the Roman Empire. On his return to Rome, conten- 
tion was caused by the display made of the vanquished 
prisoners — an ostentation which had not been previ- 
ously attempted—and the magnificence of this tri- 
umphal march could not altogether drown the dis- 
pleasure; nevertheless, the Romans vied in showing 
Jesar honors, which almost amounted to adoration. 
in fact, Czesar was already a monarch, and his ad- 
mirers urged him now to assume the name and the 


xii 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


crown of an emperor. As Cesar was now on the eve 
of his departure for the war against the Parthians, his 
partisans endeavored to spread the rumor that, accord- 
ing to a prophecy contained in the book of Sibyl, only 
a king or emperor could be victorious over that people. 
At the Lupercalian festival, Antonius, approaching 
Cesar, offers him the crown, which is three times re- 
jected by Cesar, and, amid deafening applause of the 
people, the crown is returned to the capitol. Osesar, 
however, in opposition to this act, displaces the two 
tribunes who had, in different parts of the city, de- 
prived the columns erected in his honor of their royal 
mantle, and imprisoned several citizens who had called 
him king. This strange conduct at last awakened the 
anger and suspicion of some of the prominent Romans 
against Cesar’s seeming ambition. At the instigation 
of Cassius, a conspiracy was formed. All was soon 
ready for execution, and it was resolved that Brutus 
should be the leader, because his mere presence would, 
so to say, sanctify and strengthen the justice of any 
action. Brutus was a true Roman in that luxurious 
and corrupt epoch of Roman history. Even the love 
and honor which Cesar had once bestowed on him he 
forgot, in his patriotic hope to redeem Rome, and by 
his leadership gained to the conspiracy many of the 
noblest Romans. Without any offering of sacrifice or 
vow, the sacred league was formed, that Cesar at 
the festival of the Ides of March (the 15th) should be 
slain. Of the Roman ladies, Portia, the wife of Brutus 
and Cato’s spirited daughter, was the only one who 
had knowledge of the conspiracy. On the fatal day, 
the assassination of Cesar is enacted in the senate- 
chamber, Casca giving the first thrust. After having 
received twenty-three wounds, the last of which 
Brutus inflicted, Ceesar falls. Cassius had urged that 
Mark Antony should also be slain, but the humane 
policy of Brutus saves him. Mark Antony weeps over 
Cesar’s fall; and having obtained permission to make 
a funeral oration over the dead body, seizes the oppor- 
tunity to so artfully work on the passions of his audi- 
tors, the turb: ent Roman populace, as to cause a riot, 
leading at length to a civil war, in which he gains 
supreme power. His further attempts, however, to 
follow the example of Julius Czesar are frustrated, and 
he is compelled, against his will, to acknowledge Oc- 
tavius Cesar and the influential Lepidus as triumvirs in 
the government, whose first act was that bloody proscrip- 
tion, from which even Cicero the great orator is not ex- 
empted, but falls a victim. After being present at the 
execution of those of their enemies who had lingered in 
Rome, Octavius and Antonius embark for Macedonia 
to pursue Brutus and Cassius, who, after the news had 
been imparted to them that Portia had committed 
suicide by swallowing burning coals, venture, on the 
day of Cassius’s birthday, the decisive battle of Philippi. 
Mark Antony seems on the point of gaining the last 
great battle against the conspirators, and dismay seizes 
them; Brutus, their great leader, to avoid falling into 
the victors’ hands, and impressed with the fate de- 
nounced against him by Cesar’s ghost, which had 
appeared to him the preceding night in his tent, com- 
mands his page Strato to let him fall on his sword, and 
thus dies. His corpse receives an honorable burial at 
the hands of his victorious enemies. 


Julius Oxsar is not the real hero of this play, but 
Brutus is; yet Oesar’s spirit rules, as Cassius and 
Brutus before their deaths acknowledge. Ozssar’s 
murder is the centre and hinge of the play. The 
death of the great soldier overcomes his conquerors; 
for though his bodily presence is weak, his spirit rises, 
arms his avengers, and his assassins proclaim his might. 


THE PLOTS 


EE 


Shakespeare has made the Casar of his play not the 
brave and vigorous subduer of Britain and the Goths, 
but Ossar old, decaying, failing both in mind and 
body; his long success had ruined his character and 
turned his head. The character of Brutus is that of 
one of the noblest of men the poet has drawn — if not 
the noblest. Brutus believes himself the man to set 
the times right; but as honor calls him he must act. 
He is no judge of men; he cannot see that Cassius is 
playing on him as on a pipe; he misjudges Antony, 
and allows him to make that most effective appeal at 
Cesar’s funeral to the passions of the fierce Roman 
mob; he always takes the wrong steps in action; he 
has his faults, too, as see his ungenerous upbraiding 
of Cassius about getting gold wrongfully, when he, 
- Brutus, had previously asked for some of it; and how 
his vanity gives way to Cassius’s appeal to him in the 
scene after Cesar’s death. That is a glorious scene 
between Brutus and his wife— pure soul to soul; no 
thought of earthly dallying between them. 


MACBETH. 


See Page 647. 


OLINSHED’S Chronicles, formed on the ‘“ History 

of Scotland” by the Scotch chronologist, Hector 

Boethius, forms the basis to the plot of this tragedy, 
which was written in 1606. 


SCENE.— Principally in Scotland. At the 
end of the Fourth Act, in England. 


The throne of Duncan, king of Scotland, is threat- 
ened by one of his vassals, who is aided by the Nor- 
wegians. But this danger is averted by the lustrous 
valor of his cousins, Macbeth and Banquo, generals of 
the army. On their return from the last decisive 
victory, these officers meet, upon a lonesome heath, 
three witches; the first greets Macbeth as Thane of 
Glamis, the second as Thane of Cawdor, while the 
third hails him with the prophetical announcement: 
‘* All hail, king that shall be hereafter!” Nor does 
Banquo go away without a prophecy, for the witches 
say that his sons after him shall be kings in Scotland. 
The early fulfilment of the first two prophecies excite 
in Macbeth’s breast the hope that the other will be 
fulfilled, and that he will ascend the throne of Scot- 
land. Macbeth, without delay, had informed his wife 
of all that had happened, who is not only an ambitious 
woman, but withal an unfeeling and unscrupulous one, 
and consequently a person ever ready to do anything, 
however wrong, to accomplish her designs. Lady 
Macbeth is told by her husband that King Duncan is 
about to visit the castle, and she at once resolves to 
murder the king. Duncan, who on his journey is 
accompanied by Malcolm and Donalbain, his sons, and 
a numerous train of nobles and attendants, comes to 
honor, by his presence, the heroic Thane, is met en 
route by Macbeth, who has hastened to welcome him. 
The king’s arrival causes great rejoicing; he makes 
valuable presents to the attendants and also to Lady 
Macbeth, his kind hostess, whom he presents with a 
valuable diamond. Being tired with his day’s travels, 
Duncan retires early to sleep. At midnight the mur- 
derers hie to their terrible work. Macbeth wavers; 
but his wife knows how to banish all his scruples, and 
taunts him bitterly until he nerves himself for the 
bloody deed, and kills the sleeping king with the 
dagger of one of the king’s officers on guard, in order 
to draw the suspicion onthem. At morning dawn the 
bloody deed of the previous night is discovered. 
Although Macbeth and his lady are pretending the 
deepest sorrow and distress, and the former, in feigned 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


rage, rushes to King Duncan’s room and stabs the two 
officers on whom he endeavored to cast suspicion, all 
doubt who the real perpetrators are. Malcolm and 
Donalbain flee; Macbeth is crowned king, and thus the 
prediction of the weird sisters is literally fulfilled. 
Macbeth, after usurping the crown, to secure himself 
in the possession of it, caused Banquo to be assassi- 
nated by the hands of hired murderers, and celebrates 
his success by a grand banquet. He is alarmed in the 
midst of it by the appearance of Banquo’s ghost! The 
queen and nobles, to whom the spectre is invisible, 
express amazement, and vainly strive to soothe him. 
Macduff, the Thane of Fife, hastens away and seeks 
refuge in England with Malcolm; but Macbeth storms 
his castle and murders pitilessly Lady Macduff and her 
children. Remorse and the dangers that menace her 
husband’s throne having thrown Lady Macbeth into a 
dangerous condition, rest becomes a stranger to her 
harrowed mind; she walks in her sleep, and in that 
state discloses the secret of the king’s murder to her 
physician and her attendant, and at last kills herself. 
The entire country is in revolution; one after another 
desert Macbeth’s failing cause, and the weird sisters 
drive him finally, by their mischievous oracles, into a 
state bordering on insanity. They tell him he need 
not fear any harm to his person until Birnam wood 
should come to Dunsinane; nor could any one born of 
a woman cause danger tohim. Butin the attack upon 
Macbeth’s stronghold the wood really advances to- 
wards Macbeth’s castle. The English soldiers, while 
on their march, passed through these woods of Bir- 
nam, and, in order to conceal their numbers, carried 
green boughs and twigs in leaf before them. This is 
the significance of the prediction of the weird sisters ; 
and a foe not born of woman arises indeed against 
him —in Macduff, who was not born of woman, in 
the ordinary manner of man, but was prematurely 
taken from his mother. The finale is reached when 
Macbeth falls in a struggle with the avenging Mac- 
duff; and Duncan’s oldest son, Malcolm, ascends the 
throne as legal heir and king of Scotland. 


Macbeth is a play of conscience, though the work- 
ings of that conscience are seen far more in Lady Mac- 
beth than in her husband. The play is designed to 
show, too, the separation from man as well as God, 
the miserable, trustless isolation that sin brings in its 
train. Before the play opens, there must have been 
consultations between the guilty pair on Duncan’s 
murder, and when the play opens, the pall of fiendish 
witchcraft is over us from the first. The fall of the 
tempted is terribly sudden. Lady Macbeth has a 
finer and more delicate nature than Macbeth, but 
having fixed her eyes on the attainment by her hus- 
band of Duncan’s throne, she accepts the inevitable 
means; yet she cannot strike the sleeping king, who 
resembles her father. She sustains her husband un- 
til her thread of life suddenly snaps under its load of 
remorse. The real climax of the play is in the second 
act rather than the fifth, and no repentance is mixed 
with the vengeance at itsclose. The only relief is the 
gallantry of Macbeth, the gratitude of Duncan, and 
the picture of Macbeth’s castle, so pleasantly put into 
Duncan’s “and Banquo’s mouths. Macbeth had the 
wrong nature for a murderer—he was too imagina- 
tive. The more blood he shed, which he thought 
would make him safe and hardened, did but increase 
his terrors. But he resolves to know the worst, and 
after his second visit to the witches, the courage of 
desperation takes the place of the feebleness of the 
guilty soul, and finally he faces and meets his own 
death with a coolness almost admirable. 


Ixiil 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 


See Page 666. 


ANY books and essays have been written concern- 

ing this tragedy of all the tragedies of Shake- 
speare; some of the critics, in their analysis of the 
play, vary materially, especially in the understanding 
of the principal character. According to the general 
acceptation of modern critics, Shakespeare designed 
to delineate his religious, moral, artistic, and dra- 
matic acknowledgment of faith, and wrote this drama 
for the exaltation of the dramatic art upon the stage, 
as an educator as much entitled to serve the highest 
interests and aims of humanity as any other educa- 
tional influence. 

The source from which Shakespeare gathered his 
material, was probably the novel entitled the “ Hys- 
torie of Hamlet,” by the Danish author, Saxo Gram- 
maticus. This drama was written, according to Dr. 
Drake and Chalmers, in 1597, while Malone fixes the 
date in 1600, and it appeared first in print, in a quarto 
edition, in 1604. 


SCENE. — Elsinore, Denmark. 


Prince Hamlet, the son of King Hamlet, of Den- 
mark, after receiving the news of the sudden death 
of his father, leaves Wittenberg, where he had been 
in pursuit of learning, and returns to the residence 
at Elsinore. In addition to the deep mourning 
caused by the great loss he had sustained in his 
father’s death, he is, moreover, exceedingly affected 
by his mother’s speedy remarriage. The queen, who 
had been loved with tenderness by King Hamlet 
during the thirty years of their married life, and who 
simulated, at the funeral of her husband, the most 
frantic grief, had, nevertheless, but a few brief weeks 
thereafter, celebrated her nuptials with Claudius, the 
brother of the late lamented king. Prince Hamlet’s 
uncle, Claudius, was a prodigal and a hypocrite, who 
had also contrived to accomplish his election as king 
of Denmark. Hamlet, from this hasty and unseemly 
marriage, and other scandalous incidents which had 
transpired at the court, had long suspected a secret 
crime, and over this he brooded in a melancholy 
which alarmed his friends. Hamlet, moreover, from 
Horatio, and some officers who were devoted to him, 
learned that the ghost of the departed king had ap- 
peared to them on the portico, before the palace, at 
midnight. Prince Hamlet, on hearing this report, ac- 
companies the guard on the following night, and he, 
indeed, discerns in the apparition, which also appears 
to him at midnight, the spirit of his father, who 
informs him that his sire had not died a natural death, 
but had been stealthily poisoned by his brother Clau- 
dius, the now reigning king. The ghost asks Hamlet to 
revenge the murder, but to spare his mother, who had 
been induced to commit adultery by the ignoble 
usurper. Hamlet vows revenge, and at once resolves 
on a plan to carry out this intent. But his righteous 
revenge is delayed by difficulties, since he does not 
design to commit murder or any other crime, and, 
moreover, respects the injunction concerning his 
mother, whom he did not wish to harm. . 

Hamlet, closeted with his royal mother, upbraids her 
with her incestuous marriage to his uncle, and his 
father’s murder. His father’s ghost, at this moment, 
appears to him. The queen, to whom the spirit is 
invisible, seeing Hamlet gaze on and converse with 
empty air, thinks his mind is disordered, and dis- 
plays the greatest consternation. During this inter- 
view Hamlet hears a noise behind the arras, and 


lxiv 


| thinking it to be the king, thrusts his sword through 
the hangings, only to find he has killed Polonius, who 
was eavesdropping. Hamlet now resolves to act like 
one whose mental faculties had become: clouded, and 
in this completely succeeds, to all others but his 
friend Horatio. In this affected aberration of mind, 
Hamlet leads the entire court at his will to carry out 
his purpose of judge and avenger; and he also finds 
in this affectation of insanity the means of advising 
his beloved Ophelia to remain single. By a theatrical 
performance before the court, he succeeds in convict- 
ing the king of his crime. Ophelia’s mind, distracted 
with the slights of Hamlet and the death of her father, 
gives way, and in pursuit of her insane amusements she 
is drowned. Laertes, Ophelia’s brother, is instigated 
by the usurping uncle to fight with Hamlet, and how 
this act of revenge not only causes the death of the 
criminal king, but also the poisoning of the queen, 
of Laertes, and Hamlet, the drama fully unfolds. 


In judging of the character of Hamlet, we must get 
rid of the absurdity of supposing him a man of de- 
cision and action, whose hesitation was due only to 
want of conviction of his duty. 

While we all admire his brilliant intellectual gifts 
of wit, sarcasm, reflection, his courage and his vir- 
tues, we must still find him infirm of purpose in his 
diseased view of God’s earth and its inhabitants, and 
of life, with his shirkings of duty. But in his uncer- 
tainties about the mysteries of death and of the future 
world Hamlet but typifies each one of us at some time 
or other in our lives. And this is the secret of the at- 
traction of Hamlet over us. How powerfully drawn 
is the scene where Hamlet, rising to nobleness and 
strength, upbraids his mother for her disgraceful adul- 
tery and treason to his noble father’s memory, which 
Hamlet has felt to his inmost soul. And against his 
mother and her sin all the magnificent indignation of 
his purity and virtue speak. We forget his blood- 
stained hands in the white-heat intensity of his words. 
In his second interview with Ophelia, he turns to her 
at first with gentle words and affection, which are 
curdled into bitterness and brutality by her offer to 
return his gifts and by seeing her father behind the 
arras. 

Horatio, with his fortitude, his self-possession, his 
strong equanimity, is a strong contrast to Hamlet; and 
Laertes, who takes violent measures at the shortest 
notice to revenge his father’s murder, is another con- 
trast in a different way; but then Laertes is the young 
gallant of the period, and his capacity for action arises 
in part from the absence of those moral checks of 
which Hamlet is sensible. Polonius is owner of the 
shallow wisdom of this world, and exhibits this gro- 
tesquely while now, on the brink of dotage, he sees, 
but cannot see through, Hamlet’s ironical mockery of 
him. Ophelia is sensitive and affectionate, but the 
reverse of heroic. She fails Hamlet in his need, and 
then in her turn becoming the sufferer, gives way un- 
der her afflictions. We do not honor, we commiserate 
her. 

But whatever vacillation shows in the character of 
Hamlet, his grand, over-mastering purpose of reyenge 
for his murdered father never leaves him. Polonius, 
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Ophelia, all whom he thinks 
plotted against him, are by his means dead; and then 
comes the end — the erring queen dying by her guilty 
husband’s means, and he shortly following her; La- 
ertes reaping the due reward of treachery, though 
forgiven by Hamlet before dying, and—then the 
death of “that man in Shakespeare we feel most 

| pity for.” 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


KING LEAR. 


See Page 696. 


oe legend of King Lear and his three daughters 
i existed in the medieval ages, in the Latin and 
French versions, and is also found in Holinshed’s 
Chronicles of England, whence Shakespeare obtained 
the material for this drama, written in 1605. 


SCENE. — The Kingdom of Britain. 


Lear, King of Britain, having reached his eightieth 
year, concluded to resign his crown, and to divide his 
dominion between his three daughters —- Goneril, wife 
of the Duke of Albany; Regan, the wife of the Duke 
of Cornwall; and Cordelia, for whose hand and heart 
the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy are 
wooing. The old king questions his daughters as to 
which of them has the greatest love for him, and while 
Goneril and Regan, in the most exaggerated terms ex- 
press their affection, Cordelia, scorning the fulsome 
meanness and hypocrisy of her sisters, declares in clear 
and simple words her childish love for her father. 
Lear, who had always been a fiercely passionate man, 
feels so embittered at the seeming calmness of her re- 
ply, that he rejects and disinherits his formerly favorite 
daughter, and divides his realm between the two elder 
daughters equally. He reserves for himself merely 
the maintenance of his title as king, and a hundred 
knights as attendants. With each of his daughters he 
is to alternately live one month at a time with his 
knightly guard. The Earl of Kent, who naturally 
raises objections against this precipitate action of 
the king, is banished from the kingdom. Cordelia, 
although disinherited and spurned by her father, and 
now rejected by the Duke of Burgundy, is neverthe- 
less chosen as the wife of the King of France, solely 
on account of her virtue, merits, and charms. But 
the real characters of Goneril and Regan soon mani- 
fest themselves. They begin to treat their aged father 
with coldness, and they not only suffer, but order, more- 
over, that the servants fail to show the respect due to 
the old king. These unnatural daughters furthermore 
demand the entire dismissal of his guard of one hun- 
dred faithful warriors. Lear flies from Goneril and 
Regan, but only as it were from one trouble to a 
greater, for each sister endeavors to vie with the other 
in mockery and derision. This is too hard for the 
weak old man to bear. In his despair he becomes in- 
sane, and leaves the court at night during a violent 
rainstorm, his daughters closing the door on him. But 
the faithful Kent, in the disguise of an attendant, and 
his fool, accompany Lear through the dismal darkness, 
until the Earl of Gloucester meets them, who had dis- 
carded his son Edgar on account of the slanderous 
accusations by Edmund, his bastard son. In a hovel 
upon the field the earl found his son Edgar, in a 
disguise as poor Tom, and here the poor old king 
with his two faithful friends at last found refuge. 
Through the aid of Gloucester and Kent, King Lear is 
securely brought to the town of Dover, where Cor- 
delia lands with an army from France, for the purpose 
of reinstating her father upon the throne. Goneril 
and Regan, meantime, fall in love with Gloucester’s 
bastard son Edmund, and Regan is poisoned in a fit of 
jealousy by her sister, while her husband, the villan- 
ous Cornwall (who had deprived the Earl of Glouces- 
ter of his eyes, for the latter’s intercession for the aged 
king), dies by the hand of one of his own servants. 
Goneril ends her accursed career by committing sui- 
cide. Cordelia’s army is outnumbered and defeated 
by Edmund’s soldiers, and Cordelia and her father are 
xaptured. After Cordelia had been strangled by an 


assassin hired by Edmund, the latter meets his well- 

deserved fate in a duel with Edgar. Lear dies while 

tenderly clasping in his arms the corpse of Cordelia, 

but Edgar, Kent, and the Duke of Albany remain to 

pet firmly establish the much harassed kingdom of 
ritain. 


Lear is especially the play of the breach of family 
ties —the play of horrors, the unnatural ¢tuelty to 
fathers, brothers, and sisters of those who should have 
loved them dearest. Lear, as he is first presented to 
us, is so self-indulgent and unrestrained, so fooled to 
the top of his bent, so terribly unjust, not only to 
Cordelia, but to Kent, that we feel that hardly any 
punishment is too bad for him. Stripped of power 
by his own rash folly, his own fool teaches him 
what a fool he has been. When he has come to him- 
self, cut off the flatterers who surrounded him, and 
realizes the consequences of his own folly, our sympa- 
thy for him melts into tender pity. The pathos of his 
recognition of Cordelia, his submission to her, and 
seeking her blessing, his lamentation over her corpse, 
are exceeded by nothing in Shakespeare. Note the 
wonderful power of this last scene—the poor old 
king, bending with piteous lamentations over the dead 
body of his murdered daughter, trying to raise her to 
life, and, failing, relapsing into the dread torpor of de- 
spairing insanity. Cordelia is the sun above the depths 
shown in the natures of her sisters Goneril and Regan. 
The noble and long-suffering Kent is a fine character. 
Edgar and Edmund are a contrasted pair; both are 
men of penetration, energy, and skill—Edgar on the 
side of good, Edmund on the side of evil. 


OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. 


See Page 722. 


Bae upon aromance contained in the Italian collec- 
tion of ‘‘ Hecatomithi,” by Giraldi Cinthio, this trag- 
edy was written in 1612 and first entered at Stationers’ 
Hall, Oct. 6th, 1621, being printed in the following year. 


SCENE.— During the First Act in Venice; 
during the rest of the drama at a seaport 
town in Cyprus. 


Othello, a courageous Moor, and able commander-in- 
chief in the service of the republic of Venice, wins 
the love of Desdemona, a noble Venetian lady, and only 
daughter of the Senator Brabantio. The marriage 
secretly concluded between them is not acknowl- 
edged by the father, who deems the affinity of his 
daughter for a Moor, celebrated though he might be, 
as inexplicable and unnatural, and that only by spells 
and witchcraft could the fair Desdemona have been 
seduced to marry Othello, without the consent of her 
parent. At this juncture the services of the gallant 
Moor are needed by the republic of Venice to repel 
the invasion by the Turks of the island of Cyprus. 
Othello, accompanied by Desdemona, his wife, Cassio, 
his lieutenant, and Iago, his ensign, with Iago’s wife, 
Emilia (the latter acting as attendant to Desdemona), 
accompanies the party. A storm scattered the Turkish 
fleet; but another tempest is rising against the peace 
of Othello, stirred up by a devil in the form of a hu- 
man being. Jago entertains a deadly hatred against 
Othello, partly because he accuses him of having had 
in the past an illicit connection with his wife Emilia, 
and partly because Othello had preferred Cassio and 
had appointed him to a vacancy of a higher rank; 
whereas Iago believes he, from his bravery and knowl- 
edge, was fairly entitled to that place. Iago therefore 


lxv 


LIP TOTS 
plans a terrible revenge whereby he wishes to destroy 
the Moor, Desdemona, and several others. During a 
festival he induces Cassio, who happened to be officer 
of the guard, to partake of wine. A quarrel is thus cun- 
ningly contrived, Cassio giving great offence, and even 
using his drawn sword. The alarm-bell is sounded, 
which brings the general to the scene, and Cassio 
loses his lieutenancy. The unfortunate officer, brought 
to despair by the loss of his position, his unhappiness 
still further enhanced by the displeasure of his gen- 
eral, applies to Desdemona, who, through her womanly 
sympathy, becomes his warm defender and intercessor, 
the more because he during her courtship had acted as 
the bearer of the missives between herself and Othello. 
Cassio, while beseeching his high-spirited patroness to 
intercede for his reinstatement, at the approach of the 
Moor quickly withdraws from her presence; lago cun- 
ningly uses the fatal movement by ingeniously devised 
hints, which awaken the jealous feelings of Othello; 
and in further explanation of this conduct beguiles 
Othello, by telling him that a woman who had de- 
ceived her old father in such a clever way, could also 
be easily induced to betray her husband. Desdemona 
having received from Othello a handkerchief, the gift 
of the Moor’s mother to her son, is asked for it by 
Othello. This handkerchief had been stolen from her 
for the purpose of exciting her husband’s jealousy. 
Innocent how she had lost it, Desdemona apologizes, 
but Othello, believing this to be but a confirmation of 
Iago’s charges against his wife’s chastity, becomes en- 
raged, and quits her with fierce injunctions to seek the 
handkerchief immediately and bring it to him. Wild 
with jealous frenzy, and resolved on her death for her 
supposed infidelity, Othello enters his wife’s chamber at 
midnight, awakens her, charges her with having loved 
Cassio, and, notwithstanding Desdemona’s protestations 
of innocence, smothers her while entreating for mercy. 

Immediately upon this tragedy Desdemona’s inno- 
cence is brought to light, by the explanations of 
Iago’s wife Emilia, for which her husband fatally 
stabs her. Othello’s anguish on realizing that he was 
the murderer of his innocent and trusting wife, who 
had ever been tenderly faithful to him, was so great 
that he fell upon his sword, and died pressing a last 
parting kiss on the lips of his dead wife. 


The magnificent third act of this play is thought by 
many commentators to be Shakespeare’s masterpiece. 
Othello has a free and noble nature, naturally trust- 
ful, with a kind of grand innocence, retaining some of 
his simpleness of soul amid the subtle and astute Ve- 
netian politicians. All that he tells of himself wins 
our hearts, like Desdemona’s, to him. Of regal de- 
scent, no boaster, but a doer, he has no self-distrust 
when dealing with men. He commands like a full 
soldier. Although he tells a ‘‘round unvarnished 
tale,” yet we see in it proof of that imaginative power 
which, imposed on by the satanic Iago, was the cause of 
all his sorrow. There is no character in Shakespeare’s 
plays so full of serpentine power and serpentine poison 
as Iago —‘‘honest Iago.” Othello has every manly 
virtue, and his love is so devoted that he can give up 
war for it. The first note of coming discord is struck 
by Iago’s ‘I like not that,” and the first real suspicion 
is in Othello’s “By heaven, he echoes me.” But 
when, owing to Iago’s insinuations, jealousy has once 
taken hold of Othello’s mind —he only knowing till 
then woman’s nature through the followers of the 
camp — imagination works with terrible rapidity. 
The light of love which lit his face when he before 
met Desdemona, when he yielded to her first en- 
treaties for Cassio, leaves him never to return. Des- 

Ixvi 


| 
| 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


demona’s ill-starred answers, coupled with Iago’s cun- 
ning promptings, hurry on poor Desdemona’s death. 
Then comes the disclosure of the dupe he has been: 
and the kiss with which he dies, shows where his love 
still was, and pleads for him. A noble nature ‘ per- 
plext in the extreme.” Cassio, notwithstanding his 
moral weaknesses, has a chivalrous nature, and has an 
enthusiastic admiration for his great general and the 
beautiful lady, his wife. Emilia may be compared to 
Paulina, in the Winter’s Tale. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


See Page 748. 


LUTARCH’S life of Antony was the source from 

which Shakespeare gleaned the historical data for 
this tragedy, which was entered in the Stationers’ 
book May 2, 1606, and was, according to the conjec- 
ture of Malone, composed in the same year. It was 
not, however, printed till the folio of 1623. 


SCENE.—In different parts of the Roman 
Empire. 


After the pitched battle of Philippi, where the last 
remaining force of the republic under Brutus and 
Cassius met with utter defeat, upon the division of the 
Roman territories ensuing, Asia fell to the possession 
of Mark Antony, who ruled that country as an auto- 
crat with unlimited power, and became a slave to his 
love for pomp and display. In this condition he is 
mastered by an irresistible love for Cleopatra, the 
widowed Queen of Egypt. At Tarsus he met her for 
the first time, and, spellbound by the power of her 
charms, was induced by her to follow her to Alexan- 
dria, where he idled away his time amid pleasures and 
festivities. Bad news from Rome awakens him from 
the intoxication of his amorous pleasures, and he, 
with heavy heart, tears himself away from Cleopatra, 
and hastens back to Italy. Herea reconciliation takes 
place, not only between himself and Octavius, but also 
between the triumvirs and Sextus Pompeius (Pompey). 
To strengthen this renewed friendship, Antony married 
Octavia, the beautiful sister of Octavius Cesar, who 
accompanied her husband to the seat of his govern- 
ment in the eastern provinces of Rome. Meantime, 
Pompeius had, despite all agreement, again renewed 
hostilities, and as Lepidus (who had supported Oc- 
tavius in this engagement) now demanded an increase 
of power, he deprives him also, without raising a 
sword, of his army and dignity. These successes of 
Octavius alarmed Mark Antony, who sends his wife 
from Athens to Rome as a mediator, while he himself 
goes to Egypt, and at Alexandria commences the 
former life of luxurious pleasure in company with 
Cleopatra. A breach between Mark Antony and Octa- 
vius Cesar now becomes unavoidable, and the fortunes 
of war must decide between them. Antony, with 
Diomed, his general, takes a last farewell of Cleo- 
patra preparatory to a battle with Csesar, who is 
now encamped before the walls of Alexandria. An- 
tony recommends Diomed to the queen’s special favor, 
who promises to reward him. An attendant brings 
Antony’s helmet, and a slave puts on his sandals, while 
the Queen of Egypt, presaging his fate, is loth to part. 
Antony for the last time tries the fortunes of war, at 
first with some show of success, but is soon deserted 
by the fleet, which consists chiefly of Egyptian vessels, 
and, being also defeated on land, flies in despair to 
Alexandria, under the delusion that Cleopatra had 
betrayed him. The latter, to escape his ill-humor, 
goes herself to a temple, and is announced as having 


PHE RLORS 


died. Antony, on hearing the sad news, falls on his 
sword, but not being killed, and learning that Cleo- 
patra was still alive, causes himself to be carried to 
her, so that he may die in herarms. Octavius extends 
to Cleopatra his protection and sympathy, but sends 
his friend, Proculeius, to keep strict guard over her, 
hoping to take the young queen to Rome to grace his 
triumph; but Cleopatra, acquainted with the defeat 
and death of Antony, and anticipating her own treat- 
ment from the conqueror, applies asps to her bosom 
and dies. OCharmian, her faithful maid, follows her 
mistress’s example, but before dying has time to relate 
to Omsar’s guards, who are breaking in, the tragic 
death of Egypt’s queen. 


Nowhere else does Shakespeare appear a greater 
master of a great dramatic theme. In Julius Cesar 
we are prepared for any outbreak on the part of Mark 
Antony — by the wildness of his blood and want of a 
noble purpose in his ordinary pursuits, by his selfish- 
ness and unscrupulousness, too; by his proposal to 
sacrifice Lepidus. And though the redeeming quali- 
ties of his nature might be thought to be shown in his 
love for Cesar, his appeal to the people for revenge, 
and his skill in managing them; yet in his develop- 
ment lust and self-indulgence prevail, and under their 
influence he loses judgment, soldiership, and even 
the qualities of aman. His seeming impulse towards 
good in his marriage with Octavia lasts but for a time 
—all her nobleness and virtue cannot save him. He 
turns from this gem among women to the luxurious 
Egyptian, and abides by his infatuation even when he 
knows he is deceived. How powerful is the story 
wrought out of the great soldier sinking to his ruin 
under the gorgeous colorings of the Eastern skies and 
the varying splendors of the lustful queen! ‘She 
makes hungry, where most she satisfies.” To Cleo- 
patra it is hardly possible to do justice here. The 
wonderful way in which Shakespeare has brought out 
the characteristics of this sumptuous, queenly harlot, 
goes far beyond all his previous studies of women. 
The contrast between her and the noble Roman lady 
Octavia, to whom her wavering husband bears such 
favorable witness, is most marked and most interest- 
ing. Enobarbus, who sees through every wile and guile 
of the queen, is, as it were, the chorus of the play. 


CYMBELINE. 
See Page 775. 


YMBELINE, the king from whom the play takes 

its title, began his reign, according to Holinshed, 
in the nineteenth year of the reign of Augustus Cesar, 
and the scene of the tragedy commences about the 
twenty-fourth year of Cymbeline’s reign in Britain, 
i.é.,in the sixteenth year of the Christian era. This 
play was written, according to Malone, in 1605, and, 
according to Chalmers, in 1606. 


SCENE. — In Britain and in Italy. 


Cymbeline’s first wife died when his three children 
(two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, 
the eldest of these children, was brought up in her 
father’s court, but the two sons were stolen out of 
their nursery during their infancy, and no trace of 
what had become of them, nor by whom they had 
been abducted, could be discovered. Cymbeline was 
again married. His second spouse was a wicked, plot- 
ting woman, and extremely cruel to her stepchild Imo- 


——— 


OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


gen, and yet, despite this hatred, desired her to marry 
Cloten, a son of her own by a former husband ; since 
by this means she hoped, at the death of her husband, 
to place the crown of Britain upon the head of Cloten, 
her own offspring. She was aware that if the lost 
children were not found, the princess Imogen would 
be the sole heir of the king. But this design was 
spoiled by Imogen herself, who married, without the 
consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen, 
an accomplished gentleman named Posthumus, whose 
father had died a soldier’s death in the wars for Cym- 
beline, and his mother, soon after his birth, died also 
for grief at the loss of her husband. Imogen and 
Posthumus grew up at court, and were playfellows 
from their infancy. When Cymbeline heard of this 
marriage, he banished Posthumus from his native land 
forever. The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen 
for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered 
to procure them a private meeting before Posthumus 
set out on his journey to Rome, whence he intended 
to go. The young couple took a most affectionate 
leave of each other. Imogen gave her husband a dia- 
mond ring, which had been her mother’s, and Posthu- 
mus promised never to part with this ring; he also 
fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he 
prayed she would preserve carefully as a token of his 
love, and both vowed eternal love and fidelity. 

Imogen remained a solitary and sad lady in her 
father’s palace, and Posthumus reached Rome, where 
he fell into company with some gay young men of dif- 
ferent nations, each one of them praising the ladies of 
his own country, and his own love. Posthumus, who 
praised his own dear Imogen as the most virtuous and 
constant woman in the world, offended by this speech 
a gentleman named Iachimo, who felt aggrieved that 
a lady of Britain should be so praised above the re- 
fined Roman ladies, his countrywomen. 

Posthumus, having wagered with Iachimo his ring 
against a sum of gold, that the chastity of his wife 
Imogen was invulnerable, the artful Italian, who had 
journeyed to Cymbeline’s palace in Britain, contrives 
to hide himself in her bed-chamber, and thus furnishes 
himself with particulars in describing her person and 
her apartment, and, as a further evidence, by stealing 
her bracelet, in order to induce Posthumus to give 
him the ring. Returning from Britain with the tokens 
he has stolen, Iachimo claims from Posthumus the 
forfeit of his wife’s infidelity. Posthumus at first 
doubts, as does his friend Philario, but Iachimo’s 
proofs are so strong, that he at length yields to their 
force, gives him indignantly the ring, and vows ven- 
geance on Imogen. Posthumus, now convinced of his 
wife’s inconstancy, employs his servant Pisanio to re- 
pair to Britain for the purpose of murdering her; but 
Pisanio, in the full belief of Imogen’s innocence, ad- 
vises her to disguise and absent herself for a time from 
her father’s court, and wait till her truth can be made 
apparent. Wandering in pursuit of this advice, she 
became very tired, and a kind Providence strangely 
directed her steps to the dwelling of her long-lost 
brothers, stolen in infancy by Belarius, a former lord 
in the court of Cymbeline. Belarius, banished for 
alleged treason, had brought the princes up in a forest, 
where he lived concealed in a cave. At this cave it 
was Imogen’s fortune to arrive, and she entered at 
once. On looking about, she discovered some meat, 
which she began to eat. Her two brothers, who aad 
been hunting with their reputed father, Belarius, by 
this time had returned home, and discovering the fair 
wanderer, imagined there was an angel in the cave, se 
beautiful did Imogen look in her boy’s apparel. Imo- 
gen now addressed them, and begged pardon for her in- 
trusion, offering money for what she had eaten, which 


Ixvili 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS 


—— 


they refused to accept. They invited her (or rather 
him, as she is introduced by the name Fidele,) to re- 
main until rested sufficiently to pursue the journey. 
When the brothers again were going out to hunt, Fi- 
dele could not accompany them, because she felt indis- 
posed. No sooner was Imogen left alone than she 
recollected the cordial which Pisanio had given her, 
drank it, and instantly fell into a death-like sleep. The 
phial containing this drug had been given to Pisanio 
by the queen, who hated him, she having ordered her 
physician to give her some poison, but knowing her 
malicious disposition, the physician gave her a drug 
which would cause a person to sleep with every ap- 
pearance of death. When Belarius and Imogen’s two 
brothers returned to the cave, they discovered that 
Fidele could not be awakened by any noise; deeming 
her dead, they carried her to a shady covert, and de- 
parted very sorrowful. Imogen had not been long 
left alone, when she awoke. Shaking off the. leaves 
and flowers thrown on her, she arose, and began to re- 
sume her weary pilgrimage, still in her masculine attire, 
to seek her husband. Meantime a war had broken out 
between the Roman emperor and Cymbeline; and a 
Roman army, having landed to invade Britain, had 
advanced into the forest where Imogen was journey- 
ing. She was captured, and made page to Lucius, 
the Roman genéral. Posthumus came with this army, 
not to fight on their side, but in the cause of the king 
who had banished him. A great battle ensued, which, 
owing to the extraordinary valor of Posthumus and 
the two long-lost sons of Cymbeline, proved a great 
victory to the Britons. When the battle was over, 
Posthumus surrendered himself to the officers of Cym- 
beline. Belarius, Imogen, and her master, Lucius, 
being taken prisoners, were brought before the 
king. Belarius, with Polydore and Cadwal, were also 
brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards for 
the great services they had rendered. Belarius chose 
the occasion to make his confession, and is forgiven. 
Cymbeline, overjoyed in having recovered his two 
sons, is reconciled with Posthumus and Imogen, and 
grants the life of the Roman general Lucius at his 
daughter’s request. Even the treacherous Iachimo, 
who was among the captives, was dismissed without 
punishment, after acknowledging his villany, and con- 
fessing how he had obtained the diamond ring found 
glittering on his finger. 


Imogen is a character it is almost impertinence to 
praise. She has all Juliet’s impetuous affection; but 
she is wiser far, and stands far above Posthumus. 
Compare her receiving Iachimo’s assertions of Post- 
humus’s infidelity with Posthumus receiving those 
against her. Note her noble indignation against 
Iachimo’s base proposals to her, in which the prin- 
cess, as well as the wife, speaks; and then how cley- 
erly the villain pacifies her by praising her husband. 
Great is the pathos of her words over the lost. brace- 
let. Then comes the meeting with her unknown 
brothers after she has heard her husband’s slander ; 
and then her seeming death. But she rises again, 
unlike the unhappy Juliet, to relive her life more 
truly than before—the queen, the life, the wife, of 
the husband she has lifted to herself, the sister of 
those gallant brothers, the daughter of the father, of 
whose comfort she was a great part. Posthumus’s 
faith in Imogen is of the half-romantic kind; he 
does not understand the value of the woman he has 
won, and hence the sudden overthrow of that faith. 
Cloten is the aristocratic fool, thick-witted and vio- 
lent, and with all the coarse conceit of a high-born 
boor. 


lxviii 


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 


See Page 803. 


HE story on which this play is formed is of great 

antiquity. Shakespeare probably gleaned it from 
Lawrence ‘l'wine’s novel, entitled ‘‘The Pattern of 
Painfull Adventures,” published in 1567. That he also 
knew the treatise based on the same matter, viz., 
‘‘Oonfessio Amantus,” by Gower, appears already from 
the réle of the chorus, which Shakespeare conveys to 
this ancient English poet for the elucidation of the 
plot and the connection of the various scenes. The 
English poet Dryden, in the prologue to his tragedy, 
“Circe” (1677), calls “ Pericles the first work born to 
Shakespeare’s muse.” This tragedy was entered at 
Stationers’ Hall, May 2, 1608, by Edward Blount, one 
of the printers of the first folio edition of Shake- 
speare’s works; but it did not appear in print unti, 
the following year, and then it was published not by 
Blount, but by Henry Gosson. 


SCENE.—In various countries. 


Antiochus, king of Antioch, desirous of having his 
daughter remain unmarried, and thus in his own keep- 
ing at the palace of his court, causes her suitors to 
be slain if they are unable to solve a riddle which he 
submits to them. In this way the great beauty of the 
young princess, who is presumed to be a virgin, be- 
comes a fatal snare to the lives of numerous wooers, 
who, while burning with ardent love for her, rashly 
undertake the great task of trying to untangle the 
puzzle. At last the enigma is solved by Pericles, 
Prince of Tyre, who at once resigns all his claims on 
the fair girl, since he has learned with horror, from 
the solution of the riddle, that king and princess — 
father and daughter — lived together in incest. Not- 
withstanding this refusal to marry the princess, Peri- 
cles is invited by Antioch to remain as a visitor at 
his court for some time. But the Prince of Tyre con- 
cluded not to stay, since it had been intimated to him 
that this invitation was merely extended to consum- 
mate his murder, Antiochus fearing the circulatio.. 
of the report of his nefarious conduct and that of his 
unchaste daughter. Pericles hastened away to Tyre, 
but even in that city he does not feel secure against 
the persecution of Antioch, and, fearing that his pres- 
ence at home might embroil the people of his country 
in war, resolves to go abroad for pleasure, meantime 
intrusting his government to the care of Helicanus, a 
lord of his court and one of his most faithful advisers. 
Pericles goes to Tarsus, where he soon becomes be- 
loved, and moreover ingratiates himself with the 
people by rendering them aid in a terrible famine, by 
supplying them with stores of provisions for their 
relief. Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, prevails on 
Pericles to settle in his country, but Pericles declines, 
and on resuming his travels he is driven by a storm at 
sea to the coast of Pentapolis, where he, as victor in a 
tournament, wins the hand of the fair Princess Thaisa, 
daughter of King Simonides. After staying a year at the 
court of his father-in-law, Pericles starts on his return 
home, having previously heard the news of Antiochus’s 
demise. The sea, never a friend to Pericles, treated 
him badly, for scarcely had the vessel set sail when 
another gale nearly wrecked the ship. The young 
wife of Pericles, who accompanied him, was terribly 
frightened by the fierceness of the tempest, and during 
its prevalence was confined and delivered of a daugh- 
ter, who, being born at sea, received the name Marina 
— that is, ‘‘the sea-born.” Thaisa while in childbed 
is afflicted with spasms and convulsions, and in this 
state, taken for dead, is placed in a well-sealed casket 


THE PLOTS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


and thrown in the sea, because the storm, which was 
still raging with unabated violence, worked on the 
superstitious sailors, who did not think the sea would 
become calm again so long as a dead body was on 
board. The waves drifted the casket towards the 
shores of Ephesus, where Cerimon, a noble physician 
of great renown, soon succeeded, by means of his 
science and art, in reviving the apparently dead Thaisa, 
and restoring her again to life and vigor. Thaisa now 
enters the temvle of Diana as a priestess to serve that 
goddess. Meantime, her husband, Pericles, filled with 
a consuming melancholy, had intrusted his daughter 
to the care of Cleon and his wife Dionyza, and left 
Tarsus for his home in Tyre. Marina grew up at the 
palace of her foster-parents, and when she had reached 
her fourteenth year, by her matchless beauty and 
unequalled mental gifts, provokes the jealousy and 
envy of her foster-mother, whose daughter, Philoten, 
was entirely obscured by the brilliant charms of 
Marina. Dionyza, determined to rid herself of such a 
rival, hires an assassin, who is just in the act of mur- 
dering the fair Marina when he is deprived of his victim 
by the sudden interference of some pirates, who wrest 
Marina from his clutches and escape with their fair 
prize to Mitylene, where they sell her to the keeper 
of a brothel. But the virtuous Marina knows not 
only how to keep herself pure and undefiled in the 
_ house of lust and sin, but also how to so impress her 
vicious tempters that they desist from their immoral 
practices. Through the intercession of the governor 
of Mitylene, Marina obtains her liberty, and by virtue 
of her many talents is enabled to maintain herself 
until she is found by her father, who, driven by melan- 
choly and despair, had again set out on his travels, and 
by a strange chance reached Mitylene, whence father 
and daughter embark for Ephesus. Here, visiting the 
temple of Diana, father and daughter have the inex- 
pressible joy of finding in the high-priestess the long- 
lost wife and mother. 

The drama concludes with Pericles and Thaisa bless- 
ing the nuptials of their daughter and Lysimachus, 
the governor of Mitylene, and giving the crown of 
Tyrus as a wedding-gift to the happy couple. Cleon 
and Dionyza, the wicked foster-mother of Thaisa, met 
with a sad but deserved fate at the hands of their own 
outraged people, who, enraged at their ingratitude 
towards Pericles—-the friend of the citizens in their 
great extremity— set fire to the palace, which was 
burned with all its. .ccupants in one general funeral pyre. 


SHAKESPEARE’S POEMS. 


See Page 822, 


ESIDES the thirty-seven plays contained in this edi- 
tion, Shakespeare wrote the following poems, which 
were at first published separately. In Venusand Adonis, 
entered in the Stationers’ register, and printed in 1593, 
we have the same luxuriance of fancy, the same inten- 
sity of passion as in Romeo and Juliet, unlawful as the 
indulgence in that passion is. From whatever source 
came the impulse to take from Ovid the heated story 
of the fierce lust of the heathen goddess, we cannot 
forbear noticing how, through this stifling atmosphere, 
the great poet has blown the fresh breezes of English 
meadows and woodlands. No play has fuller evidence 
of Shakespeare’s intimate knowledge and intense de- 
light in country scenes and sights. This poem was 
printed six times during Shakespeare’s life, and was 
dedicated by Shakespeare, when twenty-nine years of 
age, to the young Earl of Southampton. The Rape of 
Lucrece followed, 1594, and was also dedicated to 
Southampton, as ‘‘ the first heir of my invention,” who, 
according to Sir William d’Avenant’s statement, pre- 
sented the poet with the sum of £1000, so he might 
make some purchase. If the incident is accepted as a 
fact, itis honorable to the liberality as well as the culti- 
vated taste of the Earl of Southampton, and shows that 
the ‘‘poor Warwickshire lad” met with a munificent 
patron at an early stage of his literary career. The 
Passionate Pilgrim was printed in 1599; A Lover’s 
Complaint, not dated; and a collection of Sonnets 
appeared in 1609. That some of these sonnets existed 
in 1598 we now know. They are so evidently intensely 
autobiographic and self-revealing, so one with the 
spirit and inner meaning of Shakespeare’s growth and 
life, that we cannot take them in any other way than 
as the records of his loves and fears. Shakespeare 
admirers are so anxious to remove any seeming stain 
from the character of their ideal, that they deny that 
these sonnets are life pictures, forgetting how great is 
the difference between our times and those of Queen 
Elizabeth, and that an intimacy now thought crim- 
inal was then, in certain circles, nearly as common as 
hand-shaking is with us. ‘‘ There are some men who 
love for ‘love’s sake,’ and loving once love always; 
and of these was Shakespeare,” says a distinguished 
author. ‘They do not lightly give their love, but 
once given, their faith is incorporate with their being.” 
lxix 


CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER 


In which the Plays of Shakespeare are supposed to have been written, ac- 
cording to the arrangements of 


CHALMERS, MALONE, AND DR. DRAKE. 


Chalmers and Malone reject Titus Andronicus and Pericles 
as spurious. Dr. Drake does not notice the former play, but, 
on the authority of Dryden, admits the latter as genuine, and 
supposes it to have been produced in1890. The dates which 
they severally ascribe to the remaining plays are as follows: 


Chalmers. | Malone. | Dr. Drake. 


Tork CoMEDY OF Errors. .... 1591 1592 
Love’s Lanour’s Losr .... . 1592 1594 
RoMEon AND J ULIET-S Shag ey 2 1592 1596 
Henry. VL, ‘EresrePanrie sit yc 1698 1589 
Henry VI., Szeoonp Part... . 1595 1591 
HENRY vith Turrp Parr . . ; 1595 1591 
Tor Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA é 1595 1591 
Biosaep ALIS) oat ee ees tea 2 A 1595 1593 
Ricwarp IL “cata was ane 1596 1593 
Tue Merry WIvEs or WInpsor ki 1596 1601 
Henry, IV,j: Fiest Parte oii <1]! 1896 1597 
HENRY IV. SECOND, -PART) 9 ee 1597 1599 
Henry V.. . ae 1597 1599 
THE Meronanr OF “VENtOR . DA pls 1597 1594 
EV AMERP 3) SSH ee ehe aas hy! nae oR tian 1597 1600 
Kineu FORM the eae 1598 1596 

A MipsummEr-NicHt's Ss Dream a 1598 1594 
- Tue TAMING oF THE SHREW .. . 1598 1596 
AtL’s WELL THAT Enps WELL .. 1599 1606 
Muon Apo asour Nornme .. . 1599 1600 
Asi ou Dieedry hs b oe ae aR 1599 1599 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA... 4°55." . 1600 1602 
‘TIMON OF ATHENS) < 3 woos ie SAA 1601 1610 
(LEER INTER SS UALB: 24 ido ieee 1601 1611 
Measure FoR MEASURE . .... 1604 16038 
ACL TAS Ree gk Gat! bs te DON 1605 1605 
CSR AEIOEN be ti toes ek Nya oy EP yi en ue 1606 1609 
NEA CHR UMER Mou s ok, Ved bee 1606 1606 
JuLIUS CaHSAR . . Bn ii 8 1607 1607 
ANTONY AND OLEOPATRA Ss 1608 1608 
OCORIGLANUAs Gaal A he OE pe’ Saaee 1609 1610 
THE TEMPEST . 1618 1611 
TweLrru NIGHT; oR, Waar You Wit 1618 1607 
Hewry: (VERS gale et ae gc ese 1613 16038 
OTe roi.) eee ee eta ae cae 1614 1604 


}xx 


eB VE PEs: 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Alonso, King of Naples. 

Sebastian, his brother. 

Prospero, the right Duke of Milan. 

Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan. 
Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples. 

Gonzalo, an honest old Counsellor. 

Adrian, 
Francisco, } Lords. 

Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. 
Trinculo, a Jester. 

Stephano, a drunken Butler. 

Master of a Ship. 


Boatswain. — 

Mariners. 

Miranda, daughter to Prospero. 
Ariel, an airy Spirit. 

Tris, 
Ceres, 
Juno, 
Nymphs, 
Reapers, 


presented by Spirits. 


Other Spirits attending on Prospero. 
SCENE—A ship at Sea: an island. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLI.] 


pee SEY 1 


SCENE I.— Ona ship at sea: a tempestuous noise | 


of thunder and lightning heard. 


Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain. 


Mast. Boatswain! 
Boats. Here, master: what cheer ? 
Mast. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to ’t, 
yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. 
[ Hxcit. 
Enter Mariners. 


Boats. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my 
hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to 
the master’s whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy 
wind, if room enough! 


Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, 
Gonzalo, and others. 


Alon. Good boatswain, have care. 
master? Play the men. 

Boats. I pray now, keep below. 

Ant. Where is the master, boatswain ? 

Boats. Do you not hear him? You mar our 
labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. 

Gon. Nay, good, be patient. 

Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What cares 
these roarers for the name of king? To cabin: 
silence! trouble us not. 

Gon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 

Boats. None that I more love than myself. You 
are a counsellor; if you can command these ele- 
ments to silence, and work the peace of the present, 
we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: 
if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, 
and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mis- 
chance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good 
hearts! Out of our way, I say. Exit. 

Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow: me- 
thinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his 
complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good 
Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny 
our cable, for our own doth little advantage. If he 
be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable. 

[| Hxeunt. 


Where’s the 


Re-enter Boatswain. 

Boats. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, 
lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [A cry 
within.| A plague upon this howling! they are 
louder than the weather or our office. 


Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo. 


Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o’er 
and drown ? Have you a mind to sink ? 

Seb. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blas- 
phemous, incharitable dog ! 

Boats. Work you then. 

Ant. Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent 
noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned 
than thou art. 

Gon. Ill warrant him for drowning; though the 
ship were no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky 
as an unstanched wench. 

Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold ! set her two courses 
off to sea again ; lay her off. 


Enter Mariners wet. 


Mariners. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! 

Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ? 

Gon. The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist 
For our case is as theirs. [them, 

Seb. I’m out of patience. 

Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunk- 


ards: 
This wide-chapp’d rascal— would thou mightst lie 
drowning 
The washing of ten tides! 
Gon. He’ll be hang’d yet, 
Though every drop of water swear against it 
And gape at widest to glut him. 
[A confused noise within: ‘ Mercy on us! ’— 
‘We split, we split! ’—‘ Farewell my wife and chil- 
dren ! ’— [split ! 7] 
‘Farewell, brother!’—‘We split, we split, we 
Ant. Let’s all sink with the king. 
Seb. Let’s take leave of him. 
[Hxeunt Ant. and Seb. 
Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of 
sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown 
furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I 
would fain die a dry death. [ Exewnt. 


A 


ACT Rg 


SCENE II.—The island. Before Prospero’s cell. 
Enter Prospero and Miranda. 


Miv. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. 

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, 
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek, 
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered 

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel, 

Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, 
Dash’d all to pieces. O, the ery did knock 
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d. 
Had I been any god of power, I would 

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere 

It should the good ship so have swallow’d and 
The fraughting souls within her. 

Pros. Be collected : 
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart 
There’s no harm done. 

Mir. 

Pros. 

I have done nothing but in care of thee, 

Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who 
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing 
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better 
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 

And thy no greater father. 


O, woe the day! 
No harm. 


Mir. More to know 
Did never meddle with my thoughts. 

Pros. *T is time 
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, 

And pluck my magic garment from me. So: 
. [Lays down his mantle. 
Lie there, my art. .Wipe thou thine eyes; have 
comfort. 
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d 
The very virtue of compassion in thee, 
I have with such provision in mine art 
So safely ordered that there is no soul — 
No, not so much perdition as an hair 
Betid to any creature in the vessel 
Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. 
Sit down; 
For thou must now know farther. 

Mir. You have often 
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d 
And left me to a bootless inquisition, 

Concluding ‘ Stay: not yet.’ 

Pros. The hour’s now come; 

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; 

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember 

A time before we came unto this cell ? 

I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not 
Out three years old. 

Mir. Certainly, sir, I can. 

Pros. By what? by any other house or person ? 
Of any thing the image tell me that 
Hath kept with thy remembrance. 

Mir. ’T is far off 
And rather like a dream than an assurance 
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not 
Four or five women once that tended me ? 

Pros. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how 
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else 
In the dark backward and abysm of time ? 

If thou remember’st aught ere thou camest here, 
How thou camest here thou mayst. 

Mir. But that I do not. 

Pros. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year 
Thy father was the Duke of Milan and [since, 
A prince of power. 

Mir. Sir, are not you my father ? 

Pros. 'Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and 
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father 
Was Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir 
ne princess no worse issued. 

ALU? « 


fis it 


O the heavens! 
9 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE II. 


What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? 
Or blessed was ’t we did ? 
Pros. Both, both, my girl: 
By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heaved thence, 
But blessedly holp hither. 
Mir. O, my heart bleeds 
To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to, 
Which isfrom my remembrance! Please you, farther. 
Pr. My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio — 
I pray thee, mark me—that a brother should 
Be so perfidious!— he whom next thyself 
Of all the world I loved and to him put 
The manage of my state; as at that time 
Through all the signories it was the first 
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed 
In dignity, and for the liberal arts 
Without a parallel; those being all my study, 
The government I cast upon my brother 
And to my state grew stranger, being transported 
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle — 
Dost thou attend me ? 
Mir. Sir, most heedfully. 
Pros. Being once perfected how to grant suits, 
How to deny them, who to advance and who 
To trash for over-topping, new created 
The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em, 
Or else new form’d ’em; having both the key 
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state 
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was 
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, [not. 
And suck’d my verdure out on’t. Thou attend’st 
Mir. O, good sir, I do. 
Pros. I pray thee, mark me. 
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
To closeness and the bettering of my mind 
With that which, but by being so retired, 
O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother 
Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, 
Like a good parent, did beget of him 
A falsehood in its contrary as great 
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, 
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, 
Not only with what my revenue yielded, 
But what my power might else exact, like one 
Who having into truth, by telling of it, 
Made such a sinner of his memory, 
To credit his own lie, he did believe 
He was indeed the duke; out 0’ the substitution, 
And executing the outward face of royalty, 
With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing— 
Dost thou hear ? 
Mir. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. 
Pros. To have no screen between this part he 
And him he play’d it for, he needs will be [play’d 
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library 
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties 
He thinks me now incapable; confederates — 
So dry he was for sway — wi’ the King of Naples 
To give him annual tribute, do him homage, 
Subject his coronet to his crown and bend 
The dukedom yet unbow’d— alas, poor Milan ! — 
To most ignoble stooping. 
} O the heavens! 


ir. 
Pros. Mark his condition and the event; then tell 
If this might be a brother. [me 
fir. I should sin 
To think but nobly of my grandmother : 
Good wombs have borne bad sons. 
Pros. Now the condition. 
This King of Naples, being an enemy 
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; 
Which was, that he, in lieu 0’ the premises 
Of homage and I know not how much tribute, 
Should presently extirpate me and mine 
Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan 
With all the honours on my brother: whereon, 


| A treacherous army levied, one midnight 


“nig Ot a oe 


Fated to the purpose did Antonio open 
The gates of Milan, and, i’ the dead of darkness, 
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 
Me and thy crying self. 

Mir. Alack, for pity! 
I, not remembering how I cried out then, 
Will ery it o’er again: it is a hint 
That wrings mine eyes to ’t. 

Pros: Hear a little further 
And then Ill bring thee to the present business 
Which now’s upon ’s; without the which this story 


Were most impertinent. 
} Wherefore did they not 


a, 

That hour destroy us ? 
Pros. Well demanded, wench: 

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, 

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set 

A mark so bloody on the business, but 

With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, 

Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared 

A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d, 

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 

Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us, 

To cry to the sea that roar’d to us, to sigh © 

To the winds whose pity, sighing back again, 

Did us but loving wrong. 

Mir. Alack, what trouble 
Was I then to you! 

Pros. O, a cherubin 
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, 
Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 

When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, 
Under my burthen groan’d; which raised in me 
An undergoing stomach, to bear up 
Against what should ensue. 
Mir. How came we ashore ? 
Pros. By providence divine. 
Some food we had and some fresh water that 
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
Out of his charity, being then appointed 
Master of this design, did give us, with 
Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, [ness, 
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentle- 
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d me 
From mine own library with volumes that 
I prize above my dukedom. 

Mir. Would I might 
But ever see that man! 

Pros. Now L arise: [Resumes his mantle. 
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 

Here in this island we arrived; and here 

Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
Than other princesses can that have more time 
For vainer hours and tutors not so careful. [you, sir, 

Mir. Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray 
For still tis beating in my mind, your reason 
For raising this sea-storm ? 

Pros. Know thus far forth. 
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, 
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies 
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience 
I find my zenith doth depend upon 
A most auspicious star, whose influence 
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes 
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions: 
Thou art inclined to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, 
And give it way; I know thou canst not choose. 

[Miranda sleeps. 
Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. 
Approach, my Ariel, come. 
Enter Ariel. 

Ari. Allhail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come 

To answer thy best pleasure; be ’t to fly, 


To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task 


THE TEMPEST. 


IT. 


SCENE 


| Ariel and all his quality. 


roe: Hast thou, spirit, 
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee ? 
Ari. To every article. 
I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak, 
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide, 
And burn in many places; on the topmast, 
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 
Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the precursors 
O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary 
And sight out-running were not ; the fire and cracks 
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune 
Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, 
Yea, his dread trident shake. 
Pros; My brave spirit! 
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
Would not infect his reason ? 
‘Art. Not a soul 
But felt a fever of the mad and play’d 
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, 
Then all afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand, 
With hair up-staring,— then like reeds, not hair,— 
Was the first man that leap’d; cried, ‘ Hell is empty, 
And all the devils are here.’ 


Pros. Why, that’s my spirit! 
But was not this nigh shore ? 
Ari. Close by, my master. 


Pros. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 

Ari. Not a hair perish’d; 
On their sustaining garments not a blemish, 

But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, 
In troops I have dispersed them *bout the isle. 
The king’s son have I landed by himself ; 

Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs 

In an odd angle of the isle and sitting, 

His arms in this sad knot. 

Pros: Of the king’s ship 
The mariners say how thou hast disposed 
And all the rest 0’ the fleet. 

Ari. Safely in harbour 
Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once 
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still-vex’d Bermoothes, there she’s hid: 
The mariners all under hatches stow’d; 

Who, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour, 
I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet 
Which I dispersed, they all have met again 

And are upon the Mediterranean flote, 

Bound sadly home for Naples, 

Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wreck’d 
And his great person perish. 

TOS. Ariel, thy charge 
Exactly is perform’d: but there’s more work. 
What is the time o’ the day ? 

Art; Past the mid season. 
Pros. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six 
Must by us both be spent most preciously. [and now 
Art. Isthere more toil? Since thou dost give me 
pains, 
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, 
Which is not yet perform’d me. 


TOS. How now? moody ? 
What is ’t thou canst demand ? 
et My liberty. 
Pros. Before the time be out ? no more! 
Avi. I prithee, 
Remember I have done thee worthy service ; 
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served 
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst 


To bate me a full year. [promise 
Pros. Dost thou forget 
From what a torment I did free thee ? ‘ 
No. 


rr. 
Pros. Thou dost, and think’st it much to tread 
Of the salt deep, [the ooze 


3 


MOTI 


To run upon the sharp wind of the north, 
To do me business in the veins 0’ the earth 
When it is baked with frost. 

Ari. I do not, sir. [forgot 

Pros. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou 
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy 
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her ? 

Art. No, sir. [speak ; tell me. 

Pros. Thou hast. Where was she born? 

Ari. Sir, in Argier. 

Pyros. O, was she so? I must 
Once in a month recount what thou hast been, 
Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax, 
For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible 
To enter human hearing, from Argier, 
Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did 
They would not take her life. Is not this true? 

Ari. Ay, sir. [with child 

Pros. This blue-eyed hag was hither brought 
And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, 
As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant; 
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, 
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, 

By help of her more potent ministers 

And in her most unmitigable rage, 

Into a cloven pine; within which rift 

Imprison’d thou didst painfully remain 

A dozen years: within which space she died 

And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans 
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— 
Save for the son that she did litter here, 

A freckled whelp hag-born — not honour’d with 

A human shape. 

Ari. Yes, Caliban her son. 

Pros. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban 
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st 
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans 
Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts 
Of ever angry bears: it was a torment 
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax 
Could not again undo: it was mine art, 

When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape 
The pine and let thee out. 

Art. I thank thee, master. 

Pr. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak 
And peg thee in his knotty entrails till 
Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. 

Ari. Pardon, master; 
I will be correspondent to command 
And do my spiriting gently. 


ros. Do so, and after two days 
I will discharge thee. 
Ari. That ’s my noble master! 


What shall I do? say what; what shall I do? 
Pros. Go make thyself like anymph o’ the sea: be 
To no sight but thine and mine, invisible [subject 
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape 
And hither come in ’t: go, hence with diligence! 
[Hxit Ariel. 
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; 
Awake! 
Mir. The strangeness of your story put 
Heaviness in me. 
Pros. Shake it off. Come on; 
We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never 
Yields us kind answer. 


Mir. ’"T is a villain, sir, 
I do not love to look on. 
Pros. But, as ’tis, 


We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, 
Fetch in our wood and serves in offices 
That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban! 
Thou earth, thou! speak. 
Cal. [Within] There’s wood enough within. 
Pyros. Come forth, I say! there’s other business 
Come, thou tortoise! when ? for thee: 


4 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE Il. 


Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph. 
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, 
Hark in thine ear. 
Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Hwit. 
Pros. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil him- 
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! [self 


Enter Caliban. 


Cal. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d 
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen 
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye 
And blister you all o’er! [cramps, 

Pros. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have 
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins 
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, 
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d 
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging 
Than bees that made ’em. 

Cal. I must eat my dinner. 
This island ’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, 

Which thoutakest from me. When thou camest first, 
Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst 
Water with berries in ’t, and teach me how[give me 
To name the bigger light, and how the less, 

That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee 
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ the isle, 

The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fer- 
Cursed be I that did so! All the charms [tile : 
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! 

For I am all the subjects that you have, 

Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me 
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me 

The rest 0’ the island. 

Pros. Thou most lying slave, [thee, 
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used 
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee 
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate 
The honour of my child. . 

Cal. O ho, O ho! would ’t had been done! 

Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else 

This isle with Calibans. 

Pros. Abhorred slave, 

Which any print of goodness wilt not take, 

Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, 

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour 

One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, 

Kknow thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like 

A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes 

With words that made them known. But thy vile 
race, [natures 

Though thou didst learn, had that in *t which good 

Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou 

Deservedly confined into this rock, 

Who hadst deserved more than a prison. 

Cal. You taught me language ; and my profit on ’t 
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you 
For learning me your language! 

Pros. Hag-seed, hence! 
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best, 

To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice ? 
If thou neglect’st or dost unwillingly 

What I command, Ill rack thee with old cramps, 
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar 

That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 

Cal. No, pray thee. 
[Aside] I must obey: his art is of such power, 
ft would control my dam’s god, Setebos, 

And make a vassal of him. 

Pros. So, slave; hence! [Hwit Caliban. 
Re-enter Ariel, invisible, playing and singing; Fer- 

dinand following. 
Ariel’s song. 
Come unto these yellow sands, 
And then take hands: 


Courtsied when you have and kiss’d 
The wild waves whist, 


aol FF 


Foot it featly here and there; 
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 
Burthen [dispersedly]. Hark, hark! 
Bow-wow. 
The watch-dogs bark: 


Bow-wow. 
Ari. Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 


Fer. Where should this music be? i’ the air or the 
It sounds no more; and, sure, it waits upon [earth? 
Some god o’ the island. Sitting on a bank, 
Weeping again the king my father’s wreck, 

This music crept by me upon the waters, 
Allaying both their fury and my passion 
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it, 
Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’t is gone. 
No, it begins again. 
Ariel sings. 
Full fathom five thy father lies; 
Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 
Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
Burthen. Ding-dong. 
Ari. Hark! now I hear them,— Ding-dong, bell. 


Fer. The ditty does remember my drown’d father. 
This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
That the earth owes. I hear it now above me. 

Pyros. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance 
And say what thou seest yond. 

ae . What ist? a spirit ? 
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 
It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit. [Senses 

Pros. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such 
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest 
Was in the wreck; and, but he’s something stain’d 
With grief that’s beauty’s canker, thou mightst 
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows [call him 
And strays about to find ’em. 

Mir. I might call him 
A thing divine, for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble. 

Pros. [ Aside| It goes on, I see, 
As my soul prompts it. 
Within two days for this. 

Fer. Most sure, the goddess 
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer 
May know if you remain upon this island ; 

And that you will some good instruction give 
How I may bear me here: my prime request, 
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! 
If you be maid or no? 


[free thee 
Spirit, fine spirit! IU 


Mir. No wonder, sir; 
But certainly a maid. 

er. My language! heavens! 
I am the best of them that speak this speech, 
Were I but where ’t is spoken. 

Pros. How ? the best ? 
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee ? 
Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders 

To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; 
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, 

Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld 
oe king my father wreck’d. 


vee 
Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of 
And his brave son being twain. [Milan 
Pros. [Aside] The Duke of Milan 
And his more braver daughter could control thee, 
If now ’t were fit to do’t. At the first sight 
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, [sir ; 
Ill set thee free for this. [To Fer.] A word, good 
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. 
Mir. Why speaks my father so ungently? This 


Alack, for mercy ! 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE II. 


Is the third man that e’er I saw, the first 
That e’er I sigh’d for: pity move my father 
To be inclined my way! 
Fer. O, if a virgin, 
And your affection not gone forth, I ll make you 
The queen of Naples. 
Pros. Soft, sir! one word more. 
[Aside] They are both in either’s powers; but this 
swift business 
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
Make the prize light. [To Fer.] One word more; I 
charge thee 
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp 
The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself 
Upon this island as a spy, to win it 
From me, the lord on ’t. 
Fer. No, as Iam aman. 
Mir. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a 


If the ill spirit have so fair a house, [temple: 
Good things will strive to dwell with ’t. 

Pyros. Follow me. 
Speak not you for him; he’s atraitor. Come; 


Ill manacle thy neck and feet together: 
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be 
The fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots and husks 
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. 
Fer. No; 
I will resist such entertainment till 
Mine enemy has more power. 
[Draws, and is charmed from moving. 
Mir. O dear father, 
Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
He’s gentle and not fearful. 
Eye What? I say, 
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; 
Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy con- 
science 
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward, 
For I can here disarm thee with this stick 
And make thy weapon drop. 
Mir. Beseech you, father. 
Pros. Hence! hang not on my garments. 


Mir. Sir, have pity; 
I'll be his surety. 
Pros. Silence! one word more 


Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! 
An advocate for an impostor! hush! 

Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he, 
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! 
To the most of men this is a Caliban 

And they to him are angels. 

Mir. My affections 
Are then most humble; I have no ambition 
To see a goodlier man. 

Pros. Come on; obey: 

Thy nerves are in their infancy again 
And have no vigour in them. 

Fer. So they are; 
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, 
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats, 
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, 
Might I but through my prison once a day 
Behold this maid: all corners else 0’ the earth 
Let liberty make use of; space enough 
Have I in such a prison. 

Pros. [Aside] It works. [To Fev.] Come on. 
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [Zo Fer.] Follow 
[To Ari.] Hark what thou else shalt dome. _ [me. 

Mir. Be of comfort; 

My father ’s of a better nature, sir, 
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted 
Which now came from him. 

Pros. Thou shalt be as free 
As mountain winds: but then exactly do 
All points of my command. 

Ari. To the syllable. 

Pros. Come, follow. Speak not for him. [EHweunt. 


5 


ACT II. 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE I. 


— 


Va.8e, GS Bibi) BBC 


SCENE I.— Another part of the island. 


Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, 
Adrian, Francisco, and others. 


Gon. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, 
So have we all, of joy; for our escape 
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe 

Is common; every day some sailor’s wife, 

The masters of some merchant and the merchant 
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, 
I mean our preservation, few in millions 

Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh 
Our sorrow with our comfort. 

Alon. Prithee, peace. 

Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge. 

Ant. The visitor will not give him o’er so. 

Seb. Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; 

Gon. Sir,— [by and by it will strike. 

Seb. One: tell. [offer’d, 

Gon. When every grief is entertain’d that’s 
Comes to the entertainer — 

Seb. A dollar. [spoken truer than you purposed. 

Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have 

Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant 

Gon. Therefore, my lord,— [you should. 

Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! 

Alon. I prithee, spare. 

Gon. Well, I have done: but yet,— 

Seb. He will be talking. [first begins to crow ? 

Ant, Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, 

Seb. The old cock. 

Ant. The cockerel. 

Seb. Done. The wager ? 

Ant. A laughter. 

Seb. A match! 

Adr. Though this island seem to be desert,— 

Seb. Ha, ha, ha! So, you’re paid. 

Adr. Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,— 

Seb. Yet,— 

Adr. Yet— 

Ant. He could not miss ’t. [cate temperance. 

Adv. It must needs be of subtle, tender and deli- 

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench. [livered. 

Seb. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly de- 

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 
. Asif it had lungs and rotten ones. 

. Or as ’t were perfumed by a fen. 

Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life. 

. True; save means to live. 

. Of that there ’s none, or little. Leteon) 
Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how 

Ant. The ground indeed is tawny. 

Seb. With an eye of green in’t. 

Ant. He misses not much. 

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 

Gon. But the rarity of it is;— which is indeed al- 
most beyond credit,— 

Seb. As many vouched rarities are. 

Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, 
drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their 
freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than 
stained with salt water. [it not say he lies ? 

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak,would 

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. 

Gon. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as 
when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage 
of the king’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of 
Tunis. [well in our return. 

Seb. "I' was a sweet marriage, and we prosper 

Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a 
paragon to their queen. 

Gon. Not since widow Dido’s time. 

Ant. Widow! a pox o’ that! “How came that 
widow in? widow Dido! 

6 


Seb. What if he had said ‘ widower Aineas’ too? 
Good Lord, how you take it! 

Adr. * Widow Dido’ said you? you make me 
study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. 

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 

Adr. Carthage ? 

Gon. I assure you, Carthage. 

Seb. His word is more than the miraculous harp; 
he hath raised the wall and houses too. 

Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy 
next ? 

Seb. I think he will carry this island home in his 
pocket and give it his son for an apple. 

Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, 

Gon. Ay. [bring forth more islands. 

Ant. Why, in good time. 

Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments 
seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at 
the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. 

Ant. And the rarest that e’er came there. 

Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. 

Ant. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido. 

Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first 
day I wore it? I mean, in a sort. 

Ant. That sort was well fished for. [riage ? 

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter’s mar- 

Alon. Youcram these words into mine ears against 
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never 
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, 
My son is lost and, in my rate, she too, 

Who is so far from Italy removed 

I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 

Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish 

Hath made his meal on thee ? 

Fran. Sir, he may live: 

I saw him beat the surges under him, 

And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, 

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 

The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head 

’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d 

Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 

To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d, 

As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt 

He came alive to land. 

Alon. No, no, he’s gone. ___[loss, 

Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great 
That would not bless our Europe with your daugh- 
But rather lose her to an African; [ter, 
Where she at least is banish’d from your eye, 

Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t. 

Alon. Prithee, peace. 

Seb. You were kneel’d to and importuned other- 
By all of us, and the fair soul herself [wise 
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at 
Which end 0’ the beam should bow. We have lost 
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have [your son, 
More widows in them of this business’ making 
Than we bring men to comfort them: 

The fault ’s your own. 

Alon. So is the dear’st 0’ the loss. 

Gon. My lord Sebastian, 

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness 

And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, 

When you should bring the plaster. 
Seb. Very well. 
Ant. And most chirurgeonly. 

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 
When you are cloudy. 

Seb. Foul weather ? 

Ant. Very foul. 

Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,— 

Ant. He’ld sow ’t with nettle-seed. 

Seb. Or docks, or mallows. 

Gon. And were the king on’t, what would I do? 


ACT ITI, 


Seb. *Scape being drunk for want of wine. 

Gon. V the commonwealth I would by contraries 
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic 
Would I admit; no name of magistrate ; 

Letters should not be known: : riches, poverty, 

And use of service, none; contract, succession, 

Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; 

No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; 

No occupation ; "all men idle, all; 

And women too, but innocent and pure ; 

No sovereignty ;— 
Seb. Yet he would be king on’t. 
Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth for gets 

the beginning. 

Gon. All things in common nature should produce 
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, 
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, 
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, 

To feed my innocent people. 

Seb. No marrying ’mong his subjects ? 

Ant. None, man; all idle: whores and knaves. 

Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir, 
To excel the golden age. 


Seb. God save his majesty! 
Ant. Long live Gonzalo! 
Gon. And,—do you mark me, sir ? 


‘ Alon. Prithee, no more: "thou ‘dost talk nothing 
oO me. 

Gon. I do well believe your highness; and did it 
to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of 
such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use 
to laugh at nothing. 

Ant. "Twas you we laughed at. 

Gon. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing 
to you: so you may continue and laugh at nothing 

Ant. What a blow was there given! [still. 

Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long. 

Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you 
would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would 
continue in it five weeks without changing. 


Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music. 


Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. 
Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 
Gon. No, | warrant you; I will not adventure my 
discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for 
Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. [lé am very heavy ? 
[All sleep except Alon., Seb., and Ant. 
Alon. What. all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes 
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find 
They are inclined to do so. 
Seb. Please you, sir, 
Do not omit the heavy offer of it: 
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, 
It is a comforter. 
Ant. We two, my lord, 
Will guard your person while you take your rest, 
And watch your safety. 
Alon. Thank you. Wondrous heavy. 
[Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel. 
Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them ! 
ae It is the quality o’ the climate. 
Why 


S 
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find ine 
Myself disposed to sleep. 

Ant Nor I; my spirits are nimble. 
They fell together all, as by consent ; 
They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, 
Worthy Sebastian ? O, what might ?— No more: — 
And yet me thinks I see it in thy face, 
What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and 
My strong imagination sees a crown 


Dropping upon thy head. 
Seb. What, art thou waking ? 
Ant. Do you not hear me speak ? 
Seb. I do; and surely 


THE THEMPEST. 


SCENE I. 


It is a sleepy language and thou speak’st 
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say ? 
This is a strange repose, to be asleep 
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, 
And yet so fast asleep. 

Noble Sebastian, 


Ant 
Thow let’st thy fortune sleep —die, rather; wink’st 
Whiles thou art waking. 

Seb. “Thou dost snore distinctly ; : 
There ’s meaning in thy snores. 

Ant. Iam more serious than my custom: you 
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do 
Trebles thee o’er. 


Seb. Well, I am standing water. 
Ant. I'll teach you how to flow. 
Seb. Do so: to ebb 


Ripe sloth instructs me. » 
t 


nt. j 
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, 
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed, 
Most often do so near the bottom run 

By a own fear or sloth. : 
Prithee, say on: 

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim 

A matter from thee, and a birth indeed 

Which throes thee much to yield. 

Ant. Thus, sir: 
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, 
Who shall be of as little memory 
When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— 
For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only 
Professes to persuade,—the king his son ’s alive, 
’T is as impossible that he’s undrown’d 
As he that sleeps here swims. 

eb. I have no hope 

ie ed s undrown’d. 

O, out of that ‘no hope’ 
What ‘great hope have you! no hope that way is 
Another way so high a hope that even 
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, 
But doubt discovery there. Will you erant with me 
That Ferdinand is drown’d ? 


Seb. He’s gone. 

Ant. Then, tell me, 
Who’s the next heir of Naples ? 

Seb. Claribel. 


Ant. She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells 
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she ‘that from Naples 
Can have no note, unless the sun were post — 

The man i’ the moon’s too slow—till new-born chins 
Be rough and razorable; she that —from whom ? 
We all were sea-swallow *d, though some cast again, 
And by that destiny to perform an act 
Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come 
In yours and my discharge. 

eb. What stuff is this! how say you? 
°T is true, my brother’s daughter ’s queen of Tunis; 
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions 
There is some space. 

Ant. A space whose every cubit 
Seems to ery out, ‘ How shall that Claribel 
Measure us back. to Naples : ? Keep in Tunis, 

And let Sebastian wake.’ Say, this were death 
That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse 
Than now they are. There be that can rule N aples 
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate 

As amply and unnecessarily 

As this Gonzalo; I myself could make 

A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore 

The mind that I do! what a sleep were this 

For your advancement! Do you understand me? 

Seb. Methinks I do. 

Ant. And how does your content 
a ee your own good fortune ? 

I remember 
on did supplant your brother Prospero. 


7 


ACT II. THE 
Ant. True: 
And look how well my garments sit upon me; 
Much feater than before: my brother’s servants 
Were then my fellows; now they are my men. 
Seb. But, for your conscience ? 
Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’t were a kibe, 
°T would put me to my slipper: but I feel not 
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences, 
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they 
And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, 
No better than the earth he lies upon, 
If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead; 
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, 
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, 
To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who 
Should not upbraid. our course. For all the rest, 
They ’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk; 
They ’Il tell the clock to any business that 
We say befits the hour. 
Seb. Thy case, dear friend, 
Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan, 
T’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke 
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest; 
And I the king shall love thee. 
Ant. Draw together ; 
And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 
To fall it on Gonzalo. 


Seb. O, but one word. [They talk apart. 


Re-enter Ariel, invisible. 


Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger 
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth — 
For else his project dies —to keep them living. 

[Sings in Gonzalo’s ear. 
While you here do snoring lie, 
Open-eyed conspiracy 
His time doth take. 
If of life you keep a care, 
Shake off slumber, and beware: 
Awake, awake! 


Ant. Then let us both be sudden. 
on. Now, good angels 
Preserve the king. They wake. 
Alon. Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are 
Wherefore this ghastly looking ? [you drawn ? 
Gon. What ’s the matter ? 
Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, 
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing 
Like bulls, or rather lions: did ’t not wake you ? 
It struck mine ear most terribly. 
Alon. I heard nothing. 
Ant. O, ’t was a din to fright a monster’s ear, 
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar 
Of a whole herd of lions. 
Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? 
Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, 
And that a strange one too, which did awake me: 
I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open’d, 
I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise, 
That’s verily. Tis best we stand upon our guard, 
Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons. 
Alon. Lead off this ground; and let’s make fur- 
For my poor son. [ther search 
Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts! 
For he is, sure, i’ the island. 
Alon. Lead away. ([done: 
Avi. Prospero my lord shall know what I have 
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — Another part of the island. 
Finter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of 
thunder heard. 

Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up 
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him 
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me 
And yet I needs must curse. But they ’ll nor pinch, 

8 


TEMPEST. 


SCENE II. 


Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, 
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark 

Out of my way, unless he bid ’em:; but 

For every trifle are they set upon me; 

Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me 
And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which 

Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount 
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I 

All wound with adders who with cloven tongues 
Do hiss me into madness. 


Enter Trinculo. 


Lo, now, lo! 
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me 
For bringing wood in slowly. Ill fall flat; 
Perchance he will not mind me. 

Trin. Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear off 
any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I 
hear it sing i’ the wind: yond same black cloud, 
yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would 
shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did be- 
fore, I know not where to hide my head: yond same 
cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What 
have we here? a man ora fish? dead or alive? A 
fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish- 
like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. 
A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I 
was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday 
fool there but would give a piece of silver: there 
would this monster make a man; any strange beast 
there makes a man: when they will not give a doit 
to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see 
a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins 
like arms! Warm o’ my troth! — I do now let loose 
my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish, but 
an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunder- 
bolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is come again! 
my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there 
is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a 
man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud 
till the dregs of the storm be past. 


Enter Stephano, singing: a bottle in his hand. 


Ste. I shall no more to sea, to sea, 
Here shall I die ashore — 


This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s 
funeral: well, here ’s my comfort. [ Drinks. 
[ Sings. 


The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I, 
The gunner and his mate 
Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery, 
But none of us cared for Kate; 
For she had a tongue with a tang, 
Would ery to a sailor, Go hang! 
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch, 
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did 
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang! [itch: 


This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. 
[ Drinks. 

Cal. Do not torment me: Oh! 

Ste. What ’s the matter? Have we devils here ? 
Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of 
Ind, ha? Ihave not scaped drowning to be afeard 
now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As 
proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make 
him give ground; and it shall be said so again while 
Stephano breathes at ’s nostrils. 

Cal. The spirit torments me; Oh! 

Ste. This is some monster of the isle with four 
legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where 
the devil should he learn our language? I will give 
him some relief, if it be but for that. If I ean re- 
cover him and keep him tame and get to Naples 
with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever 
trod on neat’s-leather. 

Cal. Do not torment me, prithee; Ill bring my 
wood home faster. 


MOTT. 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE I. 


Ste. He’s in his fit now and does not talk after 
the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have 
never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove 
his fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I 
will not take too much for him; he shall pay for 
him that hath him, and that soundly. 

Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt 
anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper 
works upon thee. 

Ste. Come on your ways; open your mouth; here 
is that which will give language to you, cat: open 
your mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can 
tell you, and that soundly: you cannot tell who’s 
your friend: open your chaps again. 

Trin. I should know that voice: it should be— 
but he is drowned; and these are devils: O defend 
me! 

Ste. Four legs and two voices: a most delicate 
monster! His forward voice now is to speak well 
of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul 
speeches and to detract. If ail the wine in my 
bottle will recover him, I will help hisague. Come. 
Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth. 

Trin. Stephano! 

Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, 
mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will 
leave him; I have no long spoon. 

Trin. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch 
me and speak to me; for I am Trinculo—be not 
afeard — thy good friend Trinculo. 

Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: Ill pull 
thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs 
these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed | 
How camest thou to be the siege of this moon-calf ? 
can he vent Trinculos ? 

Trin. I took him to be killed with a thunder- 
stroke. But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I 
hope now thou art not drowned. Is the storm over- 
blown? Ihid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaber- 
dine for fear of the storm. And art thou living 
Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans ’scaped | 

Ste. Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach 
is not constant. 

Cal. | Aside] These be fine things, an if they be 

not sprites. 
That ’s a brave god and bears celestial liquor. 
I will kneel to him. 

Ste. How didst thou ’scape? How camest thou 
hither ? swear by this bottle how thou camest hither. 
I escaped upon a butt of sack which the sailors 
heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made of 
the bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was 
cast ashore. 

Cal. 1’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy true 
subject; for the liquor is not earthly. 

Ste. Here; swear then how thou escapedst. 

Trin. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: Ican swim 
like a duck, Ill be sworn. 


— 


Ste. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst 
swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 

Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this ? 

‘Ste. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock 
by the sea-side where my wine is hid. How now, 
moon-calf! how does thine ague ? 

Cal. Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven ? 

Ste. Out 0’ the moon, I do assure thee:, I was the 
man i’ the moon when time was. 

Cal. I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee: 
My ea show’d me thee and thy dog and thy 

ush. 

Ste. Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will 
furnish it anon with new contents: swear. 

Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow 
monster! I afeard of him! A very weak monster! 
The man i’ the moon! A most poor credulous mon- 
ster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! 

Cal. Ill show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island ; 
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god. 

Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken 
monster! when’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle. 

Cal. I’ll kiss thy foot; Ill swear myself thy sub- 

Ste. Come on then; down, and swear. [ject. 

Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy- 
headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could 

Ste. Come, kiss. [find in my heart to beat him,— 

Trin. But that the poor monster’s in drink: an 
abominable monster ! [thee berries ; 

Cal. Ill show thee the best springs; I7ll pluck 
I’ fish for thee and get thee wood enough. 

A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! 
I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
Thou wondrous man. 

Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make a won- 
der of a poor drunkard! 

Cal. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ; 
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts ; 
Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how 
To snare the nimble marmoset; Ill bring thee 
To clustering filberts and sometimes I ’1l get thee 
Young scamels from therock. Wilt thou go with me? 

Ste. I prithee now, lead the way without any more 
talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company 
else being drowned, we will inherit here: here; bear 
my bottle: fellow Trinculo, well fillhim by and by 

Cal. [Sings drunkenly] [again. 

Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! 
Trin. A howling monster; a drunken monster! 
Cal. No more dams I’ll make for fish; 
Nor fetch in firing 
At requiring ; 
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish: 
’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban 
Has a new master: get a new man. 
Freedom, hey-day ! hey-day, freedom! freedom, hey- 
day, freedom! 


Ste. O brave monster! Lead the way. [zeunt. 


we O78 By d B00 Ee 


SCENE I.— Before Prospero’s cell. 


Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log. 


Iver. There be some sports are painful, and their 
labour 

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness 
Are nobly undergone and most poor matters 
Point to rich ends. This my mean task 
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but 
The mistress which I serve quickens what ’s dead 
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is 
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed, 
And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove 


Some thousands of these logs and pile them up, 
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress [ness 
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such base- 
Had never like executor. I forget: 

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, 
Most busy lest, when I do it. 


Enter Miranda; and Prospero at a distance, unseen. 
Mir. Alas, now, pray you, 
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had 
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! 
Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns, 
°T will weep for having wearied you. My father 


9 


ACT iif. 


Ts hard at study; pray now, rest yourself; 
He’s safe for these three hours. 
er. O most dear mistress, 

The sun will set before I shall discharge 
What I must strive to do. 

Mir. If you'll sit down, 
Ill bear your logs the while: pray, give me that; 
L’ll carry it to the pile. 

Fer. No, precious creature ; 
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
Than you should such dishonour undergo, 
While I sit lazy by. 

Mir. It would become me 
As well as it does you: and I should do it 
With much more ease; for my good will is to it, 
And yours it is against. 

ros. Poor worm, thou art infected! | 

This visitation shows it. 

Mir. You look wearily. [me 

Fer. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with 
When you are by at night. I do beseech you— 
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers— 
What is your name? 

Mir. Miranda.—O my father, 
I have broke your hest to say so! 


Fer. 
Indeed the top of admiration! worth 
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady 
I have eyed with best regard and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues 
Have I liked several women; never any 
With so full soul, but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed 
And put it to the foil: but you, O you, 
So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature’s best! 

Mir. I do not know 
One of my sex; no woman’s face remember, 
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen 
More that I may call men than you, good friend, 
And my dear father: how features are abroad, 

I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, 

The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 
Any companion in the world but you, 

Nor can imagination form a shape, 

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
Something too wildly and my father’s precepts 
I therein do forget. 

Fer. I am in my condition 

A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; 

I would, not so! —and would no more endure 

This wooden slavery than to suffer 

The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: 
The very instant that I saw you, did 

My heart fly to your service; there resides, 

To make me slave to it; and for your sake 

Am I this patient log-man. 

Mir. Do you love me? 

Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound 
And crown what I profess with kind event 
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert 
What best is boded me to mischief! I 
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world 
Do love, prize, honour you. 

Mir. Iam a fool 
To weep at what I am glad of. 

Pros. Fair encounter 
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace 
' On that which breeds between ’em! 

Fer. Wherefore weep you? 

Mir. At mine unworthiness that dare not offer 
What I desire to give, and much less take 
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; 
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! 
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! 


10 


THE TEMPEST. 


Admired Miranda! |. 


SCENE II. 


I am your wife, if you will marry me; 

If not, L’ll die your maid: to be your fellow 
You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, 
Whether you will or no. 


Fer. My mistress, dearest ; 
And I thus humble ever. 
Mir My husband, then ? 


willing 
As bondage e’er of freedom: here ’s my hand. 

Mir. And mine, with my heart in’t: and now 
Till half an hour hence. [farewell 
Fer. A thousand thousand! 

[Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally. 
Pros. So glad of this as they I cannot be, 
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing 
At nothing can be more. Ill to my book, 
For yet ere supper-time must I perform 
Much business appertaining. 


SCENE II.—Another part of the island, 
Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo. 


Ste. Tell not me; when the butt is out, we will 
drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, 
and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me. 

Trin. Servant-monster! the folly of this island! 
They say there’s but five upon this isle: we are 
three of them; if th’ other two be brained like us, 
the state totters. | 

Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: 
thy eyes are almost set in thy head. 

Trin. Where should they be set else? he were a 
brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 

Ste. My man-monster hath drown’d his tongue 
in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I 
swam, ere I could recover the shore, five and thirty 
leagues off and on. By this light, thou shalt be my 
lieutenant, monster, or my standard. [ard. 

Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no stand- 

Ste. We’ll not run, Monsieur Monster. 

Trin. Nor go neither; but you’ll lie like dogs 
and yet say nothing neither. 

Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou 
beest a good moon-calf. [shoe. 

Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy 
Ill not serve him; he’s not valiant. 

Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am 
in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed 
fish, thou, was there ever man a coward that hath 
drunk so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tella 
monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a mon- 
ster ? [my lord ? 

Cal. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, 

Trin. ‘Lord’ quoth he! That a monster should 
be such a natural! 

Cal. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee. 

Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: 
if you prove a mutineer,—the next tree! The 
poor monster ’s my subject and he shall not suffer 
indignity. 

Cal. L thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased 
to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? - 

Ste. Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will 
stand, and so shall Trinculo. 


[ Hxit. 


Enter Ariel, invisible. 


Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a ty- 
rant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated 
Ari. Thou liest. [me of the island. 
Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: 
I would my valiant master would destroy thee! 
I do not lie. 
Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in’s 
tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your 
Trin. Why, I said nothing. [teeth. 
Ste. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. 
Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; 


Ma IIT YZ 


—— 


HI i] 


as 
vit 


4; 
(3 


I] 9USDS “III WWV—’LSAd WAL 


ae 


7 = 
Ure 


sis 


ACT III. 


From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
Revenge it on him,—for I know thou darest, 
But this thing dare not,— 

Ste. That ’s most certain. 

Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it and Ill serve thee. 

Ste. How now shall this be compassed? Canst 
thou bring me to the party ? 

Cal. Yea, yea, my lord: Ill yield him thee asleep, 
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. 

Ari. Thou liest; thou canst not. [patch ! 

Cal. What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy 
I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows 
And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone 
He shall drink nought but brine; for I ll not show 
Where the quick freshes are. {him 

Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger: inter- 
rupt the monster one word further, and, by this 
hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors and make a 
stock-fish of thee. 

Trin. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I7ll 
go farther off. 

Ste. Didst thou not say he lied ? 

Ari. Thou liest. 

Ste. Do Iso? take thou that. [Beats Trin.] As 
you like this, give me the lie another time. 

Trin. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits 
and hearing too? <A pox o’ your bottle! this can 
sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, 
and the devil take your fingers! 

(farther off. 


Cal. Ha, ha, ha! 
Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Prithee,stand 
after a little time 


Cal. Beat him enough: 
Ill beat him too. 

Ste. Stand farther. Come, proceed. 

Cal. Why, as I told thee, ’t is a custom with him, 
I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, 
Having first seized his books, or with a log 
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 

Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember 
First to possess his books; for without them 
He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
One spirit to command: they all do hate him 
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. 
He has brave utensils, —for so he calls them,— 
Which, when he has a house, he ’1] deck withal. 
And that most deeply to consider is 
The beauty of his daughter; he himself 
Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman, 
But only Sycorax my dam and she; 
’ But she as far surpasseth Sycorax 
AS ae st does least. 

Is it so brave a lass ? 

Cul. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant. 
And eae thee forth brave brood. 

Ste. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter 
and I will be king and queen, — save our graces ! — 
and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost 
thou like the plot, Trinculo ? 

Trin. Excellent. . 

Ste. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; 
ae ue thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy 
1ead. 

Cal. Within this half hour will he be asleep: 
Wilt thou destroy him then ? 

Ste. Ay, on mine honour. 

Ari. This will I tell my master. ure: 

Cal. Thou makest me merry; I am full of plea. 
Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch 
You taught me but while-ere ? 

Sie. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any 
reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [ Sings. 

Flout ’em and scout ’em 
And scout ’em and flout ’em; 
Thought is free. 

Cal. That ’s not the tune. 

[Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe. 

Ste. What is this same ? 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE III. 


Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played by the 
picture of Nobody. 

Ste. If thou paca a man, show thyself in thy like- 
ness: if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list. 

Trin. O, forgive me my sins! 

Ste. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. 
Mercy upon us! 

Cal. Art thou afeard ? 

Ste. No, monster, not I. 

Cal. Be not afeard : the isle is full of noises, [not. 
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt 
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices 
That, if I then had waked after long sleep, 

Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, 
The clouds methought would open and show riches 
Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, 

I cried to dream again. 

Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where 
I shall have my music for nothing. 

Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. [story. 

Ste. That shall be by and by: I remember the 

Trin. The sound is going away; let’s follow it, 
and after do our work. 

Ste. Lead, monster; we ’llfollow. I would I could 
see this taborer; he lays it on. 

Trin. Wilt come? Ill follow, Stephano. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Another part of the island. 


Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, 
Adrian, Francisco, and others. 


Gon. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; 
My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod indeed 
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your pa- 
I needs must rest me. [tience, 
Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 
Who am myself attach’d with weariness, 
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. 
Even here I will put off my hope and keep it 
Nc 1 nger for my flatterer: he is drown’d 
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks 
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 
Ant. [Aside to Seb.] Iam right glad that he’s so 
out of hope. 
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 
That you resolved to effect. 
Seb. [ Aside to Ant.] The next advantage 
Will we take throughly. 
Ant. [ Aside to Seb.] Let it be to-night; 
For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they 
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance 
As when they are fresh. 
Seb. [Aside to Ant.] I say, to-night: no more. 
[Solemn and strange music. 
Alon. What harmony is this? My good friends 


Gon. Marvellous sweet music! (hark ! 
Enter Prospero above, ivisible. Enter several 
strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet; they dance 


about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, in- 

viting the King, &c. to eat, they depart. 

Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were 

these ? 

Seb. A living drollery. Now I will believe 
That there are unicorns, that in Arabia 
There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne, one phoenix 
At this hour reigning there. 

Ant. Ill believe both; 
And what does else want credit, come to me, 
And I?ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie, 
Though fools at home condemn ’em. 

Gon. If in Naples 
I should report this now, would they believe me? 
If I should say, I saw such islanders — 
For, certes, these are people of the island — 
Who, thoug oh they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, 


11 


MOT ava. 


Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 
Our human generation you shall find 
Many, nay, almost any. 

Pros. { Aside] Honest lord, 
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present 
Are worse than devils. 

Alon. I cannot too much muse 
Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, express- 


ing, 
Although they want the use of tongue, a kind 
Of excellent dumb discourse. 
Pros. [ Aside] Praise in departing. 
Fran. They vanish’d strangely. 
Seb. No matter, since 
They have left their viands behind; for we have 
stomachs. 
Will ’t please you taste of what is here ? 
Alon. 
Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. 
were boys 
Who would believe that there were mountaineers 
Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging 
at ’em 
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men 
Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which now we 
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us — [find 
Good warrant of. 
Alon. I will stand to and feed, 
Although my last: no matter, since I feel 
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, 
Stand to and do as we. 


Not I. 
When we 


Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel, like a harpy; 
claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint 
device, the banquet vanishes, 


Ari. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, 
That hath to instrument this lower world 
And what is in ’t, the never-surfeited sea 
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island 
Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men 
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; 
And even with such-like valour men hang and 
Their proper selves. [drown 
[Alon., Seb., &c. draw their swords. 
You fools! and my fellows 
Are ministers of Fate: the elements, 
Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as well 
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs 
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
One dowle that’s in my plume: my fellow-ministers 
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, 
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths 


THE TEMPEST. 


And will not be uplifted. 


SCENE I. 


But remember — 

For that’s my business to you—that you three 
From Milan did supplant good Prospero; 

Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, 

Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed 
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, 
Against your peace. Thee of. thy son, Alonso, 
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me: 
Lingering perdition, worse than any death 

Can be at once, shall step by step attend  [from— 
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you 
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 
Upon your heads —is nothing but heart-sorrow 
And a clear life ensuing. 


He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the 
Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, 
and carrying out the table. 


Pros. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou 
Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring: 
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life 
And observation strange, my meaner ministers 
Their several kinds have done. My high charms 
And these mine enemies are all knit up [work 
In their distractions; they now are in my power; 
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit 
Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown’d, 
And his and mine loved darling. | Hxit above. 

Gon. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand 
In this strange stare ? [you 

Alon. O, it is monstrous, monstrous! 
Methought the billows spoke and told me of it; 
The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced 
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. 
Therefore my son 1’ the ooze is bedded, and 
I ‘ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded 
And with him there lie mudded. [ Exit. 

But one fiend at a time, 


I ’ll be thy second. 
| Hxeunt Seb. and Ant. 
Gon. ae three of them are desperate: their great 
cuilt, 

Like poison given to work a great time after, 
Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you 
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly 
And hinder them from what this ecstasy 
May now provoke them to. 

Adr. Follow, I pray you. 


Seb. 
Ill fight their legions o’er. 
Ant. 


[ Hxeunt, 


ACT SIV 


SCENE I.— Before Prospero’s cell. 
Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda. 


Pros. If I have too austerely punish’d you, 
Your compensation makes amends, for I 
Have given you here a thrid of mine own life, 
Or that for which I live; who once again 
J tender to thy hand: all thy vexations 
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, 
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
Do not smile at me that I boast her off, 
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise 
And make it halt behind her. 
Fer. I do believe it 
Against an oracle. 
_ Pros. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition 
Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but 


12 


If thou dost break her virgin-knot before 
All sanctimonious ceremonies may 
With full and holy rite be minister’d, 
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall 
To make this contract grow; but barren hate, 
Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew 
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly 
That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, 
As Hymen’s lamps shall light you. 

r As I hope © 


er. 
For quiet days, fair issue and long life, 
With such love as ’t is now, the murkiest den, 
The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion 
Our worser genius can, shall never melt 
Mine honour into lust, to take away 
The edge of that day’s celebration 
When I shall think, or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d, 
Or Night kept chain’d below. 


Pros. Fairly spoke. 


ACT IV. 


Sit then and talk with her; she is thine own. 
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! 


Enter Ariel. 


Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am. 
Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last ser- 
Did worthily perform; and I must use you _ [vice 
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, 
O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place: 
Incite them to quick motion; for I must 
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 
Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, 
And they expect it from me. 
Ari. Presently ? 
Pros. Ay, with a twink. 
Ari. Before you can say ‘come’ and ‘ go,’ 
And breathe twice and cry ‘so, so,’ 
Each one, tripping on his toe, 
Will be here with mop and mow. 
Do you love me, master? no? 
Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach 
Till thou dost hear me call. 
Ari. Well, I conceive. [Hvit. 
Pros. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance 
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw 
To the fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious, 
Or else, good-night your vow! 
Fer. - I warrant you, sir; 
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart 
Abates the ardour of my liver. 
Pros. Well. 
Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, 
Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly! 
No tongue! all eyes! be silent. | Soft music. 


Enter Iris. 


Tris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease; 
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, 
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep; 
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, 

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, [groves, 
Tomake cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom- 
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 

Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; 

And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, 

Where thou thyself dost air ;—the queen o’ the sky, 
Whose watery arch and messenger am I, 

Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, 
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, 

To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain: 
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 


Enter Ceres. 


Cer. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er 
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; 
Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers 
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers, 
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, 
Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen 
Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green ? 
Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate; 
And some donation freely to estate 
On the blest lovers. 
Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow, 
If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, 
Do now attend the queeen? Since they did plot 
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, 
Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company 
I have forsworn. 
Tris. Of her society 
Be not afraid: I met her deity 
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son 
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have 
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, [done 
Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid 
Till Hymen’s torch be lighted: but in vain; 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE I. 


Mars’s hot minion is returned again; 
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, 
Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows 
And be a boy right out. 
Cer. High’st queen of state, 
Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait. 


Enter Juno. 


Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? Go with me 
To bless this twain, that they may prospereus be 
And honour’d in their issue. [They sing: 

Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 

Long continuance, and increasing, 
Hourly joys be still upon you! 
Juno sings her blessings on you. 


Earth’s increase, foison plenty, 
Barns and garners never empty, 
Vines with clustering bunches growing, 
Plants with goodly burthen bowing; 
Spring come to you at the farthest 
In the very end of harvest! 
Scarcity and want shall shun you; 
Ceres’ blessing so is on you. 
Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and 
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold 
To think these spirits ? 
Pros. Spirits, which by mine art 
I have from their confines ecall’d to enact 
My present fancies. 
Fer. Let me live here ever; 
So rare a wonder’d father and a wife 
Makes this place Paradise. 
[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send 
Iris on envployment. 
Pros. Sweet, now, silence! 
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; 
There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute, 
Or else our spell is marr’d. [brooks, 
Tris. You nymphs, ecall’d Naiads, of the windring 
With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks, 
Leave your crisp channels and on this green land 
Answer your summons; Juno does command: 
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
A contract of true love; be not too late. 


Cer. 


Enter certain Nymphs. 


You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, 
Come hither from the furrow and be merry: 
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on 
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
In country footing. 


Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join 
with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the 
end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks ; 
after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, 
they heavily vanish. 


Pros. [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy 
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 
Against my life: the minute of their plot [no more! 
Is almost come. [7 the Spirits.| Well done! avoid; 
Fer. Thisis strange: your father’s in some passion 
That works him strongly. 
Mir. Never till this day 
Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d. 
Pros. You do look, my son, in a moved sort, 
As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir. 
Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits and 
Are melted into air, into thin air: 
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 


13 


ACT V. CPST RIE AP toss Ls SCENE I. 


ee 


As dreams are made on, and our little life All’s hush’d as midnight yet. 
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d; Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,— 
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in 
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity: that, monster, but an infinite loss. 
If you be pleased, retire into my cell |  Lrin. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet 
And there repose: a turn or two [ll walk, this is your harmless fairy, monster. 
To still my beating mind. Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er 
Fer. Mir. We wish you peace. [ Hxeunt. | ears for my labour. 
Pros. Come withathought. I thank thee, Ariel: Cal. Prithee, my king, be quiet. See’st thou here, 
come. This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter. 
Enter Ariel. Do that good mischief which may make this island 
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleas- | For aye thy foot-licker. [thoughts. 
Pros. Spirit, [ure ? Ste. Give me thy hand. J do begin to have bloody 
We must prepare to meet with Caliban. Trin. O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Ste- 
Ari. Ay,my commander: when I presented Ceres, | phano! look what a wardrobe here is for thee! 
I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear’d Cal. Let it alone, thou fool! it is but trash. 
Lest I might anger thee. [lets ? Trin. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to 


Pros. Say again, where didst thou leave these var- | a frippery. O king Stephano! 
Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drink- Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, 


So full of valour that they smote the air ling; | 1’ll have that gown. 

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground Trin. Thy grace shall have it. 

For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Cal. The dropsy drown this fool! what do you mean 
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s alone 


At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d theirears, | And do the murder first: if he awake, 

Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses From toe to crown he’!I fill our skins with pinches, 
As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears Make us strange stuff. 

That calf-like they my lowing follow’d through Ste. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not 
Tooth’d briers,sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns, | this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under the line: 
Which entered their frail shins: at last I left them | now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and proye 


I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, a bald jerkin. [your grace. 
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake Trin. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like 
O’erstunk their feet. Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment 

Pros. This was well done, my bird. | for’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king 
Thy shape invisible retain thou still: of this country. ‘Steal by line and level’ is an excel- 
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, lent pass of pate; there’s another garment for ’t. 
For stale to catch these thieves. Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon your 

Ari. Igo,I go. [vit. | fingers, and away with the rest. 

Pros. A devil, a born devil. on whose nature Cal. I will have none on ’t: we shall lose our time, 
Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes 
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost ; With foreheads villanous low. 

And as with age his body uglier grows, Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this 
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, away where my hogshead of wine is, or Ill turn you 
Even to roaring. out of my kingdom: go to, carry this. 

Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &e. Trin. And this. 


Ste. Ay, and this. 


Come, hang them on this line. ; , heehee: 
ORK A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in 


Prospero and Ariel remain, invisible. Enter Cal-| shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, 
iban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet. Prospero and Ariel setting them on. 
Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole Pros. Hey, Mountain, hey! 
may not Ari. Silver! there it goes, Silver! 
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. Pros. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! 
Ste. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harm- hark! [Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out. 
less fairy, has done little better than played the Jack } Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints 
with us. With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews 
Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which | With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make 
my nose is in great indignation. Than pard or cat 0’ mountain. [them 
Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I Ari. Hark, they roar! 
should take a displeasure against you, look you,— Pros. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour 
Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. Lie at my mercy all mine enemies: 
Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 
Be patient, for the prize Ill bring thee to [softly. | Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little 
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak | Follow, and do me service. | Hxeunt. 
WAN (V0 DS Ne 
SCENE I. — Before Prospero’s cell. ee said our work should cease. a ok 
CACY Lilt ; TOs. id say so, 
Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel. When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, 
Pros. Now does my project gather to a head: How fares the king and’s followers ? 
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Ari. Confined together 


Goes upright with his carriage. How ’s the day? | In the same fashion as you gave in charge, 
Ari, On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, | Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, 
14 


ACT V. 


In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell; 
They cannot budge till your release. The king, 
His brother and yours, abide all three distracted 
And the remainder mourning over them, 
Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly [zalo;’ 
Him that you term’d, sir,‘ The good old lord, Gon- 
His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops 
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 
That if you now beheld them, your affections [’em 
Would become tender. 
Pros. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 
Ari, Mine would, sir, were I human. 
Pros. And mine shall. 
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, 
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, 
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art ? 
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the 
Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury [quick, 
Do I take part: the rarer action is 
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel: 
My charms I’ll break, their senses I ’ll restore, 
And they shall be themselves. 
Avi. T7ll fetch them, sir. [Hwit. 
Pros. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes 
and groves, 
And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him 
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that 
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, 
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime 
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, 
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d 
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, 
And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault 
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak 
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory 
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck’d up 
The pine and cedar: graves at my command 
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth 
By my so potent art. But this rough magic 
I here abjure, and, when I have required 
Some heavenly music, which even now I do, 
To work mine end upon their senses that 
This airy charm is for, Ill break my staff, 
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
17] drown my book. [Solemn music. 


Re-enter Ariel before: then Alonso, with a frantic 
gesture, attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian and 
Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian 
and Francisco: they all enter the circle which 
Prospero had made, and there stand charmed ; 
which Prospero observing, speaks : 


A solemn air and the best comforter 

To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, 

Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, 
For you are spell-stopp’d. 

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, 

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, 

Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, 
And as the morning steals upon the night, 

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, 

My true preserver, and a loyal sir 

To him thou follow’st! I will pay thy graces 
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly 

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: 

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. [blood, 
Thou art pinch’d for ’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and 
You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, 


fit SEN UO I Op a 


SCENE I. 


Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian, 
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, 
W ould here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee, 
Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding 
Begins to swell, and the approaching tide 

Will shortly fill the reasonable shore 

That now lies foul and muddy.. Not one of them 
That yet looks on me, or would know me: Ariel, 
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: 

I will discase me, and myself present 

As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit ; 

Thou shalt ere long be free. 


Ariel sings and helps to attire him. 


Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 
In a cowslip’s bell I lie; 
There I couch when owls do ery. 
On the bat’s back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 


Pros. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss 
But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so. [thee; 
To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art: 

There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 

Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain 
Being awake, enforce them to this place, 

And presently, I prithee. 

Ari. I drink the air before me, and return 
Or ere your pulse twice beat. [ Exit. 

Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder and amaze- 
Inhabits here: some heavenly power guideus [ment 
Out of this fearful country! 

Pros. Behold, sir king, 
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero: 

For more assurance that a living prince 
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; 
And to thee and thy company I bid 

A hearty welcome. 

Alon. Whether thou be’st he or no, 

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, 

As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse 

Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, 
The affliction of my mind amends, with which, 

I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, 

An if this be at all, a most strange story. 

Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat [pero 
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Pros- 
Be living and be here ? 

Pros. First, noble friend, 

Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot 
Be measured or confined. 
Whether this be 


on. 

Or be not, I 71] not swear. 
TOs. You do yet taste 

Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you 

Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all! 

[ Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace of lords, 

were I so minded, 

T here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you 

And justify you traitors: at this time 

I will tell no tales. 

Seb. [ Aside] The devil speaks in him. 

Pros. (0 
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require 
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, 
Thou must restore. 

Alon. If thou be’st Prospero, 

Give us particulars of thy preservation ; 

How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 

Were wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost — 

How sharp the point of this remembrance is! — 

My dear son Ferdinand. 
Pros. Iam woe for ’t, sir. 


af 
10 


ACT V. 


THE TEMPEST. 


SCENE I. 


Alon. Irreparable is the loss, and patience 
Says it is past her cure. 

Pros. I rather think 
You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace 
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid 
And rest myself content. 

Alon. You the like loss! 

Pros. As great to me as late; and, supportable 
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker 
Than you may call to comfort you, for IL 
Have lost my daughter. 

lon. A daughter ? 
O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, 
The king and queen there! that they were, I wish 
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed [ter ? 
Where my son lies. When did you lose your daugh- 

Pros. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords 
At this encounter do so much admire 
That they devour their reason and scarce think 
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words 
Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have 
Been justled from your senses, know for certain 
That I am Prospero and that very duke 
Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely 
Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d,was landed, 
To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this; 

For ’t is a chronicle of day by day, 

Not a relation for a breakfast nor 

Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; 

This cell ’s my court: here have I few attendants 
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. 
My dukedom since you have given me again, 

I will requite you with as good a thing; 

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye 

As much as me my-dukedom. 


Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda 
playing at chess. 
Mir. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
Fer. No, my dear’st love, 
I would not for the world. [wrangle, 
Mir. Yes, for a score of kingdons you should 
And I would call it fair play. 
Alon. If this prove 
A vision of the Island, one dear son 
Shall L twice lose. 
Seb. A most high miracle! 
Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful; 
I have cursed them without cause. Kneels. 
Alon. ow all the blessings 
Of a glad father compass thee about! 
Arise, and say how thou camest here. 
Mir. O, wonder! 
How many goodly creatures are there here! 
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, 
That has such people in ’t! 
Pros. *T is new to thee. 
Alon. What is this maid with whom thou wast 
at play ? 
Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours: 
Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, 
And brought us thus together ? 
Fer. Sir, she is mortal; 
But by immortal Providence she’s mine: 
I chose her when I could not ask my father 
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 
Of whom so often I have heard renown, 
But never saw before; of whom I have 
Received a second life; and second father 
This lady makes him to me. 
on. I am hers: 
But, O, how oddly will it sound that I 
Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
TOS. There, sir, stop: 
Let us not burthen our remembrance with 
A heaviness that ’s gone. 


16 


Gon. I have inly wept, [gods, 
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you 
And on this couple drop a blessed crown! 

For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way 
Which brought us hither. 

Alon. I say, Amen, Gonzalo: 
_ Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue 
Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice 
Beyond a common joy, and set it down 
With gold on lasting pillars : In one voyage 
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, 

And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 

Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom 
In a poor isle and all of us ourselves 

When no man was his own. 

Alon. [To Fer. and Mir.| Give me your hands: 
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart 
That doth not wish you joy! 


Gon. Be it so! Amen! 


fte-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain 
amazedly following. 

O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us: 

I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, 

This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, 

That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore ? 

Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news ? 

Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found 
Our king and company; the next, our ship— 
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split — 
Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d as when 
We first put out to sea. 

Ari. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service 
Have I done since I went. 

Pros. [Asideto Ari.] My tricksy spirit! [strengthen 

Alon. These are not natural events; they 
From strange to stranger. Say,how came you hither ? 

Boats. If I did think, sir, [ were well awake, 

I ‘Id strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, 
And— how we know not—all clapp’d under hatches ; 
Where but even now with strange and several noises 
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, 
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible, 

We were awaked; straightway, at liberty; 

Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 

Our royal, good and gallant ship, our master 
Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you, 
Even in a dream, were we divided from them 

And were brought moping hither. 

} Aside to Pros.| Was ’t well done ? 

Pros. [Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence. 

Thou shalt be free. 

Alon. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; 
And there is in this business more than nature 
Was ever conduct of: some oracle 
Must rectify our knowledge. 

Pros. Sir, my liege, 

Do not infest your mind with beating on 

The strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisure 

Which shall be shortly, single I ll resolve you, 

Which to you shall seem probable, of every 

These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful 

And think of each thing well. [Aside to Ari.] Come 
hither, spirit: 

Set Caliban and his companions free; [sir ? 

Untie the spell. [ Hxit Ariel.] How fares my gracious 

There are yet missing of your company 

Some few odd lads that you remember not. 


Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano and 
Trinculo, in their stolen apparel. 

Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no 
man take care for himself; for all is but fortune. 
Coragio, bully-monster, coragio! : 

Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my 
head, here’s a goodly sight. 

Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! 


mon V. | THE TEMPEST. 


HLow fine my master is! I am afraid 
He will chastise me. 

Seb. Ha, ha! 

What things are these, my lord Antonio ? 
Will money buy ’em ? 

Ant. Very like; one of them 
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. 

Pros. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, 
Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, 
His mother was a witch, and one so strong 
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, 
And deal in her command without her power. 
These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil— 
For he’s a bastard one — had plotted with them 
To take my life. Two of these fellows you 
Must know and own; this thing of darkness I 
Acknowledge mine. 

Cal. I shall be pinch’d to death. 

Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler ? 

Seb. He is drunk now: where had he wine ? 

Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should 
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? [they 
How camest thou in this pickle ? 

Trin. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you 
last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I 
shall not fear fly-blowing. 

Seb. Why, how now, Stephano! [cramp. 

Ste. O, touch me not; Iam not Stephano, but a 

Pyros. You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah ? 

Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 

Alon. This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d 

on. [Pointing to Caliban. 

Pros. He is as disproportion’d in his manners 
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; 

Take with you your companions; as you look 
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 

Cal. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter 
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass 
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god 
And worship this dull fool! 


Pros. Go to; away! 
Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you 
Seb. Or stole it, rather. [found it. 


[Hxeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin. 
Pros. Sir, I invite your highness and your train 


SCENE I. 


To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest 
For this one night; which, part of it, [’ll waste 
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it 
Go quick away; the story of my life 

And the particular accidents gone by 

Since I came to this isle: and in the morn 

I’ll bring you to your ship and so to Naples, 
Where I have hope to see the nuptial 

Of these our dear-beloved solemnized ; 

And thence retire me to my Milan, where 
Every third thought shall be my grave. 


Alon. 


I long 


To hear the story of your life, which must 


Take the ear strangely. 
yds. 


I’ll deliver all; 


And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales 
And sail so expeditious that shall catch [chick, 


Your royal fleet far off. 


[Aside to Ari.] My Ariel, 


That is thy charge: then to the elements 
Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw 


hear. 


[ Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 
Spoken by Prospero. 


Now my charms are all o’erthrown, 
And what strength I have’s mine own, 
Which is most faint: now, ’t is true, 

I must be here confined by you, 


Or sent to Naples. 


Let me not, 


Since I have my dukedom got 

And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell 
In this bare island by your spell; 
But release me from my bands 
With the help of your good hands: 
Gentle breath of yours my sails 
Must fill, or else my project fails, 
Which was to please. Now I want 
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, 
And my ending is despair, 

Unless I be relieved by prayer, 
Which pierces so that it assaults 
Mercy itself and frees all faults. 

As you from crimes would pardon’d be, 
Let your indulgence set me free. 


CALIBAN, STEPHANO, AND TRINCULO HUNTED WITH Hounps.—Act IV., Scene i. 


17 


AWs9 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


Duke of Milan, Father to Silvia. 
Valentine, | 
Proteus, ) 
Antonio, Father to Proteus. 

Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine. 
Eglamour, Agent for Silvia in her escape. 
Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine. 
Launce, the like to Proteus. 

Panthino, Servant to Antonio. 


the two Gentlemen. 


Julia, beloved of Proteus. 

Silvia, beloved of Valentine. 
Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia. 
Host, where Julia lodges. 

Outlaws, with Valentine. 


Servants, Musicians. 


SCENE — Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua. 


[For an Analys:s of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLII.] 


Pea Ged Uh 


SCENE I.— Verona. 


Enter Valentine and Proteus. 


Val. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus: 
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. 
Were ’t not affection chains thy tender days 
To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love, 
I rather would entreat thy company 
To see the wonders of the world abroad 
Than, living dully sluggardized at home, 
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 
But since thou lovest, love still and thrive therein, 
Even as I would when I to love begin. 
Pro. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu! 
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest 
Some rare note-w orthy object in thy travel: 
- Wish me partaker in thy happiness 
When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, 
If ever danger do environ thee, 
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 
Val. And on a love-book pray for my success ? 
Pro. Upon some book I love I’ pray for thee. 
Val. That’s on some shallow story of deep love: 
How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont. 
Pro. That’s a deep story of a deeper love; 
For he was more than over shoes in love. 
Val. ’T is true; for you are over boots in love, 
And yet you never swum the Hellespont. 
Pro. Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots. 
Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. 
What ? 


Pro. 
Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought with 
ero: ins ; [ment’ Ss mirth 
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading mo- 
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: 
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; 
Lf lost, why then a grievous labour won; 
However, but a folly bought with wit, 
Or else a wit by folly v anquished. 
Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. 
Val. So py your circumstance, I fear youll prove. 
Pro. "Tis love you cavil at: I'am not Love. 
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you: 
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise. 
Pray et writers say, as in the sweetest bud 
The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 
Val. And writers say, as the most forward bud 
18 


An open place. 


ie 


Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, 

Even so by love the young and tender wit 

Is turn’d to folly, blasting in the bud, 

Losing his verdure even in the prime 

And all the fair effects of future hopes. 

But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee 

That art a votary to fond desire ? 

Once more adieu! my father at the road 

Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d. 
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 
Val. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave. 

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters 

Of thy success in love and what news else 

Betideth here in absence of thy friend; 

And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan! 
Val. AS much to you at home! and so, fare- 

well. Exit. 

Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love: 

He leaves his friends to dignify them more; 

I leave myself, my friends and all, for love. 

Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, 

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, 

War with good counsel, set the world at nought; 

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with 

thought. 


- Enter Speed. 


Speed. Sir Proteus, save you! saw you my master ? 
Pro. But now he "parted hence, to embark for 
Milan. 
Speed. Twenty to one then he is shipp’d already, 
And I have play’d the sheep in losing him. 
Pro. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, 
An if the shepherd be a while away. 
Speed. You conclude that my master is a shep- 
herd then and I a sheep ? 
Pyro. I do. 
Speed. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether 
I wake or sleep. 
Pro. A silly answer and fitting well a sheep. 
Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 
Pro. True; and thy master a shepherd. 
Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. 
Pro. It shall go hard but I’ prove it by another. 
Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not 
the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and 
my master seeks not me: therefore I am no sheep. 
Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; 
the shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou 


BOT. I. 


for wages followest thy master; thy master for 
wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep. 

Speed. Such another proof will make me ery ‘ baa.’ 

Pro. But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter 
to Julia? 

Speed. Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter 
to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, 
gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. 

Pro. Here’s too small a pasture for such store 
of muttons. 

Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were 
best stick her. [pound you. 

Pro. Nay: in that you are astray, ’t were best 

Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me 
for carrying your letter. 

Pro. You mistake; I mean the pound,—a pinfold. 

Speed. From a pound to a pin? fold it over and 

over [lover. 
'T is threefold too little for carrying a letter to your 

Pro. But what said she ? 

Speed. [First nodding.) Ay. 

Pro. Nod — Ay — why, that’s noddy. 

Speed. You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and 
you ask me if she did nod; and I say, ‘Ay.’ 

Pro. And that set together is noddy. 

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it 
together, take it for your pains. [letter. 
ro. No, no; you shall have it for bearing the 

Speed. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear 
with you. 

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? | 

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly ; having 
nothing but the word ‘ noddy’ for my pains. 

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. 

Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. 

Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief: what 
said she ? 

Speed. Open your purse, that the money and the 
matter may be both at once delivered. [she ? 

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said 

Speed. Truly, sir, I think youll hardly win her. 

Pro. Why,couldst thou perceive so much from her ? 

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from 
her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your 
letter: and being so hard to me that brought your 
mind, I fear she ’ll prove as hard to you in telling 
your mind. Give her no token but stones; for she’s 
as hard as steel. 

Pro. What said she? nothing ? 


Speed. No, not so much as *'Take this for thy | 


pains.’ To testify your bounty, I thank you, you 
have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth 
carry your letters yourself: and so, sir, I’ll1 com- 
mend you to my master. 

Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, 
Which cannot perish having thee aboard, 
Being destined to a drier death on shore. [ Exit Speed. 
I must go send some better messenger : 
I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, 
Receiving them from such a worthless post. [Hvit. 


SCENE II.— The same. Garden of Julia’s house. 


Enter Julia and Lucetta. 


Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love ? 
Luc. Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully. 
Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
That every day with parle encounter me, 
In thy opinion which is worthiest love ? [mind 
Luc. Please you repeat their names, I ’1l show my 
According to my shallow simple skill. 
Jul. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour ? 
Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 
But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
Jul. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 
Luc, Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


SCENE II, 


Jul. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus ? 

Luc. Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us! 

Jul. How now! what means this passion at his 
name ? 

Luc. Pardon, dear madam: ’tis a passing shame 

That I, unworthy body as I am, 

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 

Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ? 
Luc. Then thus: of many good I think him best. 
Jul. Your reason ? 

Luc. I have no other but a woman’s reason; 

I think him so because I think him so. {him ? 
Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on 
Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. 
Jul. Why he, of all the rest, hath never moved me. 
LInuc. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. 
Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small, 
Luc. Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all. 
Jul. They do not love that do not show their love. 
Luc. O, they love least that let men know their love. 
Jul. I would I knew his mind. 

Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 

Jul. ‘To Julia.’ Say, from whom ? 

Luc. That the contents will show. 

Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee? [ Proteus. 
Lue. Sir Valentine’s page; and sent, I think, from 

He would have given it you; but I, being in the way, 

Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I pray. 
Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! 

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ? 

To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 

Now, trust me, ’t is an office of great worth 

And you an officer fit for the place. 

There, take the paper: see it be return’d; 

Or else return no more into my sight. 

Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. 
Jul. Will ye be gone? 
Lue. That you may ruminate. 


| Hait. 
Jul. And yet I would I had o’erlooked the letter: 
It were a Shame to call her back again 
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid, 
And would not force the letter to my view! 
Since maids, in modesty, say ‘no’ to that 
Which they would have the protferer construe ‘ ay.’ 
Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love 
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse 
And presently all humbled kiss the rod! 
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 
When willingly I would have had her here! 
How angerly I taught my brow to frown, 
When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! 
My penance is to call Lucetta back 
And ask remission for my folly past. 
What ho! Lucetta! 


Re-enter Lucetta. 


Ine. What would your ladyship ? 
Jul. Is’t near dinner-time ? 
uc. I would it were, 

That you might kill your stomach on your meat 
And not upon your maid. 

Jul. What is ’t that you took up so gingerly ? 

Lue. Nothing. 

Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then ? 

Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 

Jul. And is that paper nothing ? 

Luc. Nothing concerning me. 

Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 

Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, 
Unless it have a false interpreter. 

Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. 

Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a-tune. 
Give me a note: your ladyship can set. 

Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible 
Best sing it to the tune of * Light 0’ love.’ 


19 


ACT I. 


Lue. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 

Jul. Heavy! belike it hath some burden then ? 

Luc. Ay,and melodious were it, would you sing it. 

Jul. And why not you ? 

Tue. I cannot reach so high. 

Jul. Let’s see your song. How now, minion! 

Luc. Keep tune there still,so you will sing it out: 
And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 

Jul. You do not r 

Lue. No, madam ; it is too sharp. 

Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 

Luc. Nay, now you are too flat 
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: 
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 

Jul. The mean is drown’d with your unruly bass. 

Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. 

Jul. This babble shail not henceforth trouble me. 
Here is a coil with protestation! [Tears the letter. 
Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 

You would be fingering them, to anger me. 
Luc. She makes it strange; but she would be best 
pleased 
To be so anger’d with another letter. [ Kxvit. 

Jul. Nay, would I were so anger’d with the same! 
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! 
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey 
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings! 
I’) kiss each several paper for amends. 

Look, here is writ ‘kind Julia.’ Unkind Julia! 
As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 

I throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 

And here is writ ‘ love-wounded Proteus.’ 

Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed 

Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal’d ; 
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 

But twice or thrice was ‘ Proteus’ written down. 
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away 

Till I have found each letter in the letter, 
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear 
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock 

And throw it thence into the raging sea! 

Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 
‘Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, 

To the sweet Julia:’ that Ill tear away. 

And yet I will not, sith so prettily 

He couples it to his complaining names. 

Thus will I fold them one upon another: 

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 


Re-enter Lucetta. 

Luc. Madam, 
Dinner is ready, and your father stays. 

Jul. Well, let us go. 

Bucy ene shall these papers lie like tell-tales 

ere t 

Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up. 

Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down: 
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. 

Jul. I see you have a month’s mind to them. 

Lue. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; 
{ see things too, although you judge I wink. 

Jul. Come, come; will ’t please yougo? [Hveunt. 


SCENE ITI.— The same. 


Enter Antonio and Panthino. 


Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that 
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister ? 

Pan. ’T was of his nephew Proteus, your son. 

Ant. Why, what of him ? 

Pan. He wonder’d that your lordship 
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 
While other men, of slender reputation, 

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: 
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; 
Some to discover islands far away ; 


20 


Antonio’s house. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


attenuate 


SCENE ITl. 


Some to the studious universities. 

For any or for all these exercises 

He said that Proteus your son was meet, 

And did request me to importune you 

To let him spend his time no more at home, 
Which would be great impeachment to his age, 
In having known no travel in his youth. 

Ant. Nor need’st thou much importune me to that 
Whereon this month I have been hammering. 

I have consider’d well his loss of time 
And how he cannot be a perfect man, 

Not being tried and tutor’d in the world: 
Experience is by industry achieved 

And perfected by the swift course of time. 
Then tell me, whither were I best to send him ? 

Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant 
How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
Attends the emperor in his royal court. 

Ant. I know it well. 

Pan. ’T’were good, I think, your lordship sent 

him thither: 

There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, 
And be in eye of every exercise 
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. 

Ant. J like thy counsel; well hast thou advised: 
And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it 
The execution of it shall make known. 

Even with the speediest expedition 
I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court. 

Pan. To-morrow,may it please you,Don Alphonso, 
With other gentlemen of good esteem, 

Are journeying to salute the emperor 
And to commend their service to his will. 

Ant. Good company; with them shall Proteus go: 
And, in good time! now will we break with him. 


Enter Proteus. 


Pro. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life! 
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; 
Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. 
O, that our fathers would applaud our loves, 
To seal our happiness with their consents! 
O heavenly Julia! 
Ant. How now! what letter are you reading there ? 
Pro. May ’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or 
Of commendations sent from Valentine, {two 
Deliver’d by a friend that came from him. 
Ant. Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 
Pro. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes 
How happily he lives, how well beloved 
And daily graced by the emperor; 
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 
Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish ? 
Pro. As one relying on your lordship’s will 
And not depending on his friendly wish. 
Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish. 
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed ; 
For what I will, I will, and there an end. 
I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time 
With Valentinus in the emperor’s court > 
What maintenance he from his friends receives, 
Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. 
To-morrow be in readiness to go: 
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 
Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided : 
Please you, deliberate a day or two. {thee: 
Ant. Look, what thou want’st shall be sent after 
No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go. 
Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ’d 
To hasten on his expedition. 
[Exeunt Ant. and Pan. 
Pro. Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of 
burning, 
And drench’d me in the sea, where I am drown’d. 
I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter, 
Lest he should take exceptions to my love; 


ACT II. PA 


And with the vantage of mine own excuse 
Hath he excepted most against my love. 
O, how this spring of love resembleth 
The uncertain glory of an April day, 
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
And by and by a cloud takes all away! 


TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


SCENE I. 


Re-enter Panthino. 


Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you: 
He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. 

Pro. Why, this it is; my heart accords thereto, 
And yet a thousand times it answers ‘no.’ [Exeunt. 


CEO RL. 


SCENE I.— Milan. The Duke's palace. 
Enter Valentine and Speed. 


Speed. Sir, your glove. . 

Val. Not mine; my gloves are on. 

Speed. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is 

but one. 

Val. Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it’s mine: 
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! 
Ah, Silvia, Silvia! 

Speed. Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! 

Val. How now, sirrah ? 

Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 

al. Why, sir, who bade you call her ? 

Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 

Val. Well, you’ll still be too forward. [slow. 

Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too 

Val. Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam 

Speed. She that your worship loves ? 

Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 

Speed. Marry, by these special marks: first, you 
have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your 
arms, like a malecontent ; to relish a love-song, likea 
robin-redbreast ; to walk alone, like one that had 
the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had 
lost his A BC; to weep, like a young wench that 
had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that 


takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; | 


to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You 


were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; | 


when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; 
when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; 
when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: 


and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, : 


that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you 
my master. 

Val. Are all these things perceived in me? 

Speed. They are all perceived without ye. 
~ Val. Without me? they cannot. 

Speed. Without you? nay, that’s certain, for, 
without you were so simple, none else would: but 
you are so without these follies, that these follies 
are within you and shine through you like the 
water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you 
but is a physician to comment on your malady. 

Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? 

Speed. She that you gaze on so as she sits at 
supper ? 

Val. Hast thou observed that ? even she, I mean. 

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 

Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, 
and yet knowest her not ? 

Speed. Is she not hard-favoured, sir ? 

al. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. 

Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 

Val. What dost thou know ? (favoured. 

Speed. That she is not so fair as, of you, well- 

Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her 
favour infinite. 

Speed. That’s because the one is painted and the 
other out of all count. 

Val. How painted ? and how out of count? 

Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, 
that no man counts of her beauty. [beauty. 

Val. How esteemest thou me? I account of her 


[Silvia ? | 


Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed. 

Val. How long hath she been deformed ? 

Speed. Ever since you loved her. 

Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her; and 
still I see her beautiful. 

Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 

Val. Why ? 

Speed. Because Love is blind. O, that you had 
mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they 
were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for 
going ungartered ! 

Val. What should I see then ? 

Speed. Your own present folly and her passing 
deformity : for he, being in love, could not see to 
garter his hose, and you, being in love, cannot see 
to put on your hose. 

Val. Belike, boy, then, you are in love: for last 
morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. 

Speed, True, sir; 1 was in love, with my bed: I 
thank you, you swinged me for my love, which 
makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. 

Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 

Speed. I would you were set, so your affection 
would cease. . 

Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some 
lines to one she loves. 

Speed. And have you ? 

Val. I have. 

Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? 

Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. 
Peace! here she comes. 

Speed. [ Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding 
puppet! Now will he interpret to her. 


Enter Silvia. 

Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-mor- 
rows. [lion of manners. 

Speed. [ Aside] O, give ye good even! here’s a mil- 

Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thou- 
sand. [she gives it him. 

Speed. [Aside] He should give her interest, and 

Val. As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter 
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; 

Which I was much unwilling to proceed in 
But for my duty to your ladyship. [done. 

Sil. I thank you, gentle servant: ’tis very clerkly 

Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 
For being ignorant to whom it goes 
I writ at random, very doubtfully. [pains ? 

Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much 

Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, 
Please you command, a thousand times as much ; 
And yet — 

Sil. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel ; 
And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not; 
And yet take this again; and yet I thank you, 
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 

Speed. Herane And yet you will; and yet ant 

e It} 


Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not like 
Sil. Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ ; 
But since unwillingly, take them again. 
Nay, take them. 
Val. Madam, they are for you. 
Sil. Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request ; 
2 


ACT If. 


But I will none of them; they are for you; 
I would have had them writ more movingly. 
Val. Please you, Ill write your ladyship another. 
Sil. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, 
And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. 
Val. If it please me, madam, what then ? 


Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: | 
[ Hxit. 


And so, good-morrow, servant. 
Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, 
As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a 
steeple! [suitor, 
My master sues to her, and she hath taught her 
He being her pupil, to become her tutor. 
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better, 
That my master, being scribe, to himself should 
write the letter ? 
Val. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning with 
yourself ? 
Speed. Nay, I was rhyming: ’tis you that have 
the reason. 
Val. To do what ? 
Speed. To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia. 
Val. To whom ? 
Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a 
al. What figure ? [figure. | 
Speed. By a letter, I should say. 
Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ? 
Speed. What need she, when she hath made you 
write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the | 
Val. No, believe me. [jest ? 
Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But did | 


you perceive her earnest ? 
Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. 
Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. 
al. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. 

Speed. And that letter hath she delivered, and 
there an end. 

Val. I would it were no worse. 

Speed. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: 

For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty, | 
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ; 
Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind 

discover, [her lover. 
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto 
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. 
Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time. 

Val. I have dined. 

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the cha- 
meleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am 
nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. 
O, be not like your mistress; be moved, be moved. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — Verona. 


Enter Proteus and Julia. 


Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 

Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 

Pro. When possibly I ean, I will return. 

Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. 
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. 

[Giving a ring. 

Pro. Why, then, we ’ll make exchange; here, take 

you this. 

Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 

Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; 
And when that hour o’erslips me in the day 
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 

Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness ! 

My father stays my coming; answer not; 

The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears; 

That tide will stay me longer than I should. 

Julia, farewell! [Haxit Julia. 
What, gone without a word ? 

Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak ; 

Yor truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. | 


oO 
anew 


Julia’s house. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE IV. 


Enter Panthino. 
Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for. 
Pro. Go; I come, I come. 
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 
| Exeunt. 
SCENH III. — The same. A street. 


Enter Launce, leading a dog. 


Launce. Nay, ’t will be this hour ere I have done 
weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very 
fault. Ihave received my proportion, like the pro- 
digious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the 
Imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sour- 
est-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my 
father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, 
our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a 
great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur 
shed one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, 
and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew 
would have wept to have seen our parting ; why, my 
grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself 
blind at my parting. Nay, I ll show you the man- 
ner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe 
is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: 


' nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, 
| 1t hath the worser sole. 


This shoe, with the hole in 
it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance 
on ’t! there ’tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, 
for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small 
as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: Lam the dog: 
no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog— Oh! the 
dog is me, and I am myself; ay,so, so. Now come 
I to my father; Father, your blessing: now should 
not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should 
I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to 
my mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood 
woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there ’tis; here’s 
my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I 
to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the 
dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a 
word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. 


Enter Panthino. 


Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master 
is shipped and thou art to post after with oars. 
What’s the matter? why weepest thou, man? 
Away, ass! youll lose the tide, if you tarry any 
longer. | 

Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for 
it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. 

Pan. What’s the unkindest tide ? 

Launce. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog. 

Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou lt lose the flood, 
and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in 
losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing 
thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy ser- 
vice, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? 

Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. 

Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 

Launce. In thy tale. : 

Pan. In thy tail! 

Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage and the 
master, and the service, and the tied! hy, man, 
if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my 
tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat 
with my sighs. [{thee. 

Pan. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call 

Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest. 

Pan. Wilt thou go? 

Launce. Well, I will go. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Milan. The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. 


Sil. Servant! 
Val. Mistress ? 


ACT II. 


Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. 

Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love. 

Sneed. Not of you. 
al. Of my mistress, then. 

Speed. *T’ were good you knocked him. 

Sil. Servant, you are sad. 

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 

. Seem you that you are not ? 

. Haply I do. 

. So do counterfeits. 

. So do you. 

. What seem I that I am not? 

. Wise. 

. What instance of the contrary ? 

. Your folly. ' 

. And how quote you my folly ? 

. I quote it in your jerkin. 

. My jerkin is a doublet. 

. Well, then, [ll double your folly. 
Thu.. How ? [colour ? 
Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change 
Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of 

chameleon. 

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood 
than live in your air. 
Val. You have said, sir. 


[ Exit. 


Val. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you 

Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly 
shot off. 

Val. ’T is indeed, madam; we thank the giver. 

Sil. Who is that, servant ? 

Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. 
Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s 
looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your 
company. 

Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I 
shall make your wit bankrupt. 

Val. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer 
ot words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your 
followers, for it appears, by their bare liveries, that 
they live by your bare words. [father. 

Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more: here comes my 


Enter Duke. 


Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. 
Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health: 
What say you toa letter from your friends 
Of much good news ? 

Val. My lord, I will be thankful 
To any happy messenger from thence. 

Duke. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman ? 

Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman 
To be of worth and worthy estimation 
And not without desert so well reputed. 

Duke. Hath he not a son ? 

Val. Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 
The honour and regard of such a father. 

Duke. You know him well ? 

Val. I know him as myself; for from our infancy 
We have conversed and spent our hours together: 
And though myself have been an idle truant, 
Omitting the sweet benefit of time 
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, 

Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, 
Made use and fair advantage of his days; 
His years but young, but his experience old; 
His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe; 
And, in a word, for far behind his worth 
Comes all the praises that I now bestow, 

He is complete in feature and in mind 

With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 

Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, 
He is as worthy for an empress’ love 
As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. 

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, 
With commendation from great potentates ; 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


Go with me. 
I ll leave you to confer of 


SCENE IV. 


And here he means to spend his time awhile: 
I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. 
Val. Should I have wish’d a thing, it had been he. 
Duke. Welcome him then according to his worth. 
Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; 
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it: 
I will send him hither to you presently. [ Hxit. 
Val. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship 
Had come along with me, but that his mistress 
Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks. 
Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchised them 
Upon some other pawn for fealty. (still. 
Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners 
Sil. Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind, 
How could he see his way to seek out you? 
Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. 
Thu. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. 
Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: 
Upon a homely object Love can wink. [tleman. 
Sil. Have done, have done; here comes the gen- 


Enter Proteus. [Hit Thurio. 


Val. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech 
Confirm his welcome with some special favour. [you, 
Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, 


If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from. 
Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. [begin. | 


Val. Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him 
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. 

Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. 

Pro. Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant 


| To have a look of such a worthy mistress. 


Val. Leave off discourse of disability : 
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. 
Pro. My duty will I boast of: nothing else. 
Sil, And duty never yet did want his meed: 
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. 
Pro, I'll die on him that says so but yourself. 
Sil. That you are welcome ? 
Pro. That you are worthless. 


Re-enter Thurio. 


Thu. Madam, my lord your father would speak 
with you. 
Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio, 
Once more, new servant, welcome: 
home affairs ; 
When you have done, we look to hear from you. 
Pro. We’ll both attend upon your ladyship. 
[Exeunt Silvia and Thurio. 
Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you 
came ? [commended. 
Pro. Your friends are well and have them much 
Val. And how do yours ? 
Pro. I left them all in health. 
“ie HOW does your lady ? and how thrives your 
ove? 
Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you; 
I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 
Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now: 
I have done penance for contemning Love, 
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me 
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs; 
For in revenge of my contempt of love, 
Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes 
And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sor- 
O gentle Proteus, Love ’s a mighty lord [row. 
And hath so humbled me as I confess 
There is no woe to his correction 
Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 
Now no discourse, except it be of love; 
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep, 
Upon the very naked name of love. 
Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. 
Was this the idol that you worship so? 5 
Val. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint ? 
Pro. No; but she is an earthly paragon. 


25 


ACT II. 


Val. Call her divine. 
TO. I will not flatter her. 
Val. O, flatter me; for love delights in praises. 

Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, 
And I must minister the like to you. 


Val. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, | 


Yet let her be a principality, 
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. 
Pro. Except my mistress. 
Val. Sweet, except not any; 
Except thou wilt except against my love. 
Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own ? 
Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too: 
She shall be dignified with this high honour— 
To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss 
And, of so great a favour growing proud, 
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower 
And make rough winter everlastingly. 

Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 
Val. Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing 
To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing; 

She is alone. . 
Pro, Then let her alone. fown, 
Val. Not for the world: why, man, she is mine 
And IL as rich in having such a jewel 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar and the rocks pure gold. 
Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, 
Because thou see’st me dote upon my love. 
My foolish rival, that her father likes 
Only for his possessions are so huge, 
Is gone with her along, and I must after, 
For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. 
Pro. But she loves you ? [marriage-hour, 
Val. Ay, and we are betroth’d: nay, more, our 
With all the cunning manner of our flight, 
Determined of; how I must climb her window, 
The ladder made of cords, and all the means 
Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. 
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. 
Pro. Go on before; I shall inquire you forth: 
I must unto the road, to disembark 
Some necessaries that I needs must use, 
And then I ll presently attend you. 
Val.. Will you make haste ? 
Pro. 1 will. [ Exit Valentine. 
Even as one heat another heat expels, 
Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
So the remembrance of my former love 
Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
Is it mine, or Valentine’s praise, 
Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
That makes me reasonless to reason thus ? 
She is fair; and so is Julia that I love— 
That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d; 
Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire, 
Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, 
And that I love him not as I was wont. 
O, but I love his lady too too much, 
And that’s the reason I love him so little. 
How shall I dote on her with more advice, 
That thus without advice begin to love her! 
’T is but her picture I have yet beheld, 
And that hath dazzled my reason’s light ; 
But when I look on her perfections, 
There is no reason but I shall be blind. 
If I can check my erring love, I will; 
If not, to compass her I ll use my skill. 


SCENE V.—The same. A street. 


Enter Speed and Launce severally. 


Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to 
Milan! 


[ Exit. 


24 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. sceyeE vi. 


| 


Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for 
I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a 
man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never 
welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid 
and the hostess say ‘ Welcome! ’ 

Speed. Come on, you madcap, I ’ll to the alehouse 
with you presently ; where, for one shot of five pence, 
thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, 
how did thy master part with Madam Julia ? 

Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they 
parted very fairly in jest. . 

Speed. But shall she marry him ? 

aunce. No. 

Speed. How then ? shall he marry her ? 

Launce. No, neither. 

Speed. What, are they broken ? 

aunce. No, they are both as whole as a fish. [them ? 

Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with 

Launce. Marry, thus; when it stands well with 
him, it stands well with her. [not. 

Speed. What an ass art thou! I understand thee 

Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst 
not! My staff understands me. 

Speed. What thou sayest ? 

Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I ‘Il 
but lean, and my staff understands me. 

Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. [one. 

Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand 1s all 

Speed. But tell me true, will ’t-be a match ? 

Launce. Ask my dog: if hesay ay, it will; if hesay 
no, it will: if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. 

Speed. The conclusion is then that it will. 

Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from 
me but by a parable. 

Speed. "Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, 
how sayest thou, that my master is become a notable 

Launce. I never knew him otherwise. [lover ? 

Speed. Than how ? [to be. 

Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him 

Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest 
me. [thy master. 

Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant 

Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. 

Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he 
burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to 
the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, 
and not worth the name of a Christian. 

Speed. Why ? 

Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in 
bos as to go to the ale witha Christian. Wilt thou 

Ot 
Speed. At thy service. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.— The same. The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Proteus. 


Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; 
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; 


-| To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ; 


And even that power which gave me first my oath 
Provokes me to this threefold perjury ; 

Love bade me swear and Love bids me forswear. 
O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn’d, 
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! 

At first I did adore a twinkling star, 

But now I worship a celestial sun. 

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, 

And he wants wit that wants resolved will 
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. 
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad, 
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d 
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 

I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; 

But there I leave to love where I should love. 
Julia I lose and Valentine I lose: 

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself: 

If I lose them, thus find I by their loss 


AOT ITT. 


For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia. 

I to myself am dearer than a friend, 

For love is still most precious in itself; 

And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair !— 
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 

I will forget that Julia is alive, 

Remembering that my love to her is dead; 

And Valentine Ill hold an enemy, 

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 

I cannot now prove constant to myself, 

Without some treachery used to Valentine. 

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder 

To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window, 
Myself in counsel, his competitor. 

Now presently I ll give her father notice 

Of their disguising and pretended flight ; 

Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine; 

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter ; 
But, Valentine being gone, I ’ll quickly cross 

By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding. 
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, 
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [Ezvit. 


SCENE VII.— Verona. 


Enter Julia and Lucetta. 


Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; 
And even in kind love I do conjure thee, 
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts 
Are visibly character’d and engraved, 
To lesson me and tell me some good mean 
How, with my honour, I may undertake 
A journey to my loving Proteus. 
Luc. Alas, the way is wearisome and long! 
Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 
Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, 
And when the flight is made to one so dear, 
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. 
Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. 
Jul. O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s 
Pity the dearth that I have pined in, [food ? 
By longing for that food so long a time. 
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow 
As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 
Luc. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, 
But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, 
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 
Jul. The more thou damm/’st it up, the more it 
The current that with gentle murmur glides, [burns. 
Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; 
But when his fair course is not hindered, 
He makes sweet music with the enamell’d stones, 
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage, 
And so by many winding nooks he strays 
With willing sport to the wild ocean. 
Then let me go and hinder not my course: 


Julia’s house. 


eS CUA 


SCENE I.— Milan. The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. 

Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; 
We have some secrets to confer about. [Exit Thu. 
Now, tell me, Proteus, what ’s your will with me. 

Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would dis- 
The law of friendship bids me to conceal: [cover 
But when I call to mind your gracious favours 
Done to me, undeserving as I am, 

My duty pricks me on to utter that 
Which else no worldly good should draw from me. 


Dae a OG NE DE MON ORY VER OWN A. 


SCENE I. 


Ill be as patient as a gentle stream 
And make a pastime of each weary step, 
Till the last step have brought me to my love; 
And there Ill rest, as after much turmoil 
A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
Inc. But in what habit will you go along ? 
Jul. Not like a woman; for I would prevent 
The loose encounters of lascivious men: 
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
As may beseem some well-reputed page. 
Tuc. Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. 
Jul. No, girl; Ill knit it up in silken strings 
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. 
To be fantastic may become a youth 
Of greater time than I shall show to be. [breeches ? 
Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your 
Jul. That fits as well as ‘ Tell me, good my lord, 
What compass will you wear your farthingale ?’ 
Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. 
Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiece, 
madam. 
Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour’d. 
Luc. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a 
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. [pin. 
Jul. Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have 
What thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly. 
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me 
For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? 
I fear me, it will make me scandalized. 
Ine. If youthink so, thenstay at homeand gonot. 
Jul. Nay, that I will not. 
Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 
If Proteus like your journey when you come, 
No matter who’s displeased when you are gone: 
I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. 
Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: 
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears 
And instances of infinite of love 
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. 
Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. 
Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect ! 
But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth; 
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, 
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, 
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, 
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 
Luc. Pray heaven. he prove so, when you come to 
him! [wrong 
Jul. Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that 
To bear a hard opinion of his truth: 
Only deserve my love by loving him; 
And presently go with me to my chamber, 
To take a note of what I stand in need of, 
To furnish me upon my longing journey. 
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, 
My goods, my lands, my reputation ; 
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. 
Come, answer not, but to it presently! 


I am impatient of my tarriance. | Exeunt. 


16 1 Bs 


Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 
This night intends to steal away your daughter: 
Myself am one made privy to the plot. 

I know you have determined to bestow her 

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
And should she thus be stol’n away from you, 
It would be much vexation to your age. 

Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose 

To cross my friend in his intended drift 

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 

A pack of sorrows which would press you down. 
Being unprevented, to your timeless graye. 


ACT III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENE I. 


Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; 
Which to requite, command me while L live, 
This love of theirs myself have often seen, 
Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, 
And oftentimes have purposed to forbid 
Sir Valentine her company and my court: 
But fearing lest my jealous aim might err 
And so unworthily disgrace the man, 
A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d, 
I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find 
That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. 
And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, 
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, 
[ nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 
The key whereof myself have ever kept; 
And thence she cannot be convey’d away. 
Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean 
How he her chamber-window will ascend 
And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 
For which the youthful lover now is gone 
And this way comes he with it presently ; 
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. 
But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly 
That my discovery be not aimed at; 
For love of you, not hate unto my friend, 
Hath made me publisher of this pretence. 
Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know 
That 1 had any light from thee of this. 
Pro. Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. 
Enter Valentine. oy 
Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? 
Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger 
That stays to bear my letters to my friends, 
And I am going to deliver them. 
Duke. Be they of much import ? 
Val. The tenour of them doth but signify 
My health and happy being at your court. 
Duke. Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; 
I am to break with thee of some affairs 
That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 
*T is not unknown to thee that I have sought 
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. 
Val. Lois it well, my Lord; and, sure, the 
match 


Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman | 
| ‘My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, 


Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities 

Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: 

Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him? [ward, 
Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, fro- 

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, 

Neither regarding that she is my child 

Nor fearing me as if I were her father; 

And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, 

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; 

And, where I thought the remnant of mine age 

Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty, 

I now am full resolved to take a wife 

And turn her out to who will take her in: 

Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; 

For me and my possessions she esteems not. [this ? 
Val. What would your Grace have me to do in 
Duke. There is a lady in Verona here 

Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy 

And nought esteems my aged eloquence: 

Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor — 

For long agone I have forgot to court; 

Besides, the fashion of the time is changed — 

How and which way I may bestow myself 

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 

Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: 

Dumb jewels often in their silent kind 

More than quick words do move a woman’s mind. 
Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. 


If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, 
But rather to beget more love in you: 
If she do chide, ‘tis not to have you gone; 
For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. 
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say ; 
For ‘ get you gone,’ she doth not mean ‘ away!’ 
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; 
Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. 
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 
Duke. But she I mean is promised by her friends 
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, 
And kept severely from resort of men, 
That no man hath access by day to her. 
Val. Why, then, I would resort to her by night. 
Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys kept 
That no man hath recourse to her by night. [safe 
Val. What lets but one may enter at her window 2 
Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, 
And built so shelving that one cannot climb it 
Without apparent hazard of his life. 
Val. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords, 
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, 
W ould serve to scale another Hero’s tower, 
So bold Leander would adventure it. 
Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, 
Advise me where I may have such a ladder. [that. 
Val. When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me 
Duke. This very night; for Love is like a child, 
That longs for everything that he can come by. 
Val. By seven o’clock Ill get you such a ladder. 
Duke. But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: 
How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? 
Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it 
Under a cloak that is of any length. 
Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn ? 
Val. Ay, my good lord. 
Duke. Then let me see thy cloak: 
Tl get me one of such another length. 
Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. 
Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak ” 


| I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. 


What letter is this same? What’s here? ‘To 
Silvia’! . 
And here an engine fit for my proceeding. 
Ill be so bold to break the seal for once. {[Reads. 


And slaves they are to me that send them flying: 
O, could their master come and go as lightly, 
ee ose lodge where senseless they are 
ying! 
My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them ; 
While I, their king, that hither them importune, 
Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless’d 
them, 
Because myself do want my servants’ fortune: 
I curse myself, for they are sent by me, 
That they should harbour where their lord would 
What ’s here ? {be.’ 
‘Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.’ 
’T is so; and here ’s the ladder for the purpose. 


| Why, Phaethon, —for thou art Merops’ son,— 


| Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car 


And with thy daring folly burn the world ? 
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? 
Go, base intruder! overweening slave! 

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, 
And think my patience, more than thy desert, 
Is privilege for thy departure hence: 

Thank me for this more than for all the favours 
Which all too much I have bestow’d on thee. 
But if thou linger in my territories 

Longer than swiftest expedition 

Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 


Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best con- | By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love 
Send her another; never give her o’er; [tents her. | I ever bore my daughter or thyself. 


For scorn at first makes atter-love the more. 
26 


| Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; 


AO BLT. 
But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from 
hence. | Hit. 

Val. And why not death rather than living tor- 

To die is to be banish’d from myself; {ment ? 

And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her 

Is self from self: a deadly banishment! _ 

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ? 

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ? 

Unless it be to think that she is by 

And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 

Except I be by Silvia in the night, 

There is no music in the nightingale ; 

Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 

There is no day for me to look upon; 

she is my essence, and I leave to be, 

{f I be not by her fair influence 

Foster’d, illumined, cherish’d, kept alive. 

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: 

‘arry I here, I but attend on death: 

But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. 


Enter Proteus and Launce. 


Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 
Launce. Soho, soho! 
Pro. What seest thou ? 
Launce. Him we go to find: there’s not a hair 
on’s head but ’tis a Valentine. 
ro. Valentine? 


shen. 

. Who then ? his spirit ? 

. Neither. 

. What then ? 

. Nothing. 

Launce. Can nothing speak ? 
Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? 
Launce. Nothing. 

Pro. Villain, forbear. 

Launce. Why, sir, [’ll strike nothing: I pray 


[strike ? 
Master, shall I 


ou,— 
oy Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, 
Val. My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news, 
So much of bad already hath possess’d them. 
Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, 
For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. 
Val. Is Silvia dead ? 
Pro. No, Valentine. 
Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. 
Hath she forsworn me? 
Pro. No, Valentine. 
Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. 
What is your news ? 
Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are 
vanished. [news ! — 
Pro. That thou art banished—O, that’s the 
From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend. 
Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already, 
And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 
Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? 
Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom — 
Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force — 
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: 
Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d ; 
With them, upon her knees, her humble self; 
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became 
As if but now they waxed pale for woe: [them 
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; 
But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. 
Besides, her intercession chafed him so, 
When she for thy repeal was suppliant, 
That to close prison he commanded her, 
With many bitter threats of biding there. [speak’st 
Val. No more; unless the next word that thou 
Have some malignant power upon my life: 
If so, 1 pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 
As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


SCENE I. 


Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, 
And study help for that which thou lament’st. 
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 

Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love: 
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that 


[a word. | 


And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; 
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d 
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 
The time now serves not to expostulate: 
Come, I ll convey thee through the city-gate ; 
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. 
As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, 
Regard thy danger, and along with me! [boy, 
Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my 
Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate. 
Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come,Valentine. 
Val. O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! 
| [Exeunt Val. and Pro. 
| Launce. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I 
| have the wit to think my master is a kind of a 
| knave: but that’s all one, if he be but one knave. 
He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet 
I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluek 
that from me; nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tisa 
woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; 
and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for 
she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is 
her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She 
hath more qualities than a water-spaniel; which is 
much in a bare Christian. [Pulling out a paper.} 
Here is the cate-log of her condition. ‘ Imprimis: 
She can fetch and carry.’ Why, a horse can do no 
more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; 
| therefore is she better than a jade. ‘Item: She 
can milk;’ look you, a sweet virtue in a maid 
with clean hands. 


Enter Speed. 


Speed. How now, Signior Launce! what news 
with your mastership ? [sea. 

Launce. With my master’s ship? why, it is at 

Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. 
What news, then, in your paper ? 


Launce. The blackest news that ever thou 
heardest. 

Speed. Why, man, how black ? 

Launce. Why, as black as ink. 

Speed. Let me read them. [read. 


Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not 
Speed. Thou liest; I can. [thee ? 
Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot 
Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 
Launce. O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy 
grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read. 
Speed. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. 
Launce. There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! 
Speed. [Reads] ‘ Imprimis: She can milk.’ 
aunce. Ay, that she can. 
Speed. ‘Item: She brews good ale.’ 
Launce. And thereof comes the proverb: ‘ Bless- 
ing of your heart, you brew good ale.’ 
Speed. ‘Item: She can sew.’ 
aunce. That ’s as much as to say, Can she so? 
Speed. ‘Item: She can knit.’ 
aunce. What need a man care for a stock with 
a wench, when she can knit him a stock ? 
Speed. ‘Item: She can wash and scour.’ 
aunce. A special virtue; for then she need not 
be washed and scoured. 
Speed. ‘Item: She can spin.’ 
Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, when 
she can spin for her living. 
Speed. ‘Item: She hath many nameless virtues.’ 
Launce. That ’s as much as to say, bastard vir- 


27 


ACT? TITS 


tues; that, indeed, know not their fathers and there- 
fore have no names. 

Speed. ‘ Here follow her vices.’ 

Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. 

Speed. ‘Item: She is not to be kissed fasting, in 
respect of her breath.’ 

Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a 
breakfast. Read on. 

Speed. ‘Item: She hath a sweet mouth.’ 

Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath. 

Speed. ‘Item: She doth talk in her sleep.’ 

Launce. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not 
in her talk. 

Speed. ‘Item: She is slow in words.’ 

Launce. O villain, that set this down among her 
vices! To beslow in words isa woman’s only virtue: 
I pray thee, out with ’t, and place it for her chief 

Speed. ‘Item: She is proud.’ [virtue. 

aunce. Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy, 
and cannot be ta’en from her. 

Speed. ‘Item: She hath no teeth.’ [crusts. 

Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love 

Speed. ‘Item: She is curst.’ 

Launce. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 

Speed. ‘Item: She will often praise her liquor.’ 

Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she 
will not, I will; for good things should be praised. 

Speed. ‘Item: She is too liberal.’ 

aunce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that ’s writ 
down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for 
that Ill keep shut: now, of another thing she may, 
and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. 

Speed. ‘Item: She hath more hair than wit, and 
more faults than hairs, and more wealth than 
faults.’ 

Launce. Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, 
and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. 
Rehearse that once more. 

Boal ‘Item: She hath more hair than wit,’— 

aunce. More hair than wit? It may be; I’ll 
prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, and 
therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that 
covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater 
hides the less. What’s next ? 

Speed. ‘And more faults than hairs,’— 

aunce. That ’s monstrous: O, that that were out ! 

Speed. ‘And more wealth than faults.’ 

aunce. Why, that word makes the faults gra- 
cious. Well, l’ll have her: and if it be a match, 
as nothing is impossible,— 

Speed. What then ? 

Launce. Why, then will I tell thee—that thy 
master stays for thee at the North-gate. 

Speed. For me? 

Launce. For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath 
stayed for a better man than thee. 

pee: And must I go to him ? 

aunce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast 
stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. 

Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? pox of your 
love-letters ! [ Hit. 

Launce. Now will he be swinged for reading my 
letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust him- 
self into secrets! Ill after, to rejoice in the boy’s 
correction. [ Exit. 


SCENE II.— The same. The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke and Thurio. 


Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love 
Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight. [you, 

Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most, 
Forsworn my company and rail’d at me, 
That I am desperate of obtaining her. 

Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat 
Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 


28 


A little time will melt her frozen thoughts 
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. 


Enter Proteus. 


How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman 
According to our proclamation gone ? 
Pro. Gone, my good lord. 
Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. 
Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 
Duke. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. 
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee — 
For thou hast shown some sign of good desert — 
Makes me the better to confer with thee. 
Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace 
Let me not live to look upon your grace. 
Duke. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect 
The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. 
Pro. I do, my lord. 
Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 
How she opposes her against my will. 
Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. 
Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevyers so. 
What might we do to make the girl forget 
The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio ? 
Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine 
With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent, 
Three things that women highly hold in hate. 
Duke. Ay, but she 711 think that it is spoke in hate. 
Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it: 
Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken 
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. 
Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him. 
Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do: 
*T is an ill office for a gentleman, 
Especially against his very friend. fhim, 
Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage 
Your slander never can endamage him; 
Therefore the office is indifferent, 
Being entreated to it by your friend. 
Pro. You have prevail’d, my lord: if I ean do it 
By ought that I can speak in his dispraise, 
She shall not long continue love to him. 
But say this weed her love from Valentine, 
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 
Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, 
Lest it should ravel and be good to none, 
You must provide to bottom it on me; 
Which must be done by praising me as much 
As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. [kind, 
Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this 
Because we know, on Valentine’s report, 
You are already Love’s firm votary 
And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
Upon this warrant shall you have access 
Where you with Silvia may confer at large; 
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, 
And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you; 
Where you may temper her by your persuasion 
To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 
Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect: 
But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; 
You must lay lime to tangle her desires 
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 
Duke. A 
Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 
Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty 
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: 
Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears 
Moist it again, and frame some feeling line 
That may discover such integrity: . 
For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews, 
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, 
Make tigers tame and huge leviathans 
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 
After your dire-lamenting elegies, 
Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window 


ACT IV. PHL 


TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


SCENE II. 


[nn nn ne UE gINSISD SnREERRnRRERpennieneneeeeesemeeeeeend 
——— — 


With some sweet concert; to their instruments 

Tune a deploring dump: the night’s dead silence 

Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. 

This, or else nothing, will inherit her. [love. 
Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in 
Thu. And thy advice this night I’ ll put in practice. 

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 

Let us into the city presently 


ee 


To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music. 
I have a sonnet that will serve the turn 
To give the onset to thy good advice. 

Duke. About it, gentlemen! 

Pro. We’ll wait upon your grace till after supper, 
And afterward determine our proceedings. 

Duke. Even now about it! I will pardon you. 

| Haeunt. 


th 8 aga ap 


SCENE I.— The frontiers of Mantua, A forest. 


Enter certain Outlaws. 


First Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. 
Sec. Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down 
with ’em. 


Enter Valentine and Speed. 


Third Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you 
have about ye: 
If not, we ll make you sit and rifle you. 
Speed. Sir, we are undone; these are the villains 
That all the travellers do fear so much. 
Val. My friends,— 
First Out. That ’snot so, sir: weare your enemies. 
Sec. Out. Peace! we’ll hear him. 
Third Out. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he’s a 
_ proper man. 
Val. Then know that I have little wealth to lose: 
A man [ am cross’d with adversity ; 
My riches are these poor habiliments, 
Of which if you should here disfurnish me, 
You take the sum and substance that I have. 
Sec. Out. Whither travel you? 
Val. To Verona. 
First Out. Whence came you ? 
Val. From Milan. 
Third Out. Have you long sojourned there ? 
Val. Somesixteen months, and longer might have 
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. [stay’d, 
First Out. What, were you banish’d thence ? 
Val. I was. 
Sec. Out. For what offence ? [hearse : 
Val. For that which now torments me to re- 
I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent ; 
But yet I slew him manfully in fight, 
Without false vantage or base treachery. 
First Out. Why,ne’er repent it, if it were done so. 
But were you banish’d for so small a fault ? 
Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 
Sec. Out. Have you the tongues ? 
Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy, 
Or else I often had been miserable. [friar, 
Third Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat 
This fellow were a king for our wild faction! 
First Out. Well have him. Sirs, a word. 
Speed. Master, be one of them; it’s an honour- 
able kind of thievery. 
Val. Peace, villain! [to ? 
Sec. Out. Tellus this: have you any thing to take 
Val. Nothing but my fortune. [tlemen, 
Third Out. Know, then, that some of us are gen- 
Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth 
Thrust from the company of awful men: 
Myself was from Verona banished 
For practising to steal away a lady, 
An heir, and near allied unto the duke. 
Sec. Out. And Ifrom Mantua, for a gentleman, 
Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart. [these. 
First Out. And I for such like petty crimes as 
But to the purpose — for we cite our faults, 
That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives ; 
And partly, seeing you are beautified 


With goodly shape and by your own report 

A linguist and a man of such perfection 

As we do in our quality much want — 

Sec. Out. Indeed, because you are a banish’d man, 
Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you: 

Are you content to be our general ? 

To make a virtue of necessity 

And live, as we do, in this wilderness? [consort ? 
Third Out. What say’st thou ? wilt thou be of our 

Say ay, and be the captain of us all: 

We ’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, 

Love thee as our commander and our king. [diest. 
First Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou 
Sec. Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we 

have offer’d. 

Val. I take your offer and will live with you, 
Provided that you do no outrages 
On silly women or poor passengers. 

Third Out. No, we detest such vile base practices. 
Come, go with us, we’ll bring thee to our crews, 
And show thee all the treasure we have got; 
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Milan. Outside the Duke’s palace, 
under Silvia’s chanvber. 


Enter Proteus. 


Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine 
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. 
Under the colour of commending him, 
I have access my own love to prefer: 
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 
When I protest true loyalty to her, 
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; 
When to her beauty I commend my vows, 
She bids me think how I have been forsworn 
In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved: 
And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 
The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, 
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, 
The more it grows and fawneth on her still. 
But here comes Thurio: now must we to her win. 
And give some evening music to her ear. [dow, 


Enter Thurio and Musicians. 


Thu. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept be- 
fore us? 

Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio: for you know that love 
Will creep in service where it cannot go. 

Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. 

Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. 

Thu. Who? Silvia? 

TO. Ay, Silvia; for your sake. 

Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, 

Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. 


Enter, at a distance, Host, and Julia in boy’s clothes, 


Host. Now, my young guest, methinks you ’re 
allycholly: I pray you, why is it? 

Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. 

Host. Come, we ll have you merry: Ill bring you 


29 


ACT IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENEIII. 


where you shall hear music and see the gentleman | Return, return, and make thy love amends. 


that you asked for. 
Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? 
Host. Ay, that you shall. 
Jul. That will be music. 
Host. Hark, hark! 
Jul. Is he among these ? 
Host. Ay: but, peace! let ’s hear ’em. 


SONG. 


Who is Silvia? what is she, 
That all our swains commend her ? 
Holy, fair and wise is she; 
The heaven such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 


[Music plays. 


Is she kind as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness, 
And, being help’d, inhabits there. 


Then to Silvia let us sing, 
That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 
Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let us garlands bring. 


Host. How now! are you sadder than you were 
before ? Howdo you, man ? the music likes you not. 
Jul. You mistake; the musician likes me not. 

Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 

Jul. He plays false, father. 

Flost. How? out of tune on the strings ? 

Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my 
very heart-strings. 

Host. You have a quick ear. 

Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have 
a slow heart. 

Host. I perceive you delight not in music. 

Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. 

Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music! 

Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. [thing ? 

Host. You would have them always play but one 

Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. 
But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 
Often resort unto this gentlewoman ? 

Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: 
he loved her out of all nick. 

Jul. Where is Launce ? 

Host. Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, 
by his master’s command, he must carry for a pres- 
ent to his lady. 

Jul. Peace! stand aside: the company parts. 

Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead 
That you shall say my cunning drift excels. 

Thu. Where meet we ? 

Pro} At Saint Gregory’s well. 

Thu. Farewell. 

[Hxveunt Thu. and Musicians. 


Enter Silvia above. 


Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. 
Sil, I thank you for your music, gentlemen. 
Who is that that spake ? [truth, 
Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s 
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 
Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. 
Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. 
Sil. What’s your will? 
Pro. That I may compass yours. 
Sil. You have your wish; my will is even this: 
That presently you hie you home to bed. 
Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! 
Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
To be seduced by thy flattery, | 
That hast deceived so many with thy vows ? 


30 


For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, 
I am so far from granting thy request 
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, 
And by and by intend to chide myself 
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 
Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; 
But she is dead. 
Jul. [Aside] ’T were false, if I should speak it; 
For I am sure she is not buried. 
Sil. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend 
Survives; to whom, thyself art witness, 
I am betroth’d: and art thou not ashamed 
To wrong him with thy importunacy ? 
Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. 
Sil, And so suppose am I; for in his grave 
Assure thyself my love is buried. 
Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. 
Sil. Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence, 
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 
Jul. [Aside] He heard not that. 
Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, 
The picture that is hanging in your chamber; 
To that I ’ll speak, to that Il] sigh and weep: 
For since the substance of your perfect self 
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 
And to your shadow will I make true love. 
Jul. [Aside] If ’t were a substance, you would, | 
sure, deceive it, 
And make it but a shadow, as I am. 
Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; 
But since your falsehood shall become you well 
To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 
Send to me in the morning and I Il send it: 
And so, good rest. 
Pyro. As wretches have o’ernight 
That wait for execution in the morn. 
; [EKxeunt Pro. and Sil. severally. 
Jul. Host, will you go? 
Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. 
Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus ? 
| Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 
tis almost day. 
Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night 
That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest. 
Exeunt. 


SCENE III. — The same. 


Enter Eglamour. 


Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia 
Entreated me to call and know her mind: 
There ’s some great matter she Id employ me in. 
Madam, madam! 


Enter Silvia above. 


Who ealls? 

Egl. Your servant and your friend ; 
One that attends your ladyship’s command. [row. 

Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good-mor. 

Eqgl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself: 
According to your ladyship’s impose, 

I am thus early come to know what service 
It is your pleasure to command me in. 

Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman — 
Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not — 
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish’d : 
Thou art not ignorant what dear good will 
I bear unto the banish’d Valentine, 

Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. 
Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say 
_No grief did ever come so near thy heart 

| As when thy lady and thy true love died, 
Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity. 
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, 

\ To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; 


bet 


ACT IV. 


And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 
{ do desire thy worthy company, 
Upon whose faith and honour I repose. 
Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, 
But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, 
And on the Justice of my flying hence, 
To keep me from a most unholy match, [plagues. 
Which heaven and fortune still rewards with 
I do desire thee, even from a heart 
As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, 
To bear me company and go with me: 
If not, to hide what I have said to thee, 
That Il may venture to depart alone. 
Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ; 
Which since I know they virtuously are placed, 
I give consent to go along with you, 
Recking as little what betideth me 
As much I wish all good befortune you. 
When will you go? 
Sil. This evening coming. 
Egil. Where shall I meet you? 
Sil. At Friar Patrick’s cell, 
Where I intend holy confession. 
Egl. I will not fail your ladyship. 
row, gentle lady. 
Sil. Good-morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. 
[ Hxeunt severally. 


SCENE IV.-— The same. 


Enter Launce, with his Dog. 


Launce. When a man’s servant shall play the 
cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I 
brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from 
drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers 
and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even 
as one would say precisely, ‘thus I would teach a 
dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to 
Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no 
sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me 
to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg: O, 
‘tis a foul thing when a cur cannot Keep himself 
in all companies! I would have, as one should 
say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, 
to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had 
not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon 
me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged 
for ’t; sure as I live, he had suffered for’t: you 
shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the com- 
pany of three or four gentlemanlike dogs, under 
the duke’s table: he had not been there —bless 
the mark!—a pissing while, but all the chamber 
smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one: ‘ What 
cur is that?’ says another: ‘ Whip him out’ says 
the third: ‘Hang him up’ says the duke. I, 
having been acquainted with the smell before, 
knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that 
whips the dogs: ‘ Friend,’ quoth I, ‘ you mean to 
whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry, do I,’ quoth he. 
*You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘’t was 
I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no 
more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. 
How many masters would do this for his servant ? 
Nay, 1’ll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for 
puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been 
executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese 
he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t. 
Thou thinkest not of thisnow. Nay, I remember 
the trick you served me when I took my leave of 
Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and 
do as L do? when didst thou see me heave up my 
leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s far- 
thingale ? didst thou ever see me do such a trick ? 


Good-mor- 


Enter Proteus and Julia. 


Pro. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well 
And will employ thee in some service presently. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scene iv. 


Jul. In what you please: I *l] do what I ean. 
Pro. I hope thou wilt. [Zo Launce] How now, 
you whoreson peasant ! 
Where have you been these two days loitering ? 
Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the 
dog you bade me. 
Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? 
Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and 
tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a 
Pro. But she received my dog ? [present. 
Launce. No, indeed, did she not: here have I 
brought him back again. 
Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me? 
Launce. Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen 
from me by the hangman boys in the market-place: 
and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big 
as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. 
Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, 
Or ne’er return again into my sight. 
Away, I say! stay’st thou to vex me here ? 
[ Exit Launce. 
A slave, that still an end turns me to shame! 
Sebastian, I have entertained thee, 
Partly that I have need of such a youth 
That can with some discretion do my business, 
For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout, 
But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, 
Which, if my augury deceive me not, 
Witness good bringing up, fortune and truth: 
Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. 
Go presently and take this ring with thee, 
Deliver it to Madam Silvia: 
She loved me well deliver’d it to me. 
Jul. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. 
She is dead, belike ? 


(ETO. Not so; I think she lives. 

Jul. Alas! 

Pro. Why dost thou cry ‘alas’? 

Jul. T cannot choose 
But pity her. 

Pre Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ? 


Jul. Because methinks that she loved you as well 
As you do love your lady Silvia. 
She dreams on him that has forget her love; 
You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
’T is pity love should be so contrary ; 
And thinking on it makes me ery ‘alas!’ 
Pro. Well, give her that ring and therewithal 
This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady 
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 
Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 
Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. [Mwvit. 
Jul. How many women would do such a message? 
Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d 
A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. 
Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him 
That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
Because he loves her, he despiseth me; 
Because I love him, I must pity him. 
This ring I gave him when he parted from me, 
To bind him to remember my good will; 
And now am I, unhappy messenger, 
To plead for that which I would not obtain, 
To earry that which I would have refused, 
To praise his faith which I would have dispraise. 
Iam my master’s true-confirmed love; 
But cannot be true servant to my master, 
Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 
Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly 
As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. 


Enter Silvia, attended. 
Gentlewoman, good day! f pray you, be my mean 
To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. | 

Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she ? 
Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience 


| To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 


31 


ACT V. 


From whom ? 
From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. 
O, he sends you for a picture. 

Jul. Ay, madam. 

Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. 

Go give your master this: tell him from me, 
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, 
Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. 

Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter.— 
Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised 
Deliver’d you a paper that I should not: 

This is the letter to your ladyship. 

Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. 

Jul. It may not be; good madam, pardon me. 

Sil. There, hold! 

T will not look upon your master’s lines: 

I know they are stuff’d with protestations 

And full of new-found oaths; which he will break 
As easily as I do tear his paper. 

Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 

Sil. 'The more shame for him that he sends it me; 
For I have heard him say a thousand times 
His Julia gave it him at his departure. 

Though his false finger have profaned the ring, 
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. 

Jul. She thanks you. 

Sil. What say’st thou ? 

Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. 
Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much. 

Sil. Dost thou know her ? 

Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself: 

To think upon her woes I do protest 
That I have wept a hundred several times. _ [her. 
Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook 
Jul. I think she doth; and that’s her cause of 
SOrrow. 

Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 

Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is: 

When she did think my master loved her well, 
She, in my judgment, was as fair as you; 
But since she did neglect her looking-glass 
And threw her sun-expelling mask away, 
The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks 
And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face, 
That now she is become as black as I. 

Sil. How tall was she? 

Jul. About my stature; for at Pentecost, 


Sil. 
Jul. 
Sil. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. scENE II 


When all our pageants of delight were play’d, 
Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, 
And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown, 
Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments, 
As if the garment had been made for me: 
Therefore I know she is about my height. 
And at that time I made her weep agood, 
For I did play a lamentable part: 
Madam, ’t was Ariadne passioning 
For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight; 
Which I so lively acted with my tears 
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead 
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow! 
Sil. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. 
Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 
I weep myself to think upon thy words. 
Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this 
For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lovest her. 
Farewell. [Exit Silvia, with attendants. 
Jul. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know 
A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! [her. 
I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, 
Since she respects my mistress’ love so much. 
Alas, how love can trifle with itself! 
Here is her picture: let me see; I think, 
If I had such a tire, this face of mine 
Were full as lovely as is this of hers: 
And yet the painter flatter’d her a little, 
Unless I flatter with myself too much. 
Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 
If that be all the difference in his love, 
I ll get me such a colour’d periwig. 
Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine; 
Ay, but her forehead ’s low, and mine’s as high 
What should it be that he respects in her 
But I can make respective in myself, 
If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? 
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, 
For ‘tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, 
Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, loved and adored! 
And, were there sense in his idolatry, 
My substance should be statue in thy stead. 
I ’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, 
That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow, 
I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes, 
To make my master out of love with thee! [#zit. 


AOC EN: 


SCENE I.— Milan. An abbey. 


Enter Eglamour. 


Kgl. The sun begins to gild the western sky ; 
And now it is about the very hour 
That Silvia, at Friar Patrick’s cell, should meet me. 
She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, 
Unless it be to come before their time; 
So much they spur their expedition. 
See where she comes. 


Enter Silvia. 
Lady, a happy evening! 
Sil. Amen, amen! Go on, ee eineade 
Out at the postern by the abbey-wall: 
I fear I am attended by some spies. 
gl. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off ; 
If we recover that, we are sure enough.  [Eveunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia. 


Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? 
Pro, O, sir. I find her milder than she was; 


oO 
32 


The Duke’s palace. 


And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? 
Pro. No; that it is too little. [rounder. 
Thu. 1°11 wear a boot, to make it somewhat 
Jul. [Aside] But love will not be spurr’d to what 
Thu. What says she to my face ? [it loathes. 
Pro. She says it is a fair one. 
Thu. Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black. 
Pro. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is. 
Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. 
Jul. [Aside]’T is true; such pearls as put out ladies’ 


For I had rather wink than look on them.  [eyes: 
Thu. How likes she my discourse? 
Pro. Ul, when you talk of war. [peace ? 


Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and 

Jul. [Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold 
your peace. 

Thu. What says she to my valour ? 

Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 

Jul. [Aside] She needs not, when she knows it 

Thu. What says she to my birth?  [cowardice. 

Pro. That you are well derived. 

Jul. [Aside] True; from a gentleman to a fool. 

Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 


ACT V. 


Pro. O, ay; and pities them. 

Thu. Wherefore ? 

Jul. [Aside] That such an ass should owe them. 
Pro. That they are out by lease. 

Jul. Here comes the duke. 


Enter Duke. 


Duke. How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio! 
Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? 
Thu. Not I. 


Pro. IN OME. 
Duke. Saw you my daughter ? 
Pro. Neither. 


Duke. Why then, 

She ’s fled unto that peasant Valentine; 

And Eglamour is in her company. 

’T is true; for Friar Laurence met them both, 

As he in penance wander’d through the forest ; 

Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she, 

But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it; 

Besides, she did intend confession 

At Patrick’s cell this even; and there she was not ; 

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. 

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 

But mount you presently and meet with me 

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 

That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled: 

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [xit. 
Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, 

That flies her fortune when it follows her. 

Ill after, more to be revenged on Eglamour 

Than for the love of reckless Silvia. { Exit. 
Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love 

Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [zit. 
Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love 

Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love. [Evit. 


SCENE ITI.— The frontiers of Mantua. The 
forest. 


Enter Outlaws with Silvia. 
First Out. Come, come, 
Be patient; we must bring you to our captain. 
Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one 
Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. 
Sec. Out. Come, bring her away. [her ? 
First Out. Where is the gentleman that was with 
Third Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun 
But Moyses and Valerius follow him. [us, 
Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; 
There is our captain: we ’ll follow him that’s fled ; 
The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape. 
First Out. Come, I must bring you to our cap- 
tain’s cave: 
Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, 
And will not use a woman lawlessly. 
Sil. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! 
[ Hxewnt. 


SCENE IV.— Another purt of the forest. 


Enter Valentine. 


Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man! 
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: 
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes 
Tune my distresses and record my woes. 
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, 
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall 
And leave no memory of what it was! 
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; 
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! 
What halloing and what stir is this to-day ? [law, 
These are my mates, that make their wills their 
Have some unhappy passenger in chase. 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF 


VERONA. 


SCENE IV. 


They love me well; yet I have much to do 
To keep them from uncivil outrages. 
Withdraw thee, Valentine: who ’$ this comes here ? 


Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia. 

Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you, 
Though you respect not aught your servant doth, 
To hazard life and rescue you from him _, 

That would have forced your honour and your love; 
Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; 

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg 

And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 

Val. [Aside] How like a dream is this I see and 
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.  [hear! 

Sil. O miserable, unhappy that I am! 

Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; 
But by my coming I have made you happy. 

Sil. By thy approach thou makest me most un- 

happy. [your presence. 

Jul. [Aside] And me, when he approacheth to 

Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 

I would have been a breakfast to the beast, 
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 

O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 

Whose life ’s as tender to me as my soul! 

And full as much, for more there cannot be, 

I do detest false perjured Proteus. 

Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. [death, 

Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to 
Would I not undergo for one calm look! 

O, ’t is the curse in love, and still approved, 
When women cannot love where they ’re beloved ! 

Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he’s be- 
Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love, [loved. 
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith 
Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths 
Descended into perjury, to love me. 

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou ’dst two; 
And that’s far worse than none; better have none 
Than plural faith which is too much by one: 

Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! 

Pro: In love 
Who respects friend ? 

Sis All men but Proteus. 

Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
Can no way change you to a milder form, 

Ill woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end, 
And love you ’gainst the nature of love,—foree ye. 

Sil. O heaven! 

digi I'll force thee yield to my desire. 

Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, 
Thou friend of an ill fashion! 

Pro. Valentine! 

Val. Thou common friend, that’s without faith 

or love, 
For such is a friend now; treacherous man! 
Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye 
Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say 
I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. 
Who should be trusted, when one’s own right hand 
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, 
I am sorry I must never trust thee more, 
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
The private wound is deepest : O time most accurst 
*Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst | 

Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me. 
Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow 
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 

I tender ’t here; I do as truly suffer 
As e’er I did commit. 

Val. Then I am paid; 
And once again I do receive thee honest. 
Who by repentance is not satisfied 
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 
By penitence the Eternal’s wrath ’s appeased : 
And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 


30 


¥ + 


A LT Ve, 


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 


SCENE IV. 


Jul. O me unhappy! [Swoons. 
Pro. V.ook to the boy. 
Val. Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s 
the matter? Look up; speak. 
Jul. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver 
a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, 
was never done. 
Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? 
Jul. Here ’tis; this is it. 
Pro. How! let me see: 
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. 
Jul. O, ery you mercy, sir, I have mistook: 
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [depart 
Pro. But how camest thou by this ring? At my 
I gave this unto Julia. 
Jul. And Julia herself did give it me; 
And Julia herself hath brought it hither. 
Pro. How! Julia! 
Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, 
And entertain’d ’em deeply in her heart. 
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! 
O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush! 
Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 
Such an immodest raiment, if shame live 
In a disguise of love: 
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, [minds. 
Women to change their shapes than men their 
Pro. Than men their minds! ’tistrue. O heaven! 
were man 
But constant, he were perfect. That one error 
Fills him with faults; makes him run through all 
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. [the sins: 
What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy 
More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye ? 
Val. Come, come, a hand from either: 
Let me be blest to make this happy close; 
*T were pity two such friends should be long foes. 
Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for 
Jul. And I mine. [ever. 


Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Thurio. 
Outlaws. A prize, a prize, a prize! [duke. 
Val. Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the 
Your grace is welcome to a man disgraced, 
Banished Valentine. 

Duke. Sir Valentine! 

Thu. Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia ’s mine. 

Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death ; 


Come not within the measure of my wrath; 
Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, 
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands: 
Take but possession of her with a touch: 
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 

Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I: 
I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
His body for a girl that loves him not: 
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 

Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou, 
To make such means for her as thou hast done 
And leave her on such slight conditions. 

Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 

And think thee worthy of an empress’ love: 
Know then, I here forget all former griefs, 
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, 

Plead a new state in thy unrival’d merit, 

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, 

Thou art a gentleman and well derived ; 

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. 

Val. I thank your grace; the gift hath made me 
I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, [happy. 
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 

Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be. 

Val. These banish’d men that I have kept withal 
Are men endued with worthy qualities: 

Forgive them what they have committed here 
And let them be recall’d from their exile: 

They are reformed, civil, full of good 

And fit for great employment, worthylord. [thee: 

Duke. Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them and 
Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. 
Come, let us go: we will include all jars 
With triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity. 

Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold 
With our discourse to make your grace to smile. 
What think you of this page, my lord? __[blushes. 

Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him; he 

Val. L warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. 

Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 

Val. Please you, [’ll tell you as we pass along, 
That you will wonder what hath fortuned. 

Come, Proteus; ’t is your penance but to hear 
The story of your loves discovered : 
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours; 
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. 

[ Haxeunt. 


Valentine.—Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you, 
Confirm his welcome with some special favour. 

Silvia.—His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, - 
If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from.—Acrt II., Scene iv. 


84 


= 


Sa 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Sir John Falstaff. 
Fenton, a gentleman. 
Shallow, a country justice. 
Slender, cousin to Shallow. 
Ford, \ 
Page, j 
William Page, a boy, son to Page. 
Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson. 
Doctor Caius, a French physician. 
Bardolph, 
Pistol, 
Nym, 


two gentlemen dwelling at Windsor. 


sharpers attending on Falstaff. 


Robin, page to Falstaff. 

Simple, servant to Slender. 

Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius, 

Host of the Garter Inn. 

Mistress Ford. 

Mistress Page. 

Anne Page, her daughter. 

Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius, 


Servants to Page, Ford, &c. 


SCENE — Windsor, and the neighborhood. 


[ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIII.] 


15 DAE i 


SCENE I.— Windsor. 


Enter Justice Shallow, Slender, and Sir Hugh 
Evans. 


Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a 
Star-chamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir 
John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, 
esquire. 

Slen. In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace 
and ‘ Coram.’ 

Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and ‘ Custalorum.’ 

Slen. Ay, and ‘ Rato-lorum’ too; and a gentleman 
born, master parson; who writes himself ‘Armigero,’ 
in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, ‘Ar- 
migero.’ 

Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any time 
these three hundred years. 

Slen. All his successors gone before him hath 
done ’t: and all his ancestors that come after him 
may: they may give the dozen white luces in their 

Shal. It is an old coat. 

Hvans. The dozen white louses do become an old 


Before Page’s house. 


coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar | 


beast to man, and signifies love. 

Shal. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an 

Slen. I may quarter, coz. [old coat. 

Shal. You may, by marrying. 

Hvans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. 

Shal. Not a whit. 
. Heans. Yes, py ’r lady; if he has a quarter of your 
coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my 
simple conjectures: but that is allone. If Sir John 
Halstaff have committed disparagements unto you, 
1am of the church, and will be glad to do my be- 
neyolence to make atonement and compremises be- 
tween you. 

Shal. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Hvans. It is not meet the council hear a riot; 
there is no fear of Got in a riot: the council, look 
you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to 
hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

Shal. Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the 
sword should end it. 

Hvans. It is petter that friends is the sword, and 
end it: and there is also another device in my prain, 


[coat. | 


which peradventure prings goot discretions with it: 
there is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master 
Thomas Page, which is pretty virginity. 

Slen. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, 
and speaks small like a woman. 

Evans. It is that fery person for all the orld, as 
just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds 
of moneys, and gold and silver, is her grandsire upon 
his death’s-bed— Got deliver to a joyful resurrec- 
tions !— give, when she is able to overtake seventeen 
years old: it were a goot motion if we leave our 
pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between 
Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. [pound ? 

Slen. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred 

Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a petter 
penny. 

Slen. I know the young gentlewoman; she has 
good gifts. 

Evans. Seven hundred pounds and possibilities 
is goot gifts. 

Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is 
Falstaff there ? 

Evans. Shall I tell you a lie? Ido despise a liar 
as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one 
that is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; 
and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I 
will peat the door for Master Page. Lknocks] What, 
hoa! Got pless your house here! 

Page. [Within] Who’s there? 


Enter Page. 


Evans. Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, 
and Justice Shallow ; and here young Master Slender, 
that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if 
matters grow to your likings. 

Page. 1 am glad to see your worships well. I 
thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. 

Shal. Master Page, Iam glad to see you: much 
good do it your good heart! I wished your veni- 


son better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mis- 


tress Page?—and I thank you always with my 
heart, la! with my heart. 
Page. Sir, I thank you. 
Shal. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. 
Page. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. 


ar 
ow 


ACT I. 


Slen. How does your fallow See lee Sit Pu a 
heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. 

Page. It could not be judged, sir. 

Slen. Youll not confess, you ’ll not confess. 

Shal. That he will not. "Tis your fault, ’tis 
your fault; ’tis a good dog. 

Page. NG cur, sir. 

Shal. Sir, he’s a good dog, 
there be more said? he is good and fair. 
John Falstaff here ? 

Page. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do 
a good office between you. 

‘Evans. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. 

Shal. He hath wronged me, Master Page. 

Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. 

Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed: 
not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged Ae 
indeed he hath ; at a word, he hath, believe me: 
Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged. 

Puge. Here comes Sir John. 


Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, and 
Pistol. 


Fal. Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of 
me to the king ? 

Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed 
ne nae and broke open my lodge. 

1. But not kissed your keeper’ s daughter ? 

Shal. Tut, a pin! this shall be answered. 

Fal. I will answer it straight; I have done all 
That is now answered. [this. 

Shal. The council shall know this. 

Fal. ’T were better for you if it were known in 
counsel: you ‘ll be laughed at. 

Evans. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. 

Fal. Good worts! good cabbage. Slender, I broke 
your head: what matter have you against me ? 

Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head 
against you; and against your cony-catching ras- 
cals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. 

Bard. You Banbury cheese! 

Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 

Pist. How now, Mephostophilus! 

Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 

Nym. Slice, 1 say! pauca, pauca: slice! that’s 
my humour. [cousin ? 

Slen. Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, 

Evans. Peace , I pray you. Now let us understand. 
There is three umpires in this matter, as I under- 
stand; that is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; 
and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three 
party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. 

Page. ‘We three, to hear it and end it between them. 

Evans. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in 
my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon 
the cause with as great discreetly as we can. 

Fal. Pistol! 

Pist. He hears with ears. 

Evans. The tevil and his tam! what phrase is 
pre ‘He hears with ear’? why, it is affecta- 
jons. 

Pal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse ? 

Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I 
might never come in mine own great chamber 
again else, of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and 
two Edward shovel- boards, that cost me two shil- 
ling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by 
these gloves. 

Fal. Is this true, Pistol ? 

Evans. No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. 

Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner |! Sir John 

and master mine, 
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. 
Word of denial in thy labras here! 
Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest! 

Slen. By these gloves, then, *t was he. 


and a fair dog: can 
Is Sir 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE I. 


I will say ‘marry trap’ with you, if you run the 
ae s humour on me; that is the very note 


 Slon. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; 
for though I cannot remember what I did when 
you made me dr unk, yet Iam not altogether an ass. 

Fal. What say you, Scarlet and J ohn ? 

Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman 
had drunk himself out of his five sentences. 

Evans. It is his five senses: fie, what the igno- 
rance is! 

Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cash- 
iered; and so conclusions passed the careires. 

Slen. Ay, poe spake i in Latin then too; but ’tis 
no matter: Ill ne’er be drunk whilst I live ag gain, 
but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick! 
if I be drunk, Ill be drunk with those that have 
the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. 

Evans. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind. 

Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentle- 
men; you hear it. 


Enter Anne Page, with wine; Mistress Ford and 
Mistress Page, following. 


Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we’ll 
drink within. [| Hxit Anne Page. 

Slen. O heayen! this is Mistress Anne Page. 

Page. How now, Mistress Ford! 

Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very 
well met: by your leave, good mistress. 

[ Kisses her. 

Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, 
we have a hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gen- 
tlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. 

[ Hxeunt all except Shal., Slen., and Evans. 

Slen. I had rather than forty shillings I had my 

Book of Songs and Sonnets here. 


Enter Simple. 


How now, Simple! where have you been? I must 
wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of 
Riddles about you, have you? 

Sim. Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it 
to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fort- 

night afore Michaelmas ? 

Shal. Come, coz; come, coz; westayforyou. A 
word with you, coz: marry, this, coz: there is, as 
’t were, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by 
Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me ? 

Slen. Ay sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it 
be so, I shall do that that is reason. 

Shal. N ay, but understand me. 

Slen. So I do, sir. 

Evans. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: 
I will description the matter to you, if you be ca- 
pacity of it. 

Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow Says: 
I pray you, pardon me; he’s a justice of peace in his 
country, simple though I stand here. 

Evans. But that is not the question: the question 
is concerning your marriage. 

Shal. Ay, there’s the point, sir. 

Evans. Marry, is it; the very point of it; to Mis- 
tress Anne Page. 

Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any 
reasonable demands. 

Evans. But can you affection the ’?oman? Let us 
command to know that of your mouth or of your 
lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is 
parcel of the mouth. Therefore, one can you 

carry your good will to the maid ? 

Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her ? 

Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shail become one 
that would do reason. 

Evans. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! you must 
speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires 


Nym. Be advised, sir, and pass good humours: | towards her. 


36 


5: Oe ha 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE ITI. 


Shal. That you must. 
dowry, marry her? 

Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon 
your request, cousin, in any reason. 

Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: 
what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love 
the maid ? 

Slen. I willmarry her, sir, at your request: but if 
there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven 
may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we 
are married and have more occasion to know one 
another; I hope, upon familiarity will grow more 
contempt: but if you say, ‘ Marry her,’ I will marry 
her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. 

Evans. Itisafery discretion answer; save the fall 
is in the ort ‘dissolutely:’ the ort is, according to 
our meaning, ‘resolutely :’ his meaning is good. 

Shal. Ay, [think my cousin meant well. 

Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la! 

Shal. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. 


Will you, upon good 


Re-enter Anne Page. 

Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne! 

Anne. The dinner is on the table; my father de- 
sires your worship’s company. 

Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. 

Evans. Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at 
the grace. [Hxeunt Shallow and Evans. 

Anne. Will’t please your worship to come in, sir ? 

Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ;.I am 
very well. 

Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. 

Slen. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. 
Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my 


cousin Shallow. [Hit Simple.] A justice of peace 


sometimes may be beholding to his friend for a 
man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my 
mother be dead: but what though ? yet I live like 
a poor gentleman born. 

Anne. Imay not go in without your worship: they 
will not sit till you come. 

Slen. I? faith, I’ll eat nothing; I thank you as 
much as though I did. 

Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. 

Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I 
bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword 
and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for 


a dish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot | 


abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your 
dogs bark so? be there bears i’ the town: [of. 
Anne. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked 


Slen. I love the sport well; but I shall as soon | 


quarrel at it as any man in England. You are 
afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not ? 

Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. 

Slen. That ’s meat and drink to me,now. Ihave 
seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken 
him by the chain; but, I warrant you, the women 
have so cried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but 
women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very 
ill-favoured rough things. 


Re-enter Page. 


Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we | 


stay for you. 

Slen. I ’lleat nothing, I thank you, sir. 

Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! 
come, come. 

Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. 

Page. Come on, sir. 

Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. 

Anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. 

Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will 
not do you that wrong. 

Anne. I pray you, sir. 

Slen. Ill rather be unmannerly than troublesome. 
You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 


Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ 
house which is the way: and there dwells one Mis- 
tress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, 
or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his 
washer, and his wringer. 

Sim. Well, sir. 

tivans. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this let- 
ter ; for itisa ’oman that altogether ’s acquaintance 
with Mistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to de- 
sire and require her to solicit your master’s desires 
to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I 
will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and 
cheese to come. ee 


SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, 
and Robin. 


Fal. Mine host of the Garter! [and wisely. 

Host. What says my bully-rook ? speak scholarly 

Fal. Truly, mine host, 1 must turn away some 
of my followers. 

Host. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them 
wag’; trot, trot. 

Fal. I sit at ten pounds a week. 

Host. Thou ’rt an emperor, Cesar, Keisar, and 
Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, 
he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector ? 

Fal. Do so, good mine host. 

Host. I have spoke; let him follow. [Jo Bard.| 
Let me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; 
follow. [ Kaiti. 

Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good 
trade; anold cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered 
serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu. 

Bard. It isa life that I have desired: I willthrive. 

Pist. O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the 
spigot wield ? [Exit Bardolph. 

Nym. He was gotten in drink: is not the a 
mour conceited ? 

Fal. Tam glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box : 
his thefts were too open; his filching was like an 
unskilful singer; he kept not time. [rest. 

Nym. The good humour is to steal at a minute’s 

Pist. ‘Convey,’ the wise it call. ‘Steal!’ foh! 
a fico for the phrase! 

Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 

Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. 

Fal. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I 
must shift. 

Pist. Young ravens must have food. 

Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ? 

Pist. I ken the wight: he is of substance good. 

Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am 

Pist. Two yards, and more. [about. 

Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the 
waist two yards about; but I am now about no 
waste; Lam about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to 
make love to Ford’s wife: I spy entertainment in 
her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of 
invitation: I can construe the action of her familiar 
style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to ve 
Eneglished rightly, is, ‘I am Sir John Falstaff’s.’ 

Pist. He hath studied her will, and translated 
her will, out of honesty into English. 

Nym. The anchor is deep: will that humour pass ? 

Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of 
her husband’s purse: he hath a legion of angels. 

Pist. As many devils entertain ; and ‘ To her, boy,’ 
say I. [the angels. 

Nym. The humour rises; it is good: humour me 

Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her: and here 
another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good 
eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious 


37 


ACT I. 


ceillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded 
my foot, sometimes my portly belly. 

Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. 

Nym. I thank thee for that humour. 

Fal. O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with 
such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her 
eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! 
Here’s another letter to her: she bears the purse 
too; she isa region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. 
I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be 
exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West 
Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear 
thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to 
Mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive. 

Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, 


And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!’ 


Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take the 
humour-letter: I will keep the haviour of reputation. 
kal. [To Robin] Hold, sirrah, bear you these let- 
ters tightly ; 
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. 
Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go; 
Trudge, plod away o’ the hoof; seek shelter, pack | 
Falstaff will learn the humour of the age, 
French thrift, yourogues; myself and skirted page. 
[Hxeunt Falstaff and fobin. 
Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and 
fullam holds, 
And high and low beguiles the rich and poor: 
Tester I?ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, 
Base Phrygian Turk! 

Nym. I have operations which be humours of 

Pist. Wilt thou revenge ? [revenge. 

Nym. By welkin and her star! 

Pist. With wit or steel ? 

Nym. With both the humours, I: 

I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. 

Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold 

How Falstaff, varlet vile, 
His dove wil] prove, his gold will hold, 
And his soft couch defile. 

Nym. My humour shall not cool: I will incense 
Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with 
yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: 
that is my true humour. 

Pist. Thou art the Mars of malecontents: I second 
thee; troop on. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— A room in Doctor Caius’s house. 


Enter Mistress Quickly, Simple, and Rugby. 


Quick. What, John Rugby! I pray thee, go to 
the casement, and see if you can see my master, 
Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, 
and find any body in the house, here will be an old 
abusing of God’s patience and the king’s English. 

Rug. I’ go watch. 

Quick. Go; and we’ll have a posset for ’t soon at 
night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. 
| kait Rugby.| An honest, willing, kind fellow, as 
ever servant shall come in house withal, and, I war- 
rant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate: his worst 
fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something 
peevish that way: but nobody but has his fault ; but 
let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is ? 

Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. 

Quick. And Master Slender ’s your master ? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth. 

1 fae Does he not wear a great round beard, like 
a glover’s paring-knife ? 

Sim. No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee face, 
with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard. 

ae A softly-sprighted man, is he not ? 

im. Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall a man of his 
hands as any is between this and his head; he hath 
fought with a warrener. 

Quick. How say you? O, I should remember 


38 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE IV. 


him: does he not hold up his head, as it were, and 
strut in his gait ? 

Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. 

Quick. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse 
fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what 
I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I 
ghee Tte-enter Rugby. 

Rug. Out, alas! here comes my master. 

Quick. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good 
young man; go into this closet: he will not stay 
long. [Shuts Simple in the closet. What, John 
Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go 
inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well, that 
he comes not home. 

[Singing] And down, down, adown-a, &c. 


Enter Doctor Caius. 


Caius. Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. 
Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier 
vert, a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak ? 
a green-a box. 

Quick. Ay, forsooth; Ill fetch it you. [Aside] I 
am glad he went not in himself: if he had found 
the young man, he would have been horn-mad. 

Caius. Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. 
Je m’en vais a la cour —la grande affaire. 

wick. Is it this, sir? 

Caius. Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, 
quickly. Vere is dat knave Rugby? 

Quick. What, John Rugby! John! 

Ttug. Here, sir! 

Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack 
Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after 
my heel to the court. 

Rug. ’T is ready, sir, here in the porch. 

Caius. By my trot, I tarry too long. Od’s 
me! Qu’ai-j’oublie! dere is some simples in my 
closet, dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave 
behind. 

Quick. Ay me, he’ll find the young man there, 
and be mad! 

Caius. O diable, diable! vat is in my closet ? 
Villain! larron! [Pulling Simple out.] Rugby, my 
rapier ! 

Quick. Good master, be content. 

Caius. Wherefore shall I be content-a? 

Quick. The young man is an honest man. 

Caius. What shall de honest man do in my closet ? 
dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. 

Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear 
the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from 
Parson Hugh. 

Caius. Vell. 

Sim. Ay, forsooth; to desire her to — 

Quick. Peace, I pray you. 

Caius. Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale. 

Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your 
maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page 
for my master in the way of marriage. 

Quick. This is all, indeed, la! but Ill ne’er put 
my finger in the fire, and need not. 

Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you? Rugby, baille me 
some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. [ Writes. 

Quick. [Aside to Simple] Lam glad he is so quiet : 
if he had been throughly moved, you should have 
heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwith- 
standing, man, Ill do you your master what good 
I can: and the very yea and the no is, the French 
doctor, my master,—I may call him my master, 
look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, 
brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the 
beds, and do all myself,— 

Sim. [Aside to Quickly] ’Tis a great charge to 
come under one body’s hand. 

Quick. [Aside to Simple] Are you avised o’ that ? 
you shall find it a great charge: and to be up early 


ACT .1. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE I. 


and down late; but notwithstanding, —to tell you 
in your ear; I would have no words of it,—my 
master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: 
but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind,— 
that ’s neither here nor there. 

Caius. You jack’nape, give-a this letter to Sir 
Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat 
in de park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape 
priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is 
not good you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his 
two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to 
throw at his dog. [Hatt Sinrple. 

uick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. 

Caius. It is no matter-a ver dat: do not you tell-a 
me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By 
gar, I vill kill de Jack priest ; and I have appointed 
mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. 
By gar, I will myself have Anne Page. 

Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be 
well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the 
good-jer ! 

Caius. Rugby, come to the court with me. By 
gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your 
head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. 

[Hxeunt Caius and Rugby. 

Quick. You shall have An fool’s-head of your 
own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that: never a 
woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind 
than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I 
thank heaven. 

Pent. | Within] Who’s within there? ho! © 

Quick. Who’s there, I trow! Come near the house, 
I pray you. 


Enter Fenton. 


Fent. How now, good woman! how dost thou ? 

Quick. The better that it pleases your good wor- 
ship to ask. 

Kent. What news ? how does pretty Mistress Anne? 

Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, 
and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell 
you that by the way; I praise heaven for it. 

Fent. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? shall I 
not lose my suit ? 

Quick. Troth, sir, all isin his hands above: but 
notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on 
a book, she loves you. Have not your worship a 
wart above your eye? 

Fent. Yes, marry, have 1; what of that? 

Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale: good faith, it 
is such another Nan; but,I detest, an honest maid 
as ever broke bread: we had an hour’s talk of that 
wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s com- 
pany! But indeed she is given too much to allicholy 
and musing: but for you— well, go to. 

Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there ’s 
money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: 
if thou seest her before me, commend me. 

Quick. Will 1? i? faith, that we will; and I will 
tell your worship more of the wart the next time we 
have confidence; and of other wooers. 

Fent. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now. 

Quick. Farewell to your worship. [Exit Fenton.] 
Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him 
not; for 1know Anne’s mind as well as another does. 
Out upon ’t! what have I forgot ? [ Exit. 


pAsale 


SCENE I.— Before Page’s house. 


Enter Mistress Page, with a letter. 


Mrs. Page. What, have I scaped love-letters in the 
holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject 
for them? Let me see. [ Reads. 

‘Ask me no reason why I love you; for though 
Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him 
not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more 
am I; go to then, there ’s sympathy: you are merry, 
so am I; ha, ha! then there’s more sympathy: you 
love sack, and so do I; would you desire better 
sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page,—at 
the least, if the love of soldier can suffice,—that I 
love thee. I will not say, pity me; ’t is not a soldier- 
like phrase; but I say, love me. By me, 

Thine own true knight, 

By day or night, 

Or any kind of light, 

With all his might 

For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF.’ 
What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked 
world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with 
age to show himself a young gallant! What an un- 
weighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard 
picked — with the devil’s name!—out of my con- 
versation, that he dares in this manner assay me? 
Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What 
should I say tohim? I was then frugal of my mirth: 
Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the 
parliament for the putting down of men. How shall 
I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as 
sure as his guts are made of puddings. 


Enter Mistress Ford. 


Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going 
to your house. 


Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. 
You look very ill. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, Ill ne’er believe that; I have 
to show to the contrary. 

Mrs. Page. Faith, but you do, in my mind. 

Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then; yet I say I could show 
you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some 
counsel ! : 

Mrs. Page. What’s the matter, woman ? 

Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling 
respect, I could come to such honour! 

Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman! take the 
ee What is it? dispense with trifles; what 
is it: 

Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal 
moment or so, I could be knighted. 

Mrs. Page. What? thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! 
These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not 
alter the article of thy gentry. 

Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight; here, read, read ; 
perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think 
the worse of fat men, as long as I have an eye to 
make difference of men’s liking: and yet he would 
not swear; praised women’s modesty ; and gave such 
orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeli- 
ness, that I would have sworn his disposition would 
have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no 
more adhere and keep place together than the Hun- 
dredth Psalm to the tune of ‘ Green Sleeves.’ What 
tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many 
tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How 
shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way 
were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked 
fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did 
you ever hear the like ? 

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name 
of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in 
this mystery of ill opinions, here ’s the twin-brother 


ALT Ei 
of thy letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I 
protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a 
thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for 
different names,— sure, more,—and these are of the 
second edition: he will print them, out of doubt; 
for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he 
would put us two. I had rather be a giantess, and 
lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you 
twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same; the very 
hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? 

Mrs. Page. Nay, 1 know not: it makes me almost 
ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll en- 
tertain myself like one that I am not acquainted 
withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in 
me, that I know not myself, he would never have 
boarded me in this fury. 

Mrs. Ford. ‘ Boarding,’ call you it ? 
to keep him above deck. 

Mrs. Page. So will I: if he come under my hatches, 
I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him: 
let’s appoint him a meeting; give him a show of 
comfort in his suit and lead him on with a fine- 
baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine 
host of the Garter. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villany 
against him, that may not sully the chariness of 
our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! 
it would give eternal food to his jealousy. 


Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes; and my | 


good man too: he’s as far from jealousy as I am 
from giving him cause; and that I hope is an un- 
measurable distance. 

Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. 

Mrs. Page. Let’s consult together against this 
greasy knight. Come hither. | They retire. 


Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym. 


Ford. Well, I hope it be not so. 

Pist. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs: 
Sir John affects thy wife. 

Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young. [poor, 

Pist. He wooes both high and low, both rich and 
Both young and old, one with another, Ford; 

He loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend. 

Ford. Love my wife! 

Pist. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou, 
Like Sir Actzon he, with Ringwood at thy heels: 
O, odious is the name! 

Ford. What name, sir ? 

Pist. The horn, I say. Farewell. [night : 
Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by 
Take heed, ere Summer comes or cuckoo-birds do 
Away, Sir Corporal Nym! ing. 
Believe it, Page; he speaks sense. [| Heit. 

Ford. | Aside] I will be patient; I will find out this. 

Nym. {To Page|] And this is true; I like not the 
humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some 
humours: I should have borne the humoured letter 
to her; but I have a sword and it shall bite upon 
my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the 
short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I 
speak and I avouch; ’tis true: my name is Nym 
and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not 
the humour of bread and cheese, and there’s the 
humour of it. Adieu. [ Hvit. 

Page. ‘The humour of it,’ quoth a’! here’s a fel- 
low frights English out of his wits. 

Ford. 1 will seek out Falstaff. [rogue. 

Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting 

Ford. If I do find it: well. 

Page. I willnot believe such a Cataian, though the 
priest 0’ the town commended him for a true man. 

Ford. "Twas a good sensible fellow: well. 

Page. How now, Meg! 

Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford tier Mey 

Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George ? 

40 


I’ll be sure | 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE I. 

Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank! why art 
thou melancholy ? 

Ford. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get 
you home, go. 

Mrs. Ford. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in 
thy head. Now, will you go, Mistress Page ? 

Mrs. Page. Have with you. Youll come to din- 
ner, George. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Look who comes 
yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry 
knight. 

Mrs. Ford. [Aside to Mrs. Page] Trust me. I 
thought on her: she ’Il fit it. 


Enter Mistress Quickly. 


Mrs. Page. Y ouare come to see my daughter Anne? 
Quick. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good 
Mistress Anne ? 
Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see: we have an 
hour’s talk with you. 
[Exeunt Mis. Page, Mrs. Ford, and 


Mrs. Quickly. 

Page. How now, Master Ford! 

Ford. You heard what this knave told me, did 
you not ? [me ? 

Page. Yes: and you heard what the other told 

Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? 

Page. Hang’em,slaves! I donot think the knight 
would offer it: but these that accuse him in his in- 
tent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded 
men; very rogues, now they be out of service. 

Ford. Were they his men ? 

Page. Marry, were they. 

Ford. I like it never the better for that. Does 
he lie at the Garter ? 

Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend 
this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her 
loose to him; and what he gets more of her than 
sharp words, let it lie on my head. 

Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would 
be loath to turn them together. A man may be 
too confident: I would have nothing lie on my 
head: I cannot be thus satisfied. . 

Page. Look where my ranting host of the Garter 
comes: there is either liquor in his pate or money 
in his purse when he looks so merrily. 


Enter Host. 
How now, mine host! 
Host. How now, bully-rook! thou’rt a gentle- 
man. Cavaleiro-justice, I say! 


Enter Shallow. 


Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even 
and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will 
you go with us? we have sport in hand. 

Host. Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully- 
rook. 

Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir 
Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. 

Ford. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with 
you. [Drawing him aside. 

Host. What sayest thou, my bully-rook ? 

Shal. [To Page| Will you go with us to behold it ? 
My merry host hath had the measuring of their 
weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them con- 
trary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is 
no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport 
shall be. | They converse apart. 

Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my 
guest-cavaleire ? 

Ford. None, I protest: but Ill give you a pottle 
of burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell 
him my name is Brook; only for a jest. 

Host. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress 
and regress;—said I well? —and thy name shall 
be Brook. It isa merry knight. Will you go, An- 


ark you. | heires ? 


ACT II. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE II. 


Shal. Have with you, mine host. 

Page. I have heard the Frenchman hath good 
skill in his rapier. 

Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In 
these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoc- 
cadoes, and I know not what: ’t is the heart, Master 
Page; tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, 
with my long sword I would have made you four 
tall fellows skip like rats. 

Host. Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag ? 

Page. Have with you. I had rather hear them 
scold than fight. Kxeunt Host, Shal., and Page. 

Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands 
so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off 
my opinion so easily: she was in his company at 
Page’s house; and what they made there, I know 
not. Well, I will look further into ’t: and I have 
a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, 
L lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, ’t is labour 
well bestowed. { Exit. 


SCENE II. — A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Falstaff and Pistol. 


Fal. L will not lend thee a penny. 

Pist. Why, then the world’s mine oyster, 
Which I with sword will open. 

Fal. Nota penny. I have been content, sir, you 
should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated 
upon my good friends for three reprieves for you 
and your coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked 
through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. 
damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my 
friends, you were good soldiers and tall fellows; 


and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her. 


fan, I took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 

Pist. Didst not thou share ? hadst thou not fifteen 

pence ? 

Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou 
I’ll endanger my soul gratis? Ata word, hang no 
more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A 
short knife anda throng! ‘To your manor of Pickt- 
hatch! Go. You’ll not bear a letter for me, you 
rogue! you stand upon your honour! Why, thou 
unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to 
keep the terms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself 
sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand 
and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain 
to shufile, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, 
will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, 
your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating 
oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will 
not do it, you! 

Pist. L do relent: what would thou more of man ? 


Enter Robin. 


ftob. Sir, here ’s a woman would speak with you. 
Fal. Let her approach. 


Enter Mistress Quickly. 


Quick. Give your worship good morrow. 

Hal. Good morrow, good wife. 

Quick. Not so, an’t please your worship. 

Fal. Good maid, then. 

Quick. Ill be sworn, 

As my mother was, the first hour I was born. 

Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me? 
: Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or 

wot 

Fal. Two thousand, fair woman: and Ill vouch- 
safe thee the hearing. 

Quick. There is one Mistress Ford, sir: —I pray, 
come a little nearer this ways:—I myself dwell 
with Master Doctor Caius,— 

Fal. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,— 

Quick. Your worship says very true: I pray your 
worship, come a little nearer this ways. 


am | 


Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own 
people, mine own people. 
Quick. Are they so? 

them his servants ! 
Fal. Well, Mistress Ford; what of her ? 
Quick. Why, sir, she’s a good creature. 
Lord! your worship ’s a wanton! 
give you and all of us, I pray! ; 
Fal. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford ,— 
Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it ; 
you have brought her into such a canaries as ’t is 
wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the 
court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her 
to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and 
lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant 
you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after 
gift ; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, 
I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alli- 
gant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best 


God bless them and make 


Lord, 
Well, heaven for- 


' and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s 
heart; and, I warrant you, they could never get an 


eye-wink of her: I had myself twenty angels given 
me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such 
sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I 
warrant you, they could never get her so much as 
Sip on a cup with the proudest of them all: and yet 
there has been earls, nay, which is more, pension- 
ers; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. 

Fal. But what says she to me? be brief, my good 
she-Mercury. 

Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter, for 
the which she thanks you a thousand times; and 
she gives you to notify that her husband will be 
absence from his house between ten and eleven. 

Fal. Ten and eleven ? 

Quick. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and 
see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master 
Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the 
sweet woman leads an ill life with him: he’s a 
very jealousy man: she leads a very frampold life 
with him, good heart. 

Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to 
her; I will not fail her. 

Quick. Why, you say well. But I have another 
messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath 
her hearty commendations to you too: and let me 
tell you in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest 
wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you 
morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, 
whoe’er be the other: and she bade me tell your 
worship that her husband is seldom from home; 
but she hopes there will come a time. I never 
knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think 
you have charms, la; yes, in truth. 

Fal. Not I, I assure thee: setting the attraction 
of my good parts aside I have no other charms. 

Quick. Blessing on your heart for ’t! 

Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s 
wife and Page’s wife acquainted each other how 
they love me? 

Quick. That were a jest indeed! they have not 
so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! 
But Mistress Page would desire you to send her 
your little page, of all loves: her husband has a 
marvellous infection to the little page; and truly 
Master Page isan honest man. Never a wife in 
Windsor leads a better life than she does: do what 
she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to 
bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she 
will: and truly she deserves it; for if there be a 
kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must 
send her your page; no remedy. 

Fal. Why, I will. 

Quick. Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he 
may come and go between you both; and in any 
case have a nay-word, that you may know one 
another’s mind, and the boy never need to under- 


41 


ACT Il. 


stand any thing; for ’tis not good that children 
should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, 
have discretion, as they say, and know the world. 

Fal. Fare thee well: commend me to them both: 
there’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go 
along with this woman. |Hxeunt Mistress Quickly 
and Robin.| This news distracts me! 

Pist. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers: 
Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights: 
Give fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them 

all! [ Kexit. 

Fal. Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I’ 
make more of thy old body than I have done. Will 
they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the ex- 
pense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good 
body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; 
so it be fairly done, no matter. 


Enter Bardolph. 


Bard. Sir John, there ’s one Master Brook below 
would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with 
you; and hath sent your worship a morning’s 
draught of sack. 

Fal. Brook is his name ? 

Bard. Ay, sir. 

Fal. Call him in. [Exit Bardolph.| Such Brooks 
are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, 
ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page have I encom- 
passed you? go to; via! 


Re-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised. 


Ford. Bless you, sir! 

Fal. And you, sir! Would you speak with me? 

Ford. I make bold to press with so little prepara- 
tion upon you. 

Fal. You’re welcome. What’s your will? Give 
us leave, drawer. [Hxit Bardolph. 

Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent 
much; my name is Brook. 

Fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaint- 
ance of you. 

Ford. Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge 
you; for I must let you understand I think myself 
in better plight for a lender than you are: the 
which hath something emboldened me to this un- 
seasoned intrusion ; for they say, if money go before, 
all ways do lie open. 

Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. 

Ford. 'Troth, and I have a bag of money here 
troubles me: if you will help to bear it, Sir John, 
take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. 

Fal. Sir, 1 know not how I may deserve to be 
your porter. [hearing. 

Ford. 1 will tell you, sir, if you will give me the 

Fal. Speak, good Master Brook: I shall be glad 
to be your servant. 

Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,— I will be 
brief with you,—and you have been a man long 
known to me, though I had never so good means, 
as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I 
shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very 
much lay open mine own imperfection: but, good 
Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as 
you hear them unfolded, turn another into the reg- 
ister of your own; that I may pass with a reproof 
the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to 
be such an offender. 

Fal. Very well, sir; proceed. 

Ford. There isa gentlewoman in this town; her 
husband’s name is Ford. 

Fal. Well, sir. 

Ford. I have long loved her, and, I protest to 
you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a 
doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet 
her ; fee’d every slight occasion that could but nig- 
gardly give me sight of her; not only bought many 
presents to give her, but have given largely to many 


42 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE II. 


to know what she would have given; briefly, I have 
pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath 
been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever 
I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, 
meed, I am sure, I have received none; unless ex- 
perience be a jewel that I have purchased at an in- 
finite rate, and that hath taught me to say this: 

‘Love like a shadow flies when substance love 

pursues ; 

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.’ 

Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction 
at her hands ? 

Ford. Never. 

Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose ? 

Ford. Never. 

Fal. Of what quality was your love, then ? 

Ford. Like a fair house built on another man’s 
ground; so that I have lost my edifice by aire 
the place where I erected it. [me t 

Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to 

Ford. When I have told you that, I have told you 
all. Some say. that though she appear honest to me, 
yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that 
there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir 
John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gen- 
tleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, 
of great admittance, authentic in your place and 
person, generally allowed for your many war-like, 
court-like, and learned preparations. 

Fal. O, sir! 

Ford. Believe it, for you knowit. There ismoney ; 
spend it,spend it; spend more; spend all I have; 
only give me so much of your time in exchange of 
it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this 
Ford’s wife: use your art of wooing; win her to con- 
sent to you: if any man may, you May as soon as any. 

Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of 
your affection, that I should win what you would 
enjoy ? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very 
preposterously. 

Ford. O, understand my drift. She dwells so se- 
curely on the excellency of her honour, that the folly 
of my soul dares not present itself: she is too bright 
to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with 
any detection in my hand, my desires had instance 
and argument to commend themselves: I could drive 
her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, 
her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her de- 
fences, which now are too too strongly embattled 
against me. What say you to’t, Sir John? 

Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your 
money; next, give me your hand; and last, as | am 
a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife. 

Ford. O good sir! 

Fal. I say you shall. {none. 

Ford. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want 

Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you 
shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, 
by her own appointment ; even as you came in to me 
her assistant-or go-between parted from me: I say 1 
shall be with her between ten and eleven ; for at that 
time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be 
forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know 
how I speed. 

Ford. 1 am blest in your acquaintance. 
know Ford, sir? 

Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know 
him not: yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say 
the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; 
for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I 
will use her asthe key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer ; 
and there ’s my harvest-home. 

Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might 
avoid him if you saw him. 

Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! LI 
will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with 
my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o’er the 


Do you 


ACT III. 


cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know 
I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt 
lie with his wife. Come tome soonat night. Ford’s 
a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Mas- 
ter Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. 
Come to me soon at night. [ Hxit. 

Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! 
My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who 
says this is improvident jealousy ? my wife hath sent 
tohim; the hour is fixed ; the match is made. Would 
any man have thought this ? See the hell of having 
a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers 
ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not 
only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under 
the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that 
does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon 
sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet 
they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but 
Cuckold! Wittol! — Cuckold! the devil himself hath 
not such aname. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he 
will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will 
rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh 
the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my 
aqua-vitz bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling geld- 
ing, than my wife with herself: then she plots, then 
she ruminates, then she devises ; and what they think 
in their hearts they may effect, they will break their 
hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my 
jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I will prevent 
this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and 
laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours 
too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuck- 
old! cuckold! cuckold! [| Hxit. 


SCENH ITI.— A field near Windsor. 


Enter Caius and Rugby. 

Caius. Jack Rugby! 

Rug. Sir? 

Caius. Vat is de clock, Jack ? 

Rug. ’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh prom- 
ised to meet. 

Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no 
come; he has pray his Pible well, dat he is no come: 
by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. 

Fiug. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would 
kill him, if he came. 

Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill 
kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you 
how I vill kill him. 

Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. 

Caius. Villany, take your rapier. 

Rug. Forbear; here’s company. 


Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page. 


Host. Bless thee, bully doctor! 

Shal. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! 

Page. Now, good master doctor! 

Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. [for ? 

Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come 

Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see 
thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; 
to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy 
distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian ? 
is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says 
my Adsculapius ? my Galen ? my heart of elder? ha! 
is he dead, bully stale? is he dead ? 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE I. 


Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de 
vorld; he is not show his face. 

Host. Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector 
of Greece, my boy! 

Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay 
six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no 
come. 

Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is 
a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you 
should fight, you go against the hair of your profes- 
sions. Is it not true, Master Page? 

Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a 
ereat fighter, though now a man of peace. 

Shal. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be 
old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger 
itches to make one. Though we are justices and 
doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some 
salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, 
Master Page. 

Page. Tis true, Master Shallow. 

Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. Master 
Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. Iam 
sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a 
wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself 
a wise and patient churchman. You must go with 
me, master doctor. [Mockwater. 

Host. Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Mounseur 

Caius. Mock-vater! vat is dat? 

Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is 
valour, bully. 

Caius. By gar, den, I have as much mock-vater 
as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, 
me vill cut his ears. 

Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. 

Caius. Clapper-de-claw! vat is dat ? 

Host. That is, he will make thee amends. 

Caius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw 
me; for, by gar, me vill have it. 

Host. And I will provoke him to ’t, or let him wag. 

Caius. Me tank you for dat. 

Host. And, moreover, bully,—but first, master 
guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, 
go you through the town to Frogmore. 

[ Aside to them. 

Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he? 

Host. He is there: see what humour he is in; and 
I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it 
do well ? 

Shal. We will do it. 

Page, Shal., and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. 

[Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. 

Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak 
for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 

Host. Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw 
cold water on thy choler: go about the fields with 
me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where 
Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting ; 
and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well? . 

Caius. By gar, me dank you for dat: by gar, lI 
love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, 
de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my pa- 
tients. 

Host. For the which I will be thy adversary toward 
Anne Page. Said I well? 

Caius. By gar, ’tis good; vell said. 

Host. Let us wag, then. 

Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Hxeunt. 


TaNit Ch BG ES 6 ep 


SCENE I.— A field near Frogmore. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 
Evans. I pray you now, good Master Slender’s 


serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which 


way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls 
himself doctor of physic ? 

Sim. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, 
every way ; old Windsor way, and every way but the 
town way. 

43 


ACT III. 


Evans. I most fehemently desire you you will also 
look that way. 
Sim. I will, sir. [ Hxit. 
Evans. ’Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, 
and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have 
deceived me. How melancholies Iam! I will knog 
his urinals about his knave’s costard when I have 
good opportunities for the ork. ’Pless my soul! 
[ Sings. 
To shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals ; 
There will me make our peds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies. 
To shallow — 
Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. 
[ Sings. 
Melodious birds sing madrigals — 
When as I sat in Pabylon— 
And a thousand vagram posies. 
To shallow, &c. 


Re-enter Simple. 
Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh. 
Hvans. He’s welcome. [ Sings. 
To shallow rivers, to whose falls — 

Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he ? 

Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, 
Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frog- 
more, over the stile, this way. 

Evans. Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep 
it in your arms. . 


Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 


Shal. How now, master Parson! Good morrow, 
good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and 
a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. 

Slen. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page! 

Page. ’Save you, good Sir Hugh! 

Evans. ’Pless you from his mercysake,all of you! 

Shal. What, the sword and the word! do you 
study them both, master parson ? 

Page. And youthful still! in 
hose this raw rheumatic day! 

Evans. There is reasons and causes for it. 

Page. We are come to you to do a good office, 
master parson. 

Evans. Fery well: what is it ? 

Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, 
belike having received wrong by some person, is at 
most odds with his own gravity and patience that 
ever you saw. 

Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I 
never heard a man of his place, gravity and learning, 
so wide of his own respect. 

Evans. What is he ? 

Page. 1 think you know him; Master Doctor 
Caius, the renowned French physician. 

Evans. Got’s will, and his passion of my heart! I 
had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. 

Page. Why? 

Evans. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates 
and Galen,— and he is a knave besides; a cowardly 
knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. 

Page. I warrant you, he’s the man should fight 
with him. 

Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! 

Shal. It appears so by his weapons. 
asunder: here comes Doctor Caius. 


your doublet and 


Keep them 


Enter Host, Caius, and Rugby. 


Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your 
weapon. 

Shal. So do.you, good master doctor. 

Host. Disarm them, and let them question: let 
them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. 

Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with 
your ear. Vherefore vill you not meet-a me? 

44 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE II. 


——s 


Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, use your pa- 
tience: in good time. 

Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, 
John ape. 

Evans. [Aside to Caius] Pray you, let us not be 
laughing-stocks to other men’s humours; I desire 
you in friendship, and I will one way or other make 
you amends. [Aloud] I will knog your urinals about 
your knave’s cogscomb for missing your meetings 
and appointments. 

Caius. Diable! Jack Rugby,— mine host de Jar- 
teer,— have I not stay for him to kill him? have I 
not, at de place I did appoint ? 

Evans. As lam a Christians soul now, look you, 
this is the place appointed: I’ll be judgment by 
mine host of the Garter. 

Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and 
Welsh, sole-curer and body-curer! 

Caius. Ay, dat is very good; excellent. 

Host. Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. 
Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel ? 
Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the po- 
tions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my 
priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs 
and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; 
so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, 
I have deceived you both; I have directed you to 
wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins 
are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, 
lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; 
follow, follow, follow. [follow. 

Shal. Trust me,amadhost. Follow, gentlemen, 

Slen. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! 

| Exeunt Shal., Slen., Page, and Host. 

Caius. Ha, do I perceive dat? have you make-a 
de sot of us, ha, ha? 

Evans. This is well; he has made us his ylout- 
ing-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and 
let us knog our prains together to be revenge on | 
this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the 
host of the Garter. 

Caius. By gar, with all my heart. He promise 
to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he de- 
ceive me too. 

Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles. 


Pray you, 
follow. | Kaew 


nt. 


SCENE II1.—A street. 


Enter Mistress Page and Robin. 


Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; 
you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a 
leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or 
eye your master’s heels ? 

Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a 
man than follow him like a dwarf. . 

Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy: now I see 
you ll be a courtier. 


Enter Ford. 


Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? 

Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at 
home ? 

Ford. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, 
for want of company. I think, if your husbands 
were dead, you two would marry. 

Mrs. Page. Be sure of that,—two other husbands. 

Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ? 

Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his 
name is my husband had him of. What do you 
call your knight’s name, sirrah ? 

Rob. Sir John Falstaff. 

Ford. Sir John Falstaff! 

Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on’s name. 
There is such a league between my good man and 
he! Is your wife at home indeed ? 

Ford. Indeed she is. 


=————T= 


SSS 
ee Se) 


SSS 


“LH 
byt 
Ui SS 


Gf 


ets te 


ae 
ty GES 
z eS YS. = 


MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.—Act III., Scene i. 


ACT III. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.  scenE Itt. 


Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see 
her. [Hxzeunt Mrs. Page and Robin. 

Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? 
hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath 
no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter 
twenty mile, as easy aS a cannon will shoot point- 
blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s in- 
clination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: 
and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy 
with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the 
wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots, 
they are laid: and our revolted wives share damna- 
tion together. Well; I will take him, then torture 
my wite, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from 
the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself 
for a secure and wilful Actzon; and to these vio- 
lent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. 
[Clock heard.| The clock gives me my cue, and m 
assurance bids me search: there I shall find Fal- 
staff: I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; 
for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff 
is there: I will go. 


Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh 
Evans, Caius, and Rugby. 


Shal., Page, &c. Well met, Master Ford. 

Ford. Trust me, a good knot: I have good cheer 
at home; and I pray you all go with me. 

Shal. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. 

Slen. And so must I, sir: we have appointed to 
dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break 
with her for more money than I’l] speak of. 

Shal. We have lingered about a match between 
Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we 
shall have our answer. 

Slen. I hope I have your good will, father Page. 

Page. You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly 
for you: but my wife, master doctor, is for you al- 
together. 

Caius. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my 
nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 

Host. What say you to young Master Fenton ? he 
capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes 
verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May: 
he will carry ’t, he will carry ’t; ’tis in his buttons; 
he will carry ’t. 

Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The 
gentleman is of no having: he kept company with 
the wild prince and Poins; he is of too high a region ; 
he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot 
in his fortunes with the finger of my substance: if 
he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth IL 
have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not 
that way. 

Ford. I beseech you heartily, some of you go home 
with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall 
have sport; I will show you a monster. Master 
doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and 
you, Sir Hugh. 

Shal. Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer 
wooing at Master Page’s. [Hxeunt Shal. and Slen. 

Caius. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. 

[Hxit Rugby. 

Host. Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest 
knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [/vzit. 

Ford. [Aside] 1 think I shall drink in pipe-wine 
first with him; Ill make him dance. Will you go, 
gentles ? f 

All. Have with you to see this monster. [Hxeunt. 


SCENH III. — A room in Ford’s house. 


Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. 


Mrs. Ford. What, John! What, Robert! 

Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck- 
basket — 

Mrs. Ford. | warrant. What, Robin, I say! 


Enter Servants with a basket. 


Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. 

Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. 

Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge; we must 
be brief. 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and 
Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house : 
and when I suddenly call you, come forth)’and with- 
out any pause or staggering take this basket on your 
shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, 
and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, 
and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the 
Thames side. 

Mrs. Page. You will do it? 

Mrs. Ford. I ha’ told them over and over; they 
lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you 
are called. [Hxeunt Servants. 

Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. 


Enter Robin. 


Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket! what 
news with you? 

Rob. My master, Sir John, is come in at your back- 
door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. 

Mrs. fie You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been 
true to us: 

Rob. Ay, 1’ be sworn. My master knows not 
of your being here and hath threatened to put me 
into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he 
swears he ’l] turn me away. 

Mrs. Page. Thou’rt a good boy: this secrecy of 
thine shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a 
new doublet and hose. I’l go hide me. 

Mrs. Ford. Doso. Go tell thy master I am alone. 
[Hxit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember you your 
cue. 

Mrs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, 
hiss me. [ Exit. 

Mrs. Ford. Go to, then: we’ll use this unwhole- 
some humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we ’ll 
teach him to know turtles from jays. 


Enter Falstaff. 


Fal. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? 
Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: 
this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed 

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John! {hour ! 

Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, 
Mistress Ford. NowshallIsinin my wish: I would 
thy husband were dead: Ill speak it before the best 
lord; I would make thee my lady. 

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should 
be a pitiful lady! 

Fal. Let the court of France show me such an- 
other. I see how thine eye would emulate the 
diamond: thou hast the right arched beauty of the 
brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or 
any tire of Venetian admittance. 

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows 
become nothing else; nor that well neither. 

Fal. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: 
thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the 
firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent 
motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I 
see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, 
Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. 

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there’s no such thing in me. 

Fal. What made me love thee ? let that persuade 
thee there ’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, 
I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a 
many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like 
women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklers- 
bury in simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; 
none but thee; and thou deservest it. 

Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love 
Mistress Page. 

45 


ACT III. 


Fal. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by 
the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the 
reek of a lime-kiln. 

Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love you; 
and you shall one day find it. 

Fal. Keep in that mind; Ill deserve it. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or 
else I could not be in that mind. 

Rob. [Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! 
here ’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blow- 
ing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with 
you presently. 

Fal. She shall not see me: I will ensconce me be- 
hind the arras. 

Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so: she’s a very tattling 
woman. [Falstaff hides himself. 


Re-enter Mistress Page and Robin. 


What ’s the matter ? how now! 

Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you done ? 
You’re shamed, you ’re overthrown, you ’re undone 
for ever! [Page ? 

Mrs. Ford. What’s the matter, good Mistress 

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having 
an honest man to ‘Mes husband, to give him such 
cause of suspicion 

Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion! 
you! how am I mistook in you! 

Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what’s the matter ? 

Mrs. Page. Your husband’s coming hither, 
woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search 
for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house 
by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his ab- 
sence: you are undone. 

Mrs. Ford. ’T is not so, I hope. 

Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have 
such a man here! but ’tis most certain your hus- 
band’s coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to 
search for such a one. I come before to tell you. 
If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; 
but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him 
out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you; 
defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good 
life for ever. 

Mrs. Ford. What shallI do? There is a gentle- 
man, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own 
shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a 
thousand pound he were out of the house. 

Mrs. Page. For shame! never stand ‘you had 
rather’ and ‘ you had rather:’ your husband ’s here 
at hand; bethink you of some conveyance: in the 
house you cannot hide him. O, how have you de- 
ceived me! Look, here is a basket: if he be of any 
reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw 
foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: 
or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men 
to Datchet-mead. 

Mrs. Ford. He’s too big to go in there. 
shall I do? 

fal. Cj forward] Let me see ’t, let me see ’t, 
O, let mesee’t! I’llin,I lin. Follow your friend’s 
counsel. Ill in. 

Mrs. Page. What, Sir John Falstaff ! 
your letters, knight ? 

fal. I love thee. Help meaway. Let me creep 
in here. I?ll never — 

[Gets into the basket; they cover him 
with foul linen. 

Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call 
your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! 

Mrs. Ford. What, John! Robert! John! 


[ Hxit Robin. 
Re-enter Servants. 
Go take up these clothes here quickly. Where’s the 
cowl-staff ? look, how you drumble! Carry them to 
the laundress in Datchet-mead; quickly, come. 


46 


Out upon 


What 


Are these 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE 


PT fels 


ey 


Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 


Ford. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be 
your jest; I deserve it. Hownow! whither bear you 

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. [this ? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither 
they bear it? You were best meddle with buck- 
washing. 

Ford. Buck! I would I could wash myself of the 
buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant 
you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. 
[| Hxeunt Servants with the basket.| Gentlemen, I 
have dreamed to-night; Ill tell you my dream. 
Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers ; 
search, seek, find out: Ill warrant we ’ll unkennel 
the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the 
door.| So, now uncape. _ 

Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : you wrong 
yourself too much. 

Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen; you 
shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. [Hwit. 

Evans. This is fery fantastical humours and 
jealousies. 

Caius. By gar, ‘tis no the fashion of France; it 
is not jealous in France. 

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue 
of his search. [Hxeunt Page, Caius, and Evans. 
Lae Page. Is there not a double excellency in 

is! 

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better, 
that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. 

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when your 
husband asked who was in the basket ! 

Mrs. Ford. Iam half afraid he will have need of 
washing; so throwing him into the water will do 
him a benefit. 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would 
all of the same strain were in the same distress. 

Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some special 
suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; for I never saw 
him so gross in his jealousy till now. 

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; and we 
will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his disso- 
lute disease will scarce obey this medicine. 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, 
Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing 
into the water; and give him another hope, to be- 
tray him to another punishment ? 

Mrs. Page. We will do it: let him be sent for to- 
morrow, eight o’clock, to have amends. 


fte-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 


Ford. I cannot find him: may be the knave brag- 
ged of that he could not compass. 
Mrs. Page. [Aside to Mrs. Ford] Heard you that ? 
Mrs. Ford. You use me well, Master Ford, do 
Ford. Ay, I do so. [you ? 
Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your 
Ford. Amen! [thoughts ! 
Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, Mas- 
Ford. Ay, ay; 1 must bear it. (ter Ford. 
Evans. If there be any pody in the house, and in 
the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, 
heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! 
Caius. By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies. 
Page. Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? 
What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination ? 
I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the 
wealth of Windsor Castle. [it. 
Ford. "Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for 
Evans. You suffer for a pad conscience: your 
wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among 
five thousand, and five hundred too. 
Caius. By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman. 
Ford. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come 
come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I 


AOD TEL. 


will hereafter make known to you why I have done 
this. Come, wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray 
you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me. 

Page. Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, 
we ll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morn- 
ing to my house to breakfast: after we ’ll a-birding 


together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall 
it be so? 
Ford. Any thing. [company. 


Evans. If there is one, I shall make two in the | 
Caius. If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the | 
[turd. | 
Evans. Il pray you now, remembrance to-morrow | 


Ford. Pray you, go, Master Page. 


on the lousy knave, mine host. 
Caius. Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart! 
Evans. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his 
mockeries! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—A room in Page’s house. 


Enter Fenton and Anne Page. 


Fent. I see I cannot get thy father’s love; 
Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. 
Anne. Alas, how then ? 
Fent. Why, thou must be thyself. 
He doth object I am too great of birth; 
And that, my state being gall’d with my expense, 
I seek to heal it only by his wealth: : 
Besides these, other bars he lays before me, 
My riots past, my wild societies ; 
And tells me ’tis a thing impossible 
I should love thee but as a property. 
Anne. May be he tells you true. 
Fent. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! 
Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth 
Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne: 
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
Than stam_s in gold or sums in sealed bags; 
And ’tis the very riches of thyself 
That now I aim at. 
Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, 
Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir: 
if opportunity and humblest suit 
Cannot attain it, why, then,— hark you hither! 
[They converse apart. 


Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mistress Quickly. 


Shal. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my 
kinsman shall speak for himself. 


Slen. Ill make a shaft or a bolt on’t: ’slid, ’tis | 


but venturing. 

Shal. Be not dismayed. 

Slen. No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for 
that, but that [ am afeard. 

Quick. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a 
word with you. [choice. 

Anne. I come tohim. [Aside] This is my father’s 
O, what a world of vile ill-favour’d faults 
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year! 

Quick. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray 
you, a word with you. 

Shal. She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou 
hadst a father! 

Slen. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle 
can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, 
tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole 
two geese out of a pen, good uncle. 

Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. 

_ Slen. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman 
in Gloucestershire. 

Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. 


Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, | 


under the degree of a squire. 
Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty 
pounds jointure. [himselt. 
Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for 
Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE V. 


that good comfort. She calls you, coz: Ill leave 

Anne. Now, Master Slender,— [you. 

Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne,— 

Anne. What is your will ? 

Slen. My will! ’od’s heartlings, that ’s a pretty jest 
indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven ; 
Tam notsuch a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. 

Anne. I mean, Master Slender, what would you 
with me. 

Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or 
nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath 
made motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man 
be his dole! They can tell you how things go better 
than I can: you may ask your father ; here he comes. 


Enter Page and Mistress Page. 


Page. Now, Master Slender: love him, daugh. 
ter Anne. 
Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here ? 
You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house: 
I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of. 

Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. 

Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not to my 

Page. She is no match for you. [child. 

Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? 

Page. No, good Master Fenton. 
Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in. 
Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. 

[Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen. 

A eae Speak to Mistress Page. 

ent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your 
In such a righteous fashion as I do, [daughter 
Perforce, against all checks, rebukes and manners, 
I must advance the colours of my love 
And not retire: let me have your good will. 

Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. 

Mrs. Page. I mean it not; I seek you a better hus. 

Quick. That’s my master, master doctor. [band. 

Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ the earth 
And bowl’d to death with turnips! [ter Fenton, 

Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. Good Mas- 
I will not be your friend nor enemy: 

My daughter will I question how she loves you, 
And as I find her,so am I affected. 
Till then farewell, sir: she must needs go in; 
Her father will be angry. 
Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress: farewell, Nan. 
[Hxeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. 

Quick. This is my doing,now: ‘ Nay,’ said I, ° will 
you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician ? 
Look on Master Fenton :’ this is my doing. 

Fent. [thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-niglit 


_ Give my sweet Nan this ring: there ’s for thy pains. 


Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune! 
| Hart Fenton.| A kind heart he hath: awoman would 
run through fire and water for sucha kind heart. But 
yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would 
Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, | would Mas- 
ter Fenton had her: I will do what I can for them 
all three; for so I have promised, and Ill be as 
good aS my word; but speciously for Master Fen- 
ton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John 
Falstaff from my two mistresses: whata beast am I 
to slack it! [ Hct. 


SCENE V.— A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 

Fal. Bardolph, I say,— 

Bard. Here, sir. 

Fal. Go fetch mea quart of sack; puta toast in’t. 
[Hxit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, 
likea barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown in 
the Thames ? Well, if I be served such another trick, 
Ill have my brains ta’en out and buttered, and give 
them to a dog for a new-year’s gift. The rogues 
slighted me into the river with as little remorse as 

47 


ACT ITI. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, 
fifteen i’ the litter: and you may know by my size 
that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bot- 
tom were as deep as hell, [should down. I had been 
drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and shal- 
low,—a death that I abhor; for the water swells a 
man; and what athing should I have been when 
I had been swelled! I should have been a moun- 
tain of mummy. 


Re-enter Bardolph with sack. 

Bard. Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak 
with you. 

Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames 
water; for my belly ’s as cold as if I had swallowed 
snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. 

Bard. Come in, woman! 


Enter Mistress Quickly. 


Quick. By your leave; Icry you mercy: give your 
worship good morrow. 

Fal. Take away these chalices. 
pottle of sack finely. 

Bard. With eggs, sir? 

Fal. Simple of itself; Ill no pullet-sperm in my 
brewage. [Exit Bardolph.] How now! 

Quick. Marry, sir, 1 come to your worship from 
Mistress Ford. 

Fal. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I 
was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of 
ford. 

Quick. Alas the day! good heart, that was not her 
fault: she does so take on with her men; they mis- 
took their erection. [promise. 

Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman’s 

Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would 
’ yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this 


Go brew me a 


morning a-birding; she desires you once more to 
come to her between eight and nine: I must carry 
her word quickly : she 71] make youamends, I warrant 
you. 

Fal. Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid 
her think what a man is: let her consider his frail- 
ty, and then judge of my merit. 

uick. I will tell her. 
Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou ? 
Quick. Eight and nine, sir. 


Fal. Well, be gone: I will not miss her. 

Quick. Peace be with you, sir. [ Exit. 

Ful. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he 
sent me word to stay within: I like his money well. 
©, here he comes. 


Enter Ford. 
‘ord. Bless you, sir! 

Ful. Now, Master Brook, you come to know 
what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife ? 

Ford. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. 

‘al. Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was 
at her house the hour she appointed me. 

Ford. And sped you, sir? 

Ful. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. 

Ford. How so, sir? Did she change her determi- 
nation ? 

Fal. No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto 
ler husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 
‘larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our | 
encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, | 
and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; | 
and at his heelsa rabble of his companions, thither | 
provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, for- 
sooth, to search his house for his wife’s love. 

48 


SCENE V. 


Ford. What, while you were there ? 

Fal. While I was there. 

Ford. And did he search for you, and could not 
find you? 

Fal. Youshall hear. As good luck would have it, 
comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of 
Ford’s approach; and, in her invention and Ford’s 
wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck- 

Ford. A buck-basket ! [basket. 

Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in 
with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, 
greasy napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the 
rankest compound of villanous smell that ever of- 
fended nostril. 

Ford. And how long lay you there ? 

Fal. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I 
have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your 
good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple 
of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by 
their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes 
to Datchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; 
met the jealous knave their master in the door, who 
asked them once or twice what they had in their 
basket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave 
would have searched it ; but fate, ordaining heshould 
be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went he for 
a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But 
mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the 
pangs of three several deaths; first, an intolerable 
fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten bell- 
wether; next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in 
the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to 
head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong dis- 
tillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their 
own grease: think of that,—a man of my kidney ,— 
think of that,— that am as subject to heat as butter ; 
a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a 
miracle to ’scape suffocation. And in the height of 
this bath,when Iwas more than half stewed in grease, 
like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, 
and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse- 
shoe; think of that,— hissing hot,—think of that, 
Master Brook. ' 

Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for 
my sake you have suffered all this. My suit then 
is desperate; you ’ll undertake her no more? 

Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, 
as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. 
Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have 
received from her another embassy of meeting; 
*twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. 

Ford. ’Tis past eight already, sir. 

Fal. Is it? Iwill then address me to my appoint- 
ment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and 
you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion 
shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. 
You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, 
you shall cuckold Ford. wit. 

Ford. Hum! ha! is thisa vision ? is thisa dream ? 
do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master 
Ford! there ’s a hole made in your best coat, Master 
Ford. This ’tis to be married! this ’tis to have 
linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim my- 
self what Iam: I will now take the lecher; he is at 
my house; he cannot ’scape me; ’tis impossible he 
should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse, nor 
into a pepper box: but, lest the devil that guides 
him should aid him, I will search impossible places. 
Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what 
I would not shall not make me tame: if I have 
horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me: 
T ll be horn-mad. [ Exit. 


ACT IV. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE II. 


Be ay Ne 


SCENH I.— A street. 


Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, 
and William. 


AGhe Page. Is he at Master Ford’s already, think’st 
thou: 

Quick. Sure he is by this, or will be presently: 
but, truly, he is very courageous mad about his 
throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires 
you to come suddenly. 

Mrs. Page. I’11 be with her by and by: Ill but 
bring my young man here to school. Look, where 
his master comes; ’tis a playing-day, I see. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans. 


How now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day? _ [to play. 
Evans. No; Master Slender is let the boys leave 
Quick. Blessing of his heart! 

Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son 
profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray 
you, ask him some questions in his accidence. [come. 

Evans. Come hither, William; hold up your head ; 

Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head ; 
answer your master, be not afraid. 

Evans. William, how many numbers is in nouns? 

Will. Two. 

Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one num- 
ber more, because they say,‘ ’Od ’s nouns.’ 

Evans. Peace your tattlings! What is ‘ fair,’ 

Will. Pulcher. [William ? 

Quick. Polecats! there are fairer things than pole- 
cats, sure. 

Evans. You are a very simplicity ’oman: I pray 
you, peace. What is ‘ lapis,’ William ? 

Will. A stone. 

Evans. And what is ‘a stone,’ William ? 

Will. A pebble. 

Evans. No, it is ‘ lapis:’ I pray you, remember in 
your prain. 

Will. Lapis. 

Evans. That is a good William. What is he, 
William, that does lend articles ? 

Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and 

be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, 

heec, hoc. 

Evans. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, 
mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusa- 
tive case ? 

Will. Accusativo, hinc. 

Evans. I pray you, have your remembrance, child ; 
accusativo, hung, hang, hog. [you. 

Ae ial ‘Hang-hog’ is Latin for bacon, I warrant 

vans. Leave your prabbles, oman. What is the 
focative case, William ? 

Will. O.— vocativo, O. 

Evans. Remember, William; focative is caret. 

neg And that ’s a good root. 

vans. "Oman, forbear. 

Mrs. Page. Peace! 

Evans. What is your genitive case plural, Wil- 

Will. Genitive case! [liam ? 

Evans. Ay. 

Will. Genitive,—horum, harum, horum. 

Quick. Vengeance of Jenny’s case! fie on her! 
never name her, child, if she be a whore. 

Evans. For shame, ’oman. 

Quick. You do ill to teach the child such words: 
he teaches him to hick and to hack, which they ‘Il 
do fast opaugh of themselves, and to call ‘horum:’ 
fie upon you! 

Evans. ’Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no 
understandings for thy cases and the numbers of 
the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian crea- 
tures as I would desires. 


4 


Mrs. Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. 

Evans. Show me now, William, some declensions 
of your pronouns. 

Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. 

Hvans. It is qui, que, quod: if you forget your 
‘ quies,’ your ‘ quees,’ and your ‘ quods,’ you must be 
preeches. Go your ways, and play; go. 

Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought 
he was. 

Evans. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, 
Mistress Page. 

Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [ Exit Sir Hugh.] 
Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. 

[ Exewnt. 


SCENE II. — A room in Ford’s house. 


Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. 


Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up 
my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your 
love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth: not 
only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, 
but in all the accoutrement, complement and cere- 
may of it. But are you sure of your husband 
nowt 


ho! 
Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John. 
[Exit Falstaff. 


Enter Mistress Page. 


Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart ! who’s at home 
besides yourself ? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people. 

Mrs. Page. Indeed! 

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly. [Aside to her.] Speak 
louder. 

Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody 
here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why? 

Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his 
old lunes again: he so takes on yonder with my hus- 
band; so rails against all married mankind; so 
curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion 
soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, cry-- 
ing, ‘ Peer out, peer out!’ that any madness I ever 
yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and pa- 
tience, to this his distemper he is in now: I am 
glad the fat knight is not here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ? 

Mrs. Page. Of none but him; and swears he was 
carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a 
basket ; protests to my husband he is now here, and 
hath drawn him and the rest of their company from 
their sport, to make another experiment of his sus- 
picion; but I am glad the knight is not here; now 
he shall see his own foolery. 

Mrs. Ford. How near is he, Mistress Page ? 

Mrs. Page. Hard by; at street end; he will be 
here anon. 

Mrs. Ford. Tam undone! The knight is here. 

Mrs. Page. Why then you are utterly shamed, 
and he’s but a dead man. What awoman are you! 
— Away with him, away with him! better shame 
than murder. 

Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go ? how should 
I bestow him ? Shall I put him into the basket again ? 


Re-enter Falstaff. 


Fal. No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I 
not go out ere he come ? 
Mrs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford’s brothers 
watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue 
ag 


ACT IV. 


out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. 
But what make you here ? 

Fal. What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the 
chimney. 

Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge 
their birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole. 

Fal. Where is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. 
Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but 
he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such 
places, and goes to them by his note: there is no 
hiding you in the house. 

Fal. Ill go out then. 

Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own semblance, 
you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised — 

Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him ? 

Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not! There is 
no woman’s gown big enough for him; otherwise 
he might put on a hat, a muffler and a kerchief, 
and so escape. 

Fal. Good hearts, devise something: any ex- 
tremity rather than a mischief. 

Mrs. Ford. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of 
Brentford, has a gown above. 

Mrs. Puge. On my word, it will serve him; she’s 
as big as he is: and there’s her thrummed hat and 
her muffler too. Run up, Sir John. 

Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page 
and I will look some linen for your head. 

Mrs. Page. Quick, quick! we’ll come dress you 
straight: put on the gown the while. 


Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet him 
in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of 
Brentford; he swears she’s a witch; forbade her 
my house and hath threatened to beat her. 

Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband’s 
cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! 

Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? 

Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks 
of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. 

Mrs. Ford. We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my 
men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the 
door with it, as they did last time. 

Mrs. Page. Nay, but he’ll be here presently: let’s 
go dress him like the witch of Brentford. 

Mrs. Ford. 1°11 first direct my men what they 
shall do with the basket. Go up; I’ll bring linen 
for him straight. [ Hvit. 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we can- 
not misuse him enough. 

We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do, 

Wives may be merry, and yet honest too: 

We do not act that often jest and laugh; 

’T is old, but true, Still swine eat all the aaa 

vit. 


Re-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants. 


Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on 
your shoulders: your master is hard at door; if he 
bid you set it down, obey him: quickly, dispatch. 


[ Hexit. 

First Serv. Come, come, take it up. 
Sec. Serv. Pray heaven it be not full of knight 
again. [lead. 
First Serv. I hope not; I had as lief bear so much 


Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Sir 
Hugh Evans. 


Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have 
you any way then to unfool me again? Set down 
the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth 
in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there’s a 
knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me: 
now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! 
Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes 
you send forth to bleaching! 


50 


THK MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


[Exit Falstaff. | 


SCENE If. 


Page. Why, this passes, Master Ford; you are 
not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. 

Evans. Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a 
mad dog! 

Shal. Indeed, Master Ford,this is not well, indeed. 

Ford. So say I too, sir. ¢ 


Re-enter Mistress Ford. 


Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the 
honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous crea- 
ture, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I 
suspect without cause, mistress, do I ? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness you do, if you 
suspect me in any dishonesty. 

Ford. Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come 
forth, sirrah. [Eradling clothes out of the basket. 

Page. This passes! alone. 

Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed? let the clothes 

Ford. I shall find you anon. 

Evans. ’Tis unreasonable! Will you take up 
your wife’s clothes? Come away. 

Ford. Empty the basket, I say! 

Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why ? 

Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was 
one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this 
basket: why may not he be there again? In my 
house I am sure he is: my intelligence is true; my 
jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. 

Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die 
a flea’s death. 

Page. Here’s no man. 

Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master 
Ford; this wrongs you. 

Evans. Master Ford, you must pray, and not fol- 
low the imaginations of your own heart: this is 

Ford. Well, he’s not here I seek for. [jealousies. 

Page. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. 

Ford. Help to search my house this one time. If 
I find not what I seek, show no colour for my ex- 
tremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let 
them say of me, ‘ As jealous as Ford, that searched 
a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.’ Satisfy me 
once more; once more search with me. . 

Mrs. Ford. What, ho, Mistress Page! come you 
and the old woman. down; my husband will come 
into the chamber. 

Ford. Old woman! what old woman’s that ? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, itis my maid’s aunt of Brentford. 

ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean ! 
Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of 
errands, does she? Weare simple men; we do not 
know what’s brought to pass under the profession 
of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, 
by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond 
our element: we know nothing. Come down, you 
witch, you hag, you; come down, I say! 

Mrs. Ford. N ay, good, sweet husband! 
gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. 


Re-enter Falstaff in woman’s clothes, and Mistress 
Page. 

Mrs. Page. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me 
your hand. 

Ford. Ill prat her. [Beating him] Out of my door, 
you witch, you hag, you baggage, you polecat, you 
ronyon! out, out! 17’ conjure you, Ill fortune- 
tell you. [Heit Falstaff. 

Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed? I think you 
have killed the poor woman. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it. 
eredit for you. 

Ford. Hang her, witch! 

Evans. By yea and no, I think the ’oman isa witch 
indeed: I like not when a ’oman has a great peard; 
I spy a great peard under his muffler. 

Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech 
| you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousy: if I 


Good 


’T is a goodly 


ACT IV. 


cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I 
open again. 

Page. Let’s obey his humour a little further: 
come, gentlemen. 

[Hxeunt Ford, Page, Shal., Caius, and Evans. 

Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he 
beat him most unpitifully, methought. 

Mrs.Page. I ’llhave the cudgel hallowed and hung 
o’er the altar; it hath done meritorious service. 

Mrs. Ford. What think you? may we, with the 
warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good 
conscience, pursue him with any further revenge ? 

Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, 
scared out of him: if the devil have him not in fee- 
simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, 
in the way of waste, attempt us again. 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we 
have served him ? 

Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape 
the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they 
can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat 
knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will 
still be the ministers. 

Mrs. Ford. I 11 warrant they 1] have him publicly 
shamed: and methinks there would be no period to 
the jest, should he not be publicly shamed. 

Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then ; shape 
it: I would not have things cool. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Host and Bardolph. 


Bard. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of 
your horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at 
court, and they are going to meet him. 

Host. What duke should that be comes so secretly ? 
I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with 
the gentlemen: they speak English ? 

Bard. Ay, sir; Ill call them to you. 

Host. They shall have my horses; but Ill make 
them pay; Ill sauce them: they have had my house 
a week at command; I have turned away my other 
guests: they must come off; I’llsaucethem. Come. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— 4 room in Ford’s house. 


Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress 
Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans. 


Evans. ’T is one of the best discretions of a ’oman 
as ever I did look upon. 
Page. And did he send you both these letters at 
an instant ? 
Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour. [wilt; 
Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou 
I rather will suspect the sun with cold [stand, 
Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour 
In him that was of late an heretic, . 
As firm as faith. 
Page. ’T is well, ’tis well; no more: 
Be not as extreme in submission 
As in offence. 
But let our plot go forward: let our wives 
Yet once again, to make us public sport, 
Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, 
Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. 
Ford. There is no better way than that they 
spoke of. 
_ Page. How? to send him word they’ll meet him 
in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he ’ll never come. 
Hwans. You say he has been thrown in the rivers 
and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman: me- 
thinks there should be terrors in him that he should 
not come; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall 
have no desires. 
Page. So think I too. 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE IV. 


Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you’ll use him when 
he comes, 
And let us two devise to bring him thither. 

Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes that Herne the 

hunter, 
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, 
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, 
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns; 
And there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle 
And makes milch-kine yield blood and shakes a chain 
In a most hideous and dreadful manner: 
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know 
The superstitious idle-headed eld 
Received and did deliver to our age 
This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. 

Page. Why, yet there want not many that do fear 
In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak: 

But what of this ? 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device; 
That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us. 

Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he 71] come; 
And in this shape when you have brought him 

thither, 
What shall be done with him ? what is your plot ? 

Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon, 

and thus: 

Nan Page my daughter and my little son 
And three or four more of their growth well dress 
Like urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white, 
With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, 
And rattles in their hands: upon a sudden, 
As Falstaff, she and I, are newly met, 
Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once 
With some diffused song: upon their sight, 
We two in great amazedness will fly: 
Then let them all encircle him about 
And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight, 
And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, 
In their so sacred paths he dares to tread 
In shape profane. 

Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth, 
Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound . 
And burn him with their tapers. 

Mrs. Page. The truth being known, 
We'll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, 
And mock him home to Windsor. 

Ford. The children must 
Be practised well to this, or they ‘ll ne’er do ’t. 

Evans. I will teach the children their behaviours ; 
and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the 
knight with my taber. [vizards. 

Ford. That will be excellent. I Il goand buy them 

Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all the 

fairies, 
Finely attired in a robe of white. 

Page. That silk will I go buy. [Aside] And in that 
Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away [time 
And marry her at Eton. Gosend to Falstaff straight. 

Ford. Nay, Ill to him again in name of Brook: 
He ’ll tell me all his purpose: sure, he ’ll come. 

Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go get us proper- 


ies 
And tricking for our fairies. 
Evans. Let us about it: it isadmirable pleasures 
and fery honest knaveries. 
[Hxeunt Page, Ford, and Evans. 
Mrs. Page. Go, Mistress Ford, 
Send quickly to Sir John, to know his mind. 
[Huit Mrs. Ford. 
Ill to the doctor: he hath my good will, 
And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. 
That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot ; 
And he my husband best of all affects. 
The doctor is well money’d, and his friends 
Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her, 
Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave 
her. [ Hx. 
51 


ACL DY 


SCENE V.— A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Host and Simple. 


Host. What wouldst thou have, boor ? what, thick- 
skin ? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, 
snap. 

Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John 
Falstaff from Master Slender. 

Host. There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, 
his standing bed and truckle-bed ; ’t is painted about 
with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go 
knock and call; hel speak like an Anthropophagin- 
ian unto thee: knock, I say. 

Sim. There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone 
up into his chamber: I7ll be so bold as stay, sir, 
till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed. 

Host. Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be rob- 
bed: Ill call. Bully knight! bully Sir John! speak 
from thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine 
host, thine Ephesian, calls. 

Fal. [Above] How now, mine host! 


Host. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the com- | 


| I 


ing down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully 
let her descend; my chambers are honourable: fie | 


yrivacy ? fie! 
; y Enter Falstaff. 


Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman 
even now with me; but she’s gone. [Brentford ? 

Sim. Pray you, sir, was ’t not the wise woman of 

Fal. Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell: what would 
you with her? 

Sim. My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, 
seeing her go through the streets, to know, sir, 
whether one Nyn, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, 
had the chain or no. 

Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. 

Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ? 

Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man that 


beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him | 


of it. 

Sim. I would I could have spoken with the woman 
herself; I had other things to have spoken with 
her too from him. 

Fal. What are they ? let us know. 

Host. Ay, come; quick. 

Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. 

Host. Conceal them, or thou diest. 

Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mis- 
tress Anne Page; to know if it were my master’s 
fortune to have her or no. 

Fal. ’T is, tis his fortune. 

Sim. What, sir? 

Fal. To have her, or no. 
told me so. 

Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir ? 

Fal. Ay, sir; like who more bold. 

Sim. I thank your worship: I shall make my 
master glad with these tidings. | Heit. 

Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. 
Was there a wise woman with thee ? } 

Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath 
taught me more wit than ever I learned before 
in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but 
was paid for my learning. 


Enter Bardolph. 


Bard. Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage! 

Host. Where be my horses? speak well of them, 
varletto. 

Bard. Run away with the cozeners; for so soon 
as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from 
behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set 
spurs and away, like three German devils, three 
Doctor Faustuses. 

Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, vil- 
lain: do not say they be fled; Germans are honest 
men. 


Go; say the woman 


52 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE VI. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans. 


Evans. Where is mine host ? 

Host. What is the matter, sir? 

Evans. Have a care of your entertainments: 
there is a friend of mine come to town, tells me 
there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all 
the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, 
of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look 
you: you are wise and full of gibes and vlouting- 
stocks, and ’tis not convenient you should be coz- 
ened. Fare you well. [ Hatt. 


Enter Doctor Caius. 


Caius. Vere is mine host de Jarteer ? 

Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity and 
doubtful dilemma. 

Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat: but it is tell-a me 
dat you make grand preparation for a duke de 
Jamany: by my trot, dere is no duke dat the court 
is know to come. I tell you for good vill: adieu. 

[ Hxtt. 
Host. Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight. 
am undone! Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I 
am undone! [Exeunt Host and Bard. 

Fal. I would all the world might be cozened; for 
I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should 
come to the ear of the court, how I have been trans- 
formed and how my transformation hath been 
washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of 
my fat drop by drop and liquor fishermen’s boots 
with me: I warrant they would whip me with their 
fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. 
I never prospered since I forswore myself at prime- 
ro. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say 
my prayers, I would repent. 


Enter Mistress Quickly. 


Now, whence come you? 

Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. 

fal. The devil take one party and his dam the 
other! and so they shall be both bestowed. I have 
suffered more for their sakes, more than the villan- 
ous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear. 

Quick. And have not they suffered? Yes, I war- 
rant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good 
heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see 
a white spot about her. . 

Fal. What tellest thou me of black and blue? I 
was beaten myself into all the colours of the rain- 
bow; and I was like to be apprehended for the 
witch of Brentford: but that my admirable dex- 
terity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old 
woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set 
me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. 

Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your cham- 
ber: you shall hear how things go; and, I warrant, 
to your content. Here is a letter will say some- 
what. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you 
together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven 
well, that you are su crossed. 

Fal. Come up into my chamber. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.—Another room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Fenton and Host. 


Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind 
is heavy: I will give over all. [pose, 
Fent. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my pur- 
And, as I am a gentleman, I ll give thee 
A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. 
Host. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will 
at the least keep your counsel. 
Fent. From time to time I have acquainted you 
With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page; 
Who mutually hath answer’d my affection, 


| So far forth as herself might be her chooser, 


AGTIV. 


THE MHREY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE V. 


Even to my wish: I have a letter from her 

Of such contents as you will wonder at; 

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter, 
‘That neither singly can be manifested, 
Without the show of both; fat Falstaff 

Hath a great scene: the image of the jest 

1’ll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host. 
To-night at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one, 
Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen ; 
The purpose why, is here: in which disguise, 
While other jests are something rank on foot, 
Her father hath commanded her to slip 

Away with Slender and with him at Eton 
Immediately to marry: she hath consented: 
Now, sir, 

Her mother, ever strong against that match 
And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 
That he shall likewise shuffle her away, 

While other sports are tasking of their minds, 
And at the deanery, where a priest attends, 
Straight marry her: to this her mother’s plot 
She seemingly obedient likewise hath 


Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests: 
Her father means she shall be all in white, 
And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
To take her by the hand and bid her go, 
She shall go with him: her mother hath intended, 
The better to denote her to the doctor, 
For they must all be mask’d and vizarded, 
That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed, 
With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head ; 
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, 
To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, 
The maid hath given consent to go with him. 
Host. W hich means she to deceive,father or mother? 
Fent. Both, my good host, to go along with me: 
And here it rests, that you ’ll procure the vicar 
To stay for me at church ’twixt twelve and one, 
And, in the lawful name of marrying, 
To give our hearts united ceremony. 
Host. Well, husband your device; Ill to the vicar: 
Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. 
Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; 
Besides, I 1] make a present recompense. [Hvewnt. 


INGE We 


SCENE I.—A room in the Garter Inn. 


Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. 


Fal. Prithee, no more prattling; go. Ill hold. 
This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd 
numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity 
in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. 


way! 

Quick. Ill provide you a chain; and 1711 do what 
I can to get you a pair of horns. 

Fal. Away, I say; time wears: hold up your 
head, and mince. | [Hait Mrs. Quickly. 


Enter Ford. 


How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter 
will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the 
Park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall 
see wonders. 

Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you 
told me you had appointed ? 

Fal. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like 
apoor old man: but I came from her, Master Brook, 
likea poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her 
husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in 
him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I 
will tell you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of 
a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I 
fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam; because I 
know also life isasbuttle. Iam in haste; go along 
with me: [71] tell you all, Master Brook. Since I 
plucked geese, played truant and whipped top, IL 
knew not what ’t was to be beaten till lately. Fol- 
low me: Ill tell you strange things of this knave 
Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will 
deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange 
things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.  [Evweunt. 


SCENE II.— Windsor Park. 


Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 


Page. Come, come; we’!l couch i’ the castle-ditch 
till we see the light of our fairies. eemember, son 
Slender, my daughter. 

Slen. Ay,forsooth; I have spoke with her and we 
have a nay-word how to know one another: I come 
to her in white, and cry ‘mum; she cries ‘ budget ;’ 
and by that we know one another. 

Shal. That’s good too: but what needs either your 


‘mum’ or her ‘ budget’? the white will decipher her 
wellenough. It hath struck ten o’clock. 

Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits will be- 
come it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man 
means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by 
his horns. Let ’s away; follow me. [ Hiceunt. 


SCENE ITI.— A street leading to the Park. 


Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and 
Doctor Caius. p 

Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green: 
when you see your time, take her by the hand, away 
with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go 
before into the Park: we two must go together. 

Caius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. 

Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Hit Caius.] My 
husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of 
Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying 
my daughter: but ’tis no matter: better a little 
chiding than a great deal of heart-break. 

Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now and her troop of 
fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh ? 

Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by 
Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the 
very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will 
at once display to the night. 

Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him. 

Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; 
if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. 

Mrs. Ford. Well betray him finely. [ery 

Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters and their lech- 
Those that betray them do no treachery. 

Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. ‘To the oak, to 


the oak! [ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.— Windsor Park. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans disguised, with others as 
Fairies. 

Evans. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember 
your parts: be pold, I pray you; follow me into the 
pit; and when I give the watch-’ords, do as I pid 
you: come, come; trib, trib. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the Park. 


Enter Falstaff disguised as Herne. 
Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the 
minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist 
53 


ACT V. 


me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Eu- 
ropa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that, 
in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other, 
amana beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for 
the love of Leda. O omnipotent Love! how near 
the god drew to the complexion of a goose! <A fault 
done first in the form of a beast. O Jove, a beastly 
fault! And then another fault in the semblance of 
a fowl; think on’t, Jove; afoul fault! When gods 
have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I 
am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ 
the forest. Send mea cool rut-time, Jove, or who 
can blame me to piss my tallow ? Who comes here ? 
my doe? 


Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. 


Mrs. Ford. Sir John! art thou there, my deer? 
my male deer ? 

Fal. My doe with the black secut! Let the sky rain 
potatoes ; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves, 
hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there 
come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me 
here. [heart. 

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet- 

Fal. Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: 
I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the 
fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your 
husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like 
Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of 
conscience; he makes restitution. As I ama true 
spirit, welcome! [ Noise within. 

Mrs. Page. Alas, what noise ? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins! 

Fal. What should this be ? 


oe (ties Away, away! [They run off. 


Fal. I think the devil will not have me damned, 
lest the oil that ’s in me should set hell on fire; he 
would never else cross me thus. 


Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised as befare ; Pistol, as hob- 
goblin; Mistress Quickly, Anne Page, and others, as 
Fairies, with tapers. 


Quick. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, 
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 
You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, 

Attend your office and your quality. 
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. 

Pist. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys. 
Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap: 
Where fires thou find’st unraked and hearths un- 
There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry: [swept, 
Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. = [die: 

Ful. They are fairies ; he that speaks to them shall 
1°11 wink and couch: no man their works must eye. 


[Lies down upon his face. 
Evans. Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you 
find a maid 


That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, 

Raise up the organs of her fantasy ; 

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy: 

But those as sleep and think not on their sins, 

Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides and 
Quick. About, about; [shins. 

Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out: 

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room: 

That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 

In state as wholesome as in state ’t is fit, 

Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 

The several chairs of order look you scour 

With juice of balm and every precious flower: 

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, 

With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! 

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, 

Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring: 

The expressure that it bears, green let it be, 

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; 


54 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


SCENE V. 


——— 


And ‘ Honi soit qui mal y pense’ write 
In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white; 
Like sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery, 
Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee: 
Fairies use flowers for their charactery. 
Away; disperse: but till ’tis one o’clock, 
Our dance of custom round about the oak 
Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget. 
Evans. Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves 
in order set ; 
And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, 
To guide our measure round about the tree. 
But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth. 
Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, 
lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! _—_[birth. 
Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy 
Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end : 
If he be chaste, the flame will back descend 
And turn him to no pain; but if he start, 
It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 
Pist. A trial, come. 
Evans. Come, will this wood take fire ? 
[They burn him with their tapers. 
Fal. Oh, Oh, Oh! 
Quick. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! 
About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme: 
And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. 


SONG. 


Fie on sinful fantasy ! 

Fie on lust and luxury! 

Lust is but a bloody fire, 

Kindled with unchaste desire, 

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire 

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. 

Pinch him, fairies, mutually ; 

Pinch him for his villany ; 
Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, 
Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. 


During this song they pinch Falstaff. Doctor Caius comes 
one way, and steals away a boy in green ; Slender another 
way, and takes off a boy in white ; and Fenton comes, and 
steals away Mrs. Anne Page. A noise of hunting is 
heard within, All the Fairies run away. Falstaff pulls 
off his buck’s head, and rises. 


Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and 
Mistress Ford. 


Page. Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch’d 
you now: 
Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn ? 

Mrs. Page. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no 

higher. 
Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives ? 
See you these, husband ? do not these fair yokes 
Become the forest better than the town ? 

Ford. Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now? Master 
Brook, Falstaff ’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here 
are his horns, Master Brook : and, Master Brook, he 
hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket, 
his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must 
be paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for 
it, Master Brook. 

Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck: we 
could never meet. I will never take you for my love 
again; but I will always count you my deer. 

Fal. I do begin to perceive that Iam made an ass, 

Ford. Ay, and an ox too: both the proofs are 
extant. 

Fal. Andthesearenot fairies ? I was three or four 
times in the thought they were not fairies: and yet 
the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of 
my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a 
received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme 
and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit 
may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when ’tis upon ill em- 
ployment! 


ACT V. 


Hvans. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave 
your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. 

Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh. 

Evans. And leave your jealousies too, I pray you. 

Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, till 
thou art able to woo her in good English. 

Fal. Have [laid my brain in the sun and dried it, 
that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’erreaching 
as this ? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too ? shall 
I have acoxcomb of frize? ’T is time I were choked 
with a piece of toasted cheese. 

Evans. Seese is not good to give putter; your belly 
is all putter. 

Fal. ‘Seese’ and ‘ putter’! have I lived to stand 
at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English ? 
This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walk- 
ing through the realm. 

Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, though 
we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by 
the head and shoulders and have given ourselves 
without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could 
have made you our delight ? 

Ford. What, a hodge-pudding ? a bag of flax ? 

Mrs. Page. A puffed man ? 

Page. Old, cold, withered and of intolerable en- 
trails ? 

Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan ? 

Page. And as poor as Job? 

Ford. And as wicked as his wife ? 

Evans. And given to fornications, and to taverns 
and sack and wine and metheglins, and to drink- 
ee ae swearings and starings, pribbles and prab- 

es t 

Fal. Well, I am your theme: you have the start 
of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the 
Welsh flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o’er 
me: use me as you will. 

ford. Marry, sir, we’ll bring you to Windsor, to 
one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, 
to whom you should have been a pander: over and 
above that you have suffered, I think to repay that 
money will be a biting affliction. 

Page. Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt’ eat a 
posset to-night at my house; where I will desire 
thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee: 
tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. 

Mrs. Page. [Aside] Doctors doubt that: if Anne 
pice be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius’ 
wite. 

Enter Slender. 


Slen. Whoa, ho! ho, father Page! 

Page. Son, how now! how now, son! have you 
dispatched ? 

Slen. Dispatched! I ll make the best in Glouces- 
tershire know on ’t; would I were hanged, la, else! 

Page. Of what, son ? 

Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress 
Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy. If it 
had not been i’ the church, I would have swinged 
him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not 


think it had been Anne Page, would I might never 
stir!—and ’tis a postmaster’s boy. 

Page. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. 
I think so, 


Slen. What need you tell me that ? 


THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


How now, Master Fenton! 


SCENE V. 


when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married 
to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would 
not have had him. 

Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I 
tell you how you should know my daughter by her 
garments ? 

Slen. I went to her in white, and cried ‘mum,’ 
and she cried ‘budget,’ as Anne and I had ap- 
pointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a post- 
master’s boy. ; 

Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry: I knew 
of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; 
and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the 
deanery, and there married. 


Enter Caius. 


Caius. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am 
cozened : I ha’ married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, 
by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am 
cozened. 

Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green ? 

Caius. Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy: by gar, Ill 
raise all Windsor. E 

ford. This is strange. 
Anne? 

Page. My heart misgives me: here comes Master 
Fenton. 


Enter Fenton and Anne Page. 


[ Hatt. 
Who hath got the right 


[pardon ! 
Anne. Pardon, good father! good my mother, 
Page. Now, mistress, how chance you went not 

with Master Slender ? 

Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doc- 

tor, maid ? 

Fent. You do amaze her: hear the truth of it. 
You would have married her most shamefully, 
Where there was no proportion held in love. 

The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, 

Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. 

The offence is holy that she hath committed ; 

And this deceit loses the name of craft, 

Of disobedience, or unduteous title, 

Since therein she doth evitate and shun 

A. thousand irreligious cursed hours, [her. 

Which torced marriage would have brought upon 
Ford. Stand not amazed; here is no remedy: 

In love the heavens themselves do guide the state ; 

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. 

Fal. 1am glad, though you have ta’en a special 
stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. 

Page. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give 

thee joy! 

What cannot be eschew’d must be embraced. 

Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are 


chased. [Fenton, 
Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further. Master 
Heaven give you many, many merry days! 
Good husband, let us every one go home, 
And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire; 
Sir John and all. 
Ford. Let it be so. Sir John, 
To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word; 
For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford. 
[ Hveunt. 
959) 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Vincentio, the Duke. 
Angelo, Deputy. 

Escalus, an ancient Lord. 
Claudio, a young gentleman. 
Lucio, a fantastic. 

Two other gentlemen. 
Provost. 
Thomas, 
Peter, 

A Justice. 
Varrius. 
Elbow, a simple constable. 


\ two friars. 


Froth, a foolish gentleman. 

Pompey, servant to Mistress Overdone. 
Abhorson, an executioner. 
Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner. 
Isabella, sister to Claudio. 

Mariana, betrothed to Angelo. 

Juliet, beloved of Claudio. 

Francisca, a nun. 

Mistress Overdone, a bawd. 


Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants, 
SCENE — Vienna. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIV.] 


we atl Be ts 


SCENE I.—An apartment in the Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants. 


Duke. Escalus. 

Escal. My lord. 

Duke. Of government the properties to unfold, 
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse ; 
Since I am put to know that your own science 
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice 
My strength can give you: then no more remains, 
But that to your sufficiency . ae 
OURAN OST e ae tens 6 BS YOUL WOLLD IS QULe, 
And let them work. The nature of our people, 
Our city’s institutions, and the terms 
For common justice, you ’re as pregnant in 
As art and practice hath enriched any 
That we remember. There is our commission, 
From which we would not have you warp. Call 
I say, bid come before us Angelo. [hither, 

[ EHxit an attendant. 
What figure of us think you he will bear ? 
For you must know, we have with special soul 
Elected him our absence to supply, 
Lent him our terror, dress’d him with our love, 
And given his deputation all the organs 
Of our own power: what think you of it ? 

Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth 
To undergo such ample grace and honour, 

It is Lord Angelo. 


Duke. Look where he comes. 


Enter Angelo. 


Ang. Always obedient to your grace’s will, 
I come to know your pleasure. 
Duke. Angelo, 
There is a kind of character in thy life, 
That to the observer doth thy history 
Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings 
Are not thine own so proper as to waste 
Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. 
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, 
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues 
Did not go forth of us, ’t were all alike 
Asif we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d 
But to fine issues, nor nature never lends 


56 


The smallest scruple of her excellence 
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
Herself the glory of a creditor, 
Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech 
To one that can my part in him advertise; 
Hold therefore, Angelo :— 
In our remove be thou at full ourself; 
Mortality and mercy in Vienna 
Live in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus, 
Though first in question, is thy secondary. 
Take thy commission. 
Ng. Now, good my lord, 
Let there be some more test made of my metal, 
Before so noble and so great a figure 
Be stamp’d upon it. 
Duke. No more evasion : 
We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice 
Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. 
Our haste from hence is of so quick condition 
That it prefers itself and leaves unquestion’d 
Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, 
As time and our concernings shall importune, 
How it goes with us, and do look to know 
What doth befall you here. So, fare you well: 
To the hopeful execution do I leave you 
Of your commissions. 
Ang. Yet give leave, my lord, 
That we may bring you something on the way. 
Duke. My haste may not admit it; 
Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do 
With any scruple; your scope is as mine own, 
So to enforce or qualify the laws 
As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand: 
Ill privily away. I love the people, 
But do not like to stage me to their eyes: 
Though it do well, I do not relish well 
Their loud applause and Aves vehement ; 
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 
Ang. The heavens give safety to your purposes! 
Escal. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! 
Duke. IL thank you. Fare you well. [ Hit. 
Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave 
To have free speech with you; and it concerns me 
To look into the bottom of my place: 


ACT I. 


MEASURE FOR MEASUELE. 


SCENE II. 


A power I have, but of what strength and nature 
I am not yet instructed. 

Ang. ’Tissowithme. Let us withdraw together, 
And we may soon our satisfaction have 
Touching that point. 

EKscal. 1711 wait upon your honour. 


SCENE II.— A street. 


Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. 


Lucio. If the duke with the other dukes come not 
to composition with the King of Hungary, why then 
all the dukes fall upon the king. 

First Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not 
the King of Hungary’s! 

Sec. Gent. Amen. 

Lucio. Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pi- 
rate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, 
but scraped one out of the table. 

Sec. Gent. ‘Thou shalt not steal’ ? 

Iucio. Ay, that he razed. 

First Gent. Why, ’t was a commandment to com- 
mand the captain and all the rest from their func- 
tions: they put forthto steal. There’s not a soldier 
of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do 
relish the petition well that prays for peace. 

Sec. Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. 

Lucio. I believe thee; for I think thou never wast 
where grace was said. 

Sec. Gent. No? a dozen times at least. 

First Gent. What, in metre ? 

Lucio. In any proportion or in any language. 

First Gent. I think, or in any religion. 

Incio. Ay, why not? ~Grace is grace, despite of 
all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a 
wicked villain, despite of all grace. 

First Gent. Well, there went but a pair of shears 
between us. 

LIncio. I grant ; as there may between the lists and 
the velvet. Thou art the list. 

First Gent. And thou the velvet: thou art good 
velvet; thou ’rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee: 
Thad as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, 
as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak 
feelingly now ? 

Lucio. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most 
painful feeling of thy speech; I will, out of thine 
own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, 
whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. [I not? 

First Gent. [think I have done myself wrong, have 

Sec. Gent. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art 
tainted or free. 

Incio. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation 
comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her 
roof ascometo— | 

Sec. Gent. To what, I pray ? 

Lucio. Judge. 

Sec. Gent. To three thousand dolours a year. 

First Gent. Ay, and more. 

Lucio. A French crown more. 

First Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in 
me; but thou art full of error; I am sound. 

Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but 
so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are 
hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee. 


[ Hxeunt. 


Enter Mistress Overdone. 


First Gent. How now! which of your hips has the 
most profound sciatica ? 

Mrs. Ov. Well, well; there ’s one yonder arrested 
and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you 

Sec. Gent. Who’s that, I pray thee ? fall. 

Mrs. Ov. Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Clau- 

First Gent. Claudio to prison? ’tis not so. [dio. 

Mrs. Ov. Nay, but I know ’tis so: I saw him ar- 
rested, saw him carried away; and, which is more, 
within these three days his head to be chopped off. 


Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would not have 
itso. Art thou sure of this? 

Mrs. Ov. I am too sure of it: and it is for getting 
Madam Julietta with child. 

Lucio. Believe me, this may be: he promised to 
meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise 
in promise-keeping. 

Sec. Gent. Besides, you know, it draws something 
near to the speech we had to such a purpose. 

First Gent. But, most of all, agreeing with the 
proclamation. 

Lucio. Away! let ’s go learn the truth of it. 

[EHxeunt Lucio and Gentlemen. 

Mrs. Ov. Thus, what with the war, what with the 
sweat, what with the gallows and what with pov- 
erty, I am custom-shrunk. 


Enter Pompey. 


| How now! what’s the news with you? 


Pom. Yonder man is carried to prison. 

Mrs. Ov. Well; what has he done ? 

Pom. A woman. 

Mrs. Ov. But what’s his offence ? 

Pom. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. 

Mrs. Ov. What, is there a maid with child by him ? 

Pom. No, but there ’s a woman with maid by him. 
You have not heard of the proclamation, have you ? 

Mrs. Ov. What proclamation, man ? 

Pom. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must 
be plucked down. [city ? 

Mrs. Ov. And what shall become of those in the 

Pom. They shall stand for seed: they had gone 
down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. 

Mrs. Ov. But shall all our houses of resort in the 
suburbs be pulled down ? 

Pom. Tothe ground, mistress. 

Mrs. Ov. Why, here’s a change indeed in the com- 
monwealth! What shall become of me? 

Pom. Come: fear not you: good counsellors lack 
no clients: though you change your place, you need 
not change your trade; I’ll be your tapster still. 
Courage! there will be pity taken on you: you that 
have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you 
will be considered. 

Mrs. Ov. What’s to do here, Thomas tapster ? 
let ’s withdraw. 

Pom. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the 
provost to prison; and there ’s Madam Juliet. 

[ Hxeunt. 


Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Officers. 


Claud. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to 
the world ? 
Bear me to prison, where I am committed. 
Prov. I do it not in evil disposition, 
But from Lord Angelo by special charge. 
Claud. Thus can the demigod Authority 
Make us pay down for our offence by weight 
The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; 
On whom it will not, so; yet still ’tis just. 


Re-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. 


Lucio. Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes 
this restraint ? 

Claud. From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty: 
As surfeit is the father of much fast, 
So every scope by the immoderate use 
Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, 
Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, 
A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die. 

Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, 
I would send for certain of my creditors: and yet, 
to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of 
freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s 
thy offence, Claudio ? 

Claud. What but to speak of would offend again. 

Lucio. What, is *t murder ? 


57 


ACT I. 


Claud. No. 

Lucio. Lechery ? 

Claud. Call it so. 

Prov. Away, sir! you must go. [with you. 

Claud. One word, good friend. Lucio, a word 

Lucio. A hundred, if they ’11 do you any good. 

Is lechery so look’d after ? tract 

Claud. Thus stands it with me: upon a true con- 
I got possession of Julietta’s bed: 

You know the lady; she is fast my wife, 

Save that we do the denunciation lack 

Of outward order: this we came not to, 

Only for propagation of a dower 

Remaining in the coffer of her friends, 

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love 
Till time had made them for us. But it chances 
The stealth of our most mutual entertainment 
With character too gross is writ on Juliet. 

Lncio. With child, perhaps ? 

Claud. Unhappily, even so. 
And the new deputy now for the duke — 

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, 
Or whether that the body public be 

A horse whereon the governor doth ride, 

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know 

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; 
Whether the tyranny be in his place, 

Or in his eminence that fills it up, 

I stagger in: —but this new governor 

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties {wall 
Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the 
So long that ‘nineteen zodiacs have gone round 
And none of them been worn; and, for a name, 
Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 

Freshly on me: ’tis surely for a name. 

Lucio. I warrant it is: and thy head stands so 
tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be 
in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and 
appeal to him. 

Claud. I have done so, but he’s not to be found. 
I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: 

This day my sister should the cloister enter 

And there receive her approbation: 

Acquaint her with the danger of my state: 
Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends 
To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him: 

I have great hope in that; for in her youth 
There is a prone and speechless dialect, 

Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art 
When she will play with reason and discourse, 
And well she can persuade. 

Lucio. I pray she may; as well for the encourage- 
ment of the like, which else would stand under 
grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, 
who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost 
at a game of tick-tack. Ill to her. 

Claud. I thank you, good friend Lucio. 

Lucio. Within two hours. 

Claud. Come, officer, away ! 

[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE ITI. — A monastery. 


Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. 


Duke. No, holy father ; throw away that thought ; 
Believe not that the dribbling dart of love 
Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee 
To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends 
Of burning youth. 
Tivtocd. May your grace speak of it: 
Duke. My holy sir, none better knows than you 
How I have ever loved the life removed 
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies 
Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps. 
1 have deliver’d to Lord Angelo, 
A man of stricture and firm abstinence, 
My absolute power and place here in Vienna, 


58 


MEASURE FOR 


MEASURE. 


And he supposes me travell’d to Poland ; 
For so I have strew’d it in the common ear, 
And so it is received. Now, pious sir, 
You will demand of me why I do this? 
Fri. T. Gladly, my lord. [laws, 
Duke. We have strict statutes and most biting 
The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds, 
Which for this nineteen years we have let slip; 
Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave. 
That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, 
Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch, 
Only to stick it in their children’s sight 
For terror, not to use, in time the rod 
Becomes more mock’d than fear’d; so our decrees, 
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead ; 
And liberty plueks justice by the nose; 
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 
Goes all decorum. 
Fri. T. It rested in your grace 
To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased: 
And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d 
Than in Lord Angelo. 
Duke. I do fear, too dreadful : 
Sith ’t was my fault to give the people scope, 
’T would be my tyranny to strike and gall them 
For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done, 
When evil deeds have their permissive pass 
And not the punishment. Therefore indeed, my 
I have on Angelo imposed the office; [father, 
Who may, in the ambush of my name, staat home, 
And yet my nature never in the fight 
To do in slander. And to behold his sway, 
I will, as ’t were a brother of your order, 
Visit both prince and people: therefore, i prithee, 
Supply me with the habit and instruct me 
How I may formally in person bear me 
Like a true friar. More reasons for this action 
At our more leisure shall I render you; 
Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise ; 
Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses 
That his blood flows, or that his appetite 
Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see, 
If power change purpose, what our seemers be. 


[| Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.—A nunnery. 


Enter Isabella and Francisca. 


Isab. And have you nuns no farther privileges ? 
Fran. Are not these large enough ? 
Isab. Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more; 
But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. 
Lucio. [Within] Ho! Peace be in this place! 
Isab. Who’s that which ealls ? 
Fran. It isa man’s voice. Gentle Isabella, 
Turn you the key, and know his business of him; 
You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. 
When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men 
But in the presence of the prioress : 
Then, if you speak, you must not show your face, 
Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. 
He calis again; I pray you, answer him [ Exit. 
Tsab. Peace and prosperity ! Who is t that calls + 2 


SCENE IV. 


Enter Lucio. 


Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses 
Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me 
As bring me to the sight of Isabella, 

A novice of this place and the fair sister 
To her unhappy brother Claudio ? 

Isab. Why ‘ her unhappy brother’ ? let me ask, 
The rather for I now must make you know 
I am that Isabella and his sister. you 

Lucio. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly presi 
Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison. 

Isab. Woe me! for what ? [ judge, 

Incio. For that which, if myself might be his 


ACT, IF. 


He should receive his punishment in thanks: 
He hath got his friend with child. 
Isab. Sir, make me not your story. 
Lucio. It is true. 
I would not —though ’t is my familiar sin 
With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, 
Tongue far from heart—play with all virgins so: 
T hola you as a thing ensky’d and sainted, 
By your renouncement an immortal spirit, 
And to be talk’d with in sincerity, 
As with a saint. 
Isab. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. 
Lucio. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis 
Y our brother and his lover have embraced: ([thus: 
As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time 
That from the seedness the bare fallow brings 
To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb 


Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. [Juliet ? 
Isab. Some one with child by him? My cousin 
Lucio. Is she your cousin ? [names 


Isab. Adoptedly; as school-maids change their 
By vain though apt affection. 


Lucio. She it is. 
Isab. O, let him marry her. 
Lucio. This is the point. 


The duke is very strangely gone from hence; 
Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, 

In hand and hope of action: but we do learn 
By those that know the very nerves of state, 
His givings-out were of an infinite distance 
From his true-meant design. Upon his place, 
And with full line of his authority, 

Governs Lord Angelo ; a man whose blood 

Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels 

The wanton stings and motions of the sense, 
But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 


MEASURE .FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE I. 


With profits of the mind, study and fast. 
He—to give fear to use and liberty, 
Which have for long run by the hideous law, 
As mice by lions—hath pick’d out an act, 
Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life 
Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it: 
And follows close the rigour of the statute, 
To make him an example. All hope is gone, 
Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer 
To soften Angelo: and that’s my pith of business 
*T wixt you and your poor brother. 
Isab. Doth he so seek his life ? 
Lucio. Has censured him 
Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath 
A warrant for his execution. 
Isab. Alas! what poor ability ’s in me 


To do him good? 
Lucio. Assay the power you have. 
Isab. My power? Alas, I doubt — 
Lucio. Our doubts are traitors 


And make us lose the good we oft might win 

By fearing to attempt. Goto Lord Angelo, 

And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 
Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, 
All their petitions are as freely theirs 

As they themselves would owe them. 

Isab. 1711 see what I can do. 

Lucio. 

Isab. I will about it straight ; 
No longer staying but to give the mother 
Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you: 
Commend me to my brother: soon at night 
I’ll send him certain word of my success. 

on I take my leave of you. 

sab. 


But speedily. 


Good sir, adieu. 
| Hxeunt. 


73 AO77 B Bi ie 


SCENE I.—A hall in Angelo’s house. 


Enter Angelo, Escalus, and a Justice, Provost, 
Officers, and other Attendants, behind. 


Ang. We must not make a scarecrow of the law, 
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, 
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it 
Their perch and not their terror. 

Escal. Ay, but yet 
Let us be keen, and rather cut a little, 
Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas, thisgentleman, 
Whom I would save, had a most noble father ! 
Let but your honour know, 
Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue, 
That, in the working of your own affections, 
Had time cohered with place or place with wishing, 
Or that the resolute acting of your blood 
Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose, 
Whether you had not sometime in your life 
Err’d in this point which now you censure him, 
And pull’d the law upon you. 

Ang. ’T is one thing to be tempted, Escalus, 
Another thing to fall. I not deny, 
The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life, 
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two 
Guiltier than him they try. What’s open made to 

justice, 

That justice seizes: what know the laws 
That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant, 
The jewel that we find, we stoop and take ’t 
Because we see it; but what we do not see 
‘We tread upon, and never think of it. 
You may not so extenuate his offence 
For I have had such faults; but rather tell me, 
When I, that censure him, do so offend, 


Let mine own judgment pattern out my death, 
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. 
Escal. Be it as your wisdom will. 
Ang. Where is the provost ? 
Prov. Here, if it like your honour. 
Ang. See that Claudio 
Be executed by nine to-morrow morning: 
Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared ; 
For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. 
| Haxit Provost. 
Escal. [Aside] Well, heaven forgive him! and for- 
give us all! 
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: 
Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: 
And some condemned for a fault alone. 


Enter Elbow, and Officers with Froth and 
Pompey. 

Elb. Come, bring them away: if these be good 
people in a commonweal that do nothing but use 
their abuses in common houses, I know no law: 
bring them away. 

Ang. How now, sir! 
what ’s the matter ? 

Elb. If it please your honour, I am the poor duke’s 
constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon 
justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good 
honour two notorious benefactors. 

any: Benefactors ? Well; what benefactors are 
they ? are they not malefactors ? 

Eilb. If it please your honour, I know not well what 
they are: but precise villains they are, that I am sure 
of ; and void of all profanation in the world that good 
Christians ought to have. 

Escal. This comes off well; here ’s a wise officer. 


59 


What’s your name? and 
y 


ACGTIL: 


MEASURE FOR MEASUELE. 


SCENE I. 


Ang. Go to: what quality are they of ? Elbowis 
your name? why dost thou not speak, Elbow ? 

Pom. He cannot, sir; he’s out at elbow. 

Ang. What are you, sir? 

Eilb. He,sir! a tapster, sir! parcel-bawd; one that 
serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they 
say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she pro- 
fesses a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house 

Escal. How know you that ? [too. 

Elb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven 
and your honour,— 


Escal. How? thy wife? [woman ,— 

Elb. Ay,sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest 

scal. Dost thou detest her therefore ? 

Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as 
she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it 
is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house. 

Escal. How dost thou know that, constable ? 

Eilb. Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been 
a woman cardinally given, might have been accused 
in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. 

Escal. By the woman’s means ? 

Eilb. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means: but 
as she spit in his face, so she defied him. 

Pom. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. 


Elb. Prove it before these varlets here, thou hon- 
ourable man; prove it. 

Escal. Do you hear how he misplaces ? 

Pom. Sir,she came in great with child; and long- 
ing, saving your honour’s reverence, for stewed 
prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at 
that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit- 


dish,a dish of some three-pence ; your honours have 
seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but 
very good dishes,— 

Escal. Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir. 


Pom. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein 
in the right: but to the point. As I say, this Mis- 
tress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being 
great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and 
having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth 
here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, 
and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, 
as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you 
three-pence again. 

Froth. No, indeed. 

Pom. Very well; you being then, if you be remem- 
bered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,— 


Froth. Ay, so I did indeed. 

Pom. Why, very well; I telling you then, if you 
be remembered, that such a one and such a one 
were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they 
kept very good diet, as I told you,— 

Froth. All this is true. 

Pom. Why, very well, then,— 

Escal. Come, youarea tedious fool: to the purpose. 
What was done to Elbow’s wife, that he hath cause 
to complain of ? Come me to what was done to her. 

Pom. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. 

Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not. 

Pom. Sir, but youshall come to it, by your honour’s 
leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth 
here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year; whose 
father died at Hallowmas: was ’t not at Hallowmas, 
Master Froth ? 

Froth. All-hallond eve. 

Pom. Why, very well; I hope here be truths. 
He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir’; ’t was 
in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed you have a 
delight to sit, have you not? 

Froth. I have so; because it isan open room and 
good for winter. 

Pom. Why, very well, then ; I hope here be truths. 

Ang. This will last out a night in Russia, 

When nights are longest there: Ill take my leave, 
And leave you to the hearing of the cause; 
Hoping you’!l find good cause to whip them all. 


60 


Escal. I think no less. Good morrow to your 
lordship. [Hutt Angelo. 

Now, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow’s wife, 
once more ? [once, 

Pom. Once, sir? there was nothing done to her 

Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man 
did to my wife. 

Pom. I beseech your honour, ask me. 

Escal. Well, sir; what did this gentleman to her ? 

Pom. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s 
face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; 
’t is for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his 

Escal. Ay, sir, very well. [face ? 

Pom. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. 

Escal.. Well, I do so. 

Pom. Doth your honour see any harm in his face ? 

Escal. Why, no. 

Pom. Ill be supposed upon a book, his face is 
the worst thing about him. Good, then; if his face 
be the worst thing about him, how could Master 
Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would 
know that of your honour. 

Escal. He’s in the right. 
you to it? 

Elb. First, an it like you, the house is a respect- 
ed house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his 
mistress is a respected woman. 

Pom. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more re- 
spected person than any of us all. 

Elb. Varlet, thou liest ; thou liest, wicked varlet! 
the time is yet to come that she was ever respected 
with man, woman, or child. 

Pom. Sir, she was respected with him before he 
married with her. 

Escal. Which is the wiser here? Justice or In- 
iquity ? Is this true? 

Elb. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou 
wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I 
was married to her! If ever I was respected with 
her, or she with me, let not your worship think me 
the poor duke’s officer. Prove this, thou wicked 
Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery on 


Constable, what say 


ee. 

Escal. If he took you a box o’ the ear, you might 
have your action of slander too. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your good worship for it. 
What is ’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with 
this wicked caitiff ? 

Escal. Truly, officer, because he hath some of- 
fences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou 
couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou 
knowest what they are. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou 
seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what ’s come upon 
thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet; thou 
art to continue. 

Escal. Where were you born, friend ? 

Froth. Here in Vienna, sir. 

Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a year ? 

Forth. Yes, an ’t please you, sir. 

Escal. So. What trade are you of, sir? 

Pom. A tapster; a poor widow’s tapster. 

Escal. Your mistress’ name ? 

Pom. Mistress Overdone. 

Escal. Hath she had any more than one husband ? 

Pom. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. 

Escal. Nine! Come hither to me, Master Froth. 
Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted 
with tapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, 
and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let 
me hear no more of you. 

Froth. I thank your worship. For mine own 
part, I never come into any room in a taphouse, 
but I am drawn in. - 

Escal. Well, no more of it, Master Froth: fare- 
well. [Exit Froth.| Come you hither to me, Master 
tapster. What ’s your name, Master tapster ? 


ACT Lk. 


Pom. Pompey. 

Escal. What else ? 

Pom. Bum, sir. 

Escal. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing 
about you; so that in the beastliest sense you are 
Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, 
Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tap- 
ster, are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be 
the better for you. 

Pom. Truly, sir, lam a poor fellow that would 
live. 

Escal. How would you live, Pompey ? by being 
a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey ? 
is it a lawful trade ? 

Pom. If the law would allow it, sir. 

Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pompey; 
nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. 

Pom. Does your worship mean to geld and splay 
all the youth of the city ? 

Escal. No, Pompey. 

Pom. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will 
to’t then. If your worship will take order for the 
drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the 
bawds. 

Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I can 
tell you: it is but heading and hanging. 

Pom. If you head and hang all that offend that 
way but for ten year together, you ’Il be glad to give 
out a commission for more heads: if this law hold 
in Vienna ten year, [ll rent the fairest house in it 
after three-pence a day: if you live to see this come 
to pass, say Pompey told you so. 

Escal. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in re- 
quital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let 
me not find you before me again upon any com- 
plaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you 
do: if Ido, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, 
and prove a shrewd Cesar to you; in plain dealing, 
Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so, for this time, 
Pompey, fare you well. 

Pom. I thank your worship for your good counsel : 
[ Aside] but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune 
shall better determine. 

Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade: 
The valiant heart is not whipt out of his rads 
vit. 

Escal. Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come 
hither, Master constable. How long have you been 
in this place of constable ? 

Elb. Seven year and a half, sir. 

EKscal. I thought, by your readiness in the office, 
you had continued init sometime. You say, seven 
years together ? 

Eilb. And a half, sir. 

Hscal. Alas, it hath been great pains to you. 
They do you wrong to put you so oft upon’t: are 
there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it ? 

Eilb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: 
as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for 
them; I do it for some piece of money, and go 
through with all. 

_scal. Look you bring me in the names of some 
SIx or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. 
lb. To your worship’s house, sir ? 

Hiscal. Tomy house. Fare you well. [wit Elbow. 
Whats o’clock, think you ? 

Just. Eleven, sir. 

Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. 

Just. I humbly thank you. 

Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio; 
But there ’s no remedy. 

Just. Lord Angelo is severe. 

_ Escal. It is but needful: 
Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so: 

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe: 

But yet.— poor Claudio! There is no remedy. 
Come, sir. [ Hxzeunt. 


MEASURE FOR 


MEASURE. SCENE II. 


SCENE II.— Another room in the same. 


Enter Provost and a Servant. 


Serv. He’s hearing of a cause; he will come 
Ill tell him of you. [straight : 
Prov. [Hxit Servant. 
Ill know 
His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas, 
He hath but as offended in a dream! 
All sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he 


To die for ’t! 
Enter Angelo. 


Ang. Now, what’s the matter, provost ? 

Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ? 

Ang. Did not I tell thee yea? hadst thou not order ? 
Why dost thou ask again ? 

Prov. Lest I might be too rash: 
Under your good correction, I have seen, 

When, after execution, judgment hath 
Repented o’er his doom. 

Ang. Go to; let that be mine: 
Do you your office, or give up your place, 

And you shall well be spared. 

Prov. I crave your honour’s pardon. 
What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ? 
She ’s very near her hour. 

Ang. Dispose of her 
To some more fitter place, and that with speed. 


Pray you, do. 


Re-enter Servant. 


Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn’d 
Desires access to you. 

Ang. Hath he a sister ? 

Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, 
And to be shortly of a sisterhood, 


If not already. 
Ang. Well, let her be admitted. 
[Hxit Servant. 
See you the fornicatress be removed: 
Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; 
There shall be order for ’t. 


Enter Isabella and Lucio. 


Prov. God save your honour! 

Ang. Stay alittle while. [7o-Jsab.] You ’re wel- 

come: what’s your will ? 

Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Ang. Well; what’s your suit ? 

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 

And most desire should meet the blow of justice; 
For which I would not plead, but that I must; 
For which I must not plead, but that I am 
At war ’twixt will and will not. 
Ang. Well; the matter ? 
Isab. I have a brother is condemn’d to die: 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
And not my brother. 

Prov. [Aside] Heaven give thee moving 

graces ! 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ? 
Why, every fault ’s condemn’d ere it be done: 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 

To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. O just but severe law! 

I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour! 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Give ’t not o’er so: to him 

again, entreat him; 
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown: 
You are too cold; if youshould needapin, 
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it: 
To him, I say! 

Isab. Must he needs die ? 

Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, 
And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. 


61 


ACT Il. 


I will not do ’t. 
fea But can you, if you would? 
Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. 

Teak But might you do ’t, and do the world no 

wrong, 

If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse 

As mine is to him? 

Ang. He’s sentenced; ’tis too late. 

Lucio. [Aside “4 Isab.] You are too cold. 

Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, 
May call it back again. Weil, believe this, 

No ceremony that to great ones longs, 

Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 

The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe, 

Become them with one-half so good a grace 

As mercy does. 

If he had been as you and you as he, 

You would have slipt like him; but he, like you, 

Would not have been so stern. 

Ang. Pray you, be gone. 

Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, 
And you were Isabel! should it then be thus ? 
No; I would tell what ’t were to be a judge, 

And what a prisoner. the vein. 
Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Ay, touch him; there’s 
Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, 

And ao but waste your words. 

Isab. Alas, alas! 
Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once; 
And He that might the vantage best have took 
Found out the remedy. How would you be, 

If He, which is the top of judgment, should 

But judge you as you are? O, think on that ; 

And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 

Like man new made. 

Ang. Be you content, fair maid; 
It is the law, not I condenm your brother: 

Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 

It should be thus with him: he must die to-morrow. 
Isab. To-morrow! O,that’ssudden! Spare him, 

spare him! 

He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens 

We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve Ne 

With less respect than we do minister 

To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink 

Who is it that hath died for this offence ? 

There ’s many have committed it. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Ay, well said. 

Ang. sare law hath not been dead, though it hath 

sle 

Those many had not dared to do that evil, 

Ii the first that did the edict infringe 

Had answer’d for his deed: now ’tis awake, 

Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, 

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils, 

Hither new, or by remissness new-conceived, 

And so in progress to be hatch’d and born, 

Are now to have no successive degrees, 

But, ere they live, to end. 

Tsab. Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I show it most of all when I show justice ; 
For then I pity those I do not know, 

Which a dismiss’d offence would after gall; 

And do him right that, answering one foul wrong 

Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 

Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. 
sab. So you must be the first that gives this 

sentence, 

And he, that suffers. O, it is excellent 

To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous 

To use it like a giant. 

Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] That ’s well said. 

Isab. Could great men thunder 
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet, 
For every pelting, petty officer 
Would use his heaven for thunder ; 

Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven, 


62 


MEASURE FOR MEASUEE. 


SCENE Il. 


Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt 
Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, 
His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, 
Would all themselves laugh mortal. 
Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] O, to him, to him, wench! 
He’s coming; I perceive . [he will relent ; 
Prov. | Aside] Pray heaven she win him! 
Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: 
Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them, 
But in the less foul profanation. 
Lucio. Thou ’rt i’ the right, girl; more o’ that. 
Isab. That in the captain ’s but a choleric word, 
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. fon ob. 
Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Art avised 0’ that ? more 
Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me? 
Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, 
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 
That skins the vice 0’ the top. Go to your bosom ; 
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 
That ’s like my brother’s fault: if it confess 
A natural guiltiness such as is his, 
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
Against my brother’s life. 
Ang. [ Aside] She speaks, and ’tis 
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you 
Isab. Gentle my lord, turn back. [well. 
Ang. I will bethink me: come again to-morrow. 
Isab. Hark how I’ll bribe you: good my lord, 
Ang. How! bribe me? [turn back. 
Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share 
with you. 
Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] You had marr’d all else. 
Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, 
Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor 
As fancy values them; but with true prayers. 


_That shall be up at heaven and enter there 
| Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, 


From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate 
To Bie temporal. 
ng. Well; come to me to-morrow. 
Lucio. [Aside to Isab.] Go to; ’tis well; away! 
Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 
Ang. [ Aside] Amen: 
For I am that way going to temptation, 
Npete prayers Cross. 
At what hour to-morrow 
Shall I attend your lordship ? 
Ang At any time ’fore noon. 
aan Save your honour! 
[Hxeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost. 
Ang. From thee, even from thy virtue! 
What ’s this, what’s this: ? Is this her fault or 
ai tempter or the tempted, whosins most ? [mine ? 
a! 
Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I 
That, lying by the violet in the sun, 
Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be 
That modesty may more betray our sense [enough, 
Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground 
Shall we desire to. raze the sanctuary 
And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! 
What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo ? 
Dost thou desire her foully for those things 
That make her good? O, let her brother ‘live: 
Thieves for their robbery have authority [her. 
When judges steal themselves. What, do I love 
That I desire to hear her speak again, 
And feast upon her eyes? What is ’t I dream on? 
O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 
With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous 
Is that temptation that doth goad us on 


ACT If. 


To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet, 
With all her double vigour, art and nature, 

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid 
Subdues me quite. Ever till now, 

When men were fond, I smiled and wonder’d how. 


. [ Hxit. 
SCENE III. — A room in a prison. 


Enter, severally, Duke disguised as a friar, and 
Provost. 


Duke. Hail to you, provost! so I think you are. 
pt cL ash the provost. What ’s your will, good 
riar : 
Duke. Bound by my charity and my blest order, 
I come to visit the afflicted spirits 
Here in the prison. Do me the common right 
To let me see them and to make me know 
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister 
To them accordingly. [needful. 
Prov. I would do more than that, if more were 


Enter Juliet. 


Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, 
Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, 
Hath blister’d her report: she is with child; 
And he that got it, sentenced; a young man 
More fit to do another such offence 


Than die for this. 
Duke. When must he die ? 
Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. 


I have provided for you: stay awhile, [To Juliet. 
And you shall be conducted. 

Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry ? 

Jul. I do; and bear the shame most patiently. 

Duke. 1°11 teach you how you shall arraign your 
And try your penitence, if it be sound, [conscience, 
Or hollowly put on. 

Jul. I’) gladly learn. 

Duke. Love you the man that wrong’d you ? 

Jul. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d him. 

Duke. So then it seems your most offenceful act 
Was mutually committed ? 

Jul. Mutually. 

Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. 

Jul. I do confess it, and repent it, father. 

Duke. ’T is meet so, daughter: but lest you do 


repent, 
As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, 
Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not 
heaven, 
Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, 
But as we stand in fear,— 
Jul. I do repent me, as it is an evil, 
And take the shame with joy. 

Duke. There rest. 
Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, 
And I am going with instruction to him. 

Grace go with you, Benedicite! [ Evit. 

Jul. Must die to-morrow! O injurious love, 
That respites me a life, whose very comfort 
Is still a dying horror! 

Prov. *T is pity of him. [Evxevunt. 


SCENE IV.— A room in Angelo’s house. 


Enter Angelo. 
Ang. When I would pray and think, I think and 


pray 
To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words; 
Whilst: my invention, hearing not my tongue, 
Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth, 
As if I did but only chew his name; 
And in my heart the strong and swelling evil 
Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied, 
Is like a good thing, being often read, 
Grown fear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity, 
Wherein —let no man hear me—I take pride, 


MEASURE FOR MHASURE. 


SCENE IV. 


Could I with boot change for an idle plume, 
Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form, 
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, 
Wrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls 
To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood: 
Let ’s write good angel on the devil’s horn; 

"T is not the devil’s crest. 


Enter a Servant. 


How now! who’s there ? 
Serv. One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you. 
Ang. Teach her the way. [Ezit Serv.] O heavens! 
Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, 
Making both it unable for itself, 
And dispossessing all my other parts 
Of necessary fitness ? 
So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons; 
Come all to help him, and so stop the air 
By which he should revive: and even so 
The general, subject to a well-wish’d king, 
Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness 
Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love 
Must needs appear offence. 


Enter Isabella. 


How now, fair maid ? 
Isab. I am come to know your pleasure. 
Ang. That you might know it, would much better 


please me [live. 
Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot 
Isab. Even so. Heaven keep your honour! 


Ang. Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be, 
As long as you or I: yet he must die. 

Isab. Under your sentence ? 

Ang. Yea. 

sab. When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, 
Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted 
That his soul sicken not. 

Ang. Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good 
To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 
A man already made, as to remit 
Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image 
In stamps that are forbid: ’tis all as easy 
Falsely to take away a life true made 
As to put metal in restrained means 
To make a false one. 

Isab. ’T is set down so in heaven, but not in earth. 

Ang. Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly. 
Which had you rather, that the most just law 
Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him, 
Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness 
As she that he hath stain’d ? 

TIsab. Sir, believe this, 
I had rather give my body than my soul. 

Ang. I talk not of your soul: our compell’d sins 
Stand more for number than for accompt. 

Isab. How say you ? 

Ang. Nay, I’linot warrant that; for I can speak 
Against the thing I say. Answer to this: 
I, now the voice of the recorded law, 
Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life: 
Might there not be a charity in sin 
To save this brother’s life ? 

Isab. Please you to do ’°t, 
Ill take it as a peril to my soul, 
It is no sin at all, but charity. 

Ang. Pleased you to do’t at peril of your soul, 
Were equal poise of sin and charity. 

Isab. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, 
Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit, 
If that be sin, Ill make it my morn prayer 
To have it added to the faults of mine, 

And nothing of your answer. : 
Ang. ‘ Nay, but hear me. 
Your sense pursues not mine: either you are igno- 

rant, 
Or seem so craftily; and that’s not good. 
63 


ACT TED. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE I. 


Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, 
But graciously to know I am no better. 

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright 
When it doth tax itself; as these black masks 
Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder 
Than beauty could, display’d. But mark me; 

To be received plain, I ll speak more gross: 
Your brother is to die. 

Isab. So. 

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears, 
Accountant to the law upon that pain. 

Isab. True. 

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life,— 

As I subscribe not that, nor any other, 

But in the loss of question,— that you, his sister, 
Finding yourself desired of such a person, 
Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, 
Could fetch your brother from the manacles 

Of the all-building law; and that there were 

No earthly mean to save him, but that either 
You must lay down the treasures of your body 
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer ; 

What would you do? 

Jsab. As much for my poor brother as myself: 
That is, were [ under the terms of death, 

The impression of keen whips I ld wear as rubies, 

And strip myself to death, as to a bed 

That longing have been sick for, ere I ld yield 

My body up to shame. 
Ang. Then must your brother die. 
Isab. And *t were the cheaper way: 

Better it were a brother died at once, 

Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 

Should die for ever. 

Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence 
That you have slander’d so ? 

Isab. Ignomy in ransom and free pardon 
Are of two houses: lawful mercy 
Is nothing kin to foul redemption. 

Ang. You seem’d of late to make the law a tyrant ; 
And rather proved the sliding of your brother 
A merriment than a vice. 

Isab. O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, 
To have what we would have, we speak not what we 
I something do excuse the thing I hate, [mean : 
For his advantage that I dearly love. 

Ang. We are all frail. 

Isab. Else let my brother die, 
If not a feodary, but only he 
Owe and succeed thy weakness. 

Ang. Nay, women are frail too. [selves ; 

Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view them- 
Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
Women! Help Heaven! men their creation mar 
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail 
For we are soft as our complexions are, 

And credulous to false prints. 

Ang. I think it well: 

And trom this testimony of your own sex,— 


Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger 
Than faults may shake our frames,— let me be bold ; 
I do arrest your words. Be that you are, 

That is, a woman; if you be more, you ’re none: 
If you be one, as you are well express’d 

By all external warrants, show it now, 

By putting on the destined livery. 

Isab. I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, 
Let me entreat you speak the former language. 

Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you. 

Isab. My brother did love Juliet, 

And you tell me that he shall die for it. 

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. 

Isab. I know your virtue hath a license in ’t, 
Which seems a little fouler than it is, 

To pluck on others. 

Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, 
My words express my purpose. 

Isab. Ha! little honour to be much believed, 
And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! 
I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for ’t: 
Sign me a present pardon for my brother, [aloud 
Or with an outstretch’d throat Ill tell the world 
What man thou art. 

Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel ? 
My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life, 

My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state, 

Will so your accusation overweigh, 

That you shall stifle in your own report 

And smell of calumny. I have begun, 

And now I give my sensual race the rein: 

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; 

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, 

That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother 

By yielding up thy body to my will; 

Or else he must not only die the death, 

But thy unkindness shall his death draw out 

To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, 

Or, by the affection that now guides me most, 

I?ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your oe 
eit. 

Isab. Towhom should Lcomplain ? Did I tell this, 
Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, 

That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, 
Either of condemnation or approof ; 

Bidding the law make court’sy to their will: 
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, 
To follow as it draws! Ill to my brother: 
Though he hath fall’n by prompture of the blood, 
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour, 
That, had he twenty heads to tender down 

On twenty bloody blocks, he ’ld yield them up, 
Before his sister should her body stoop 

To such abhorr’d pollution. 

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: 

More than our brother is our chastity. 

I’l] tell him yet of Angelo’s request, 

And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. [Htt. 


ra SPE BIG BO Lal le 


SCENE I.— A room in the prison. 


Enter Duke, disguised as before, Claudio, and 
Provost. 
Duke. So then you hope of pardon from Lord 
Angelo ? 

Claud. The miserable have no other medicine 
But only hope: 
I’ve hope to live, and am prepared to die. 

Duke. Be absolute for death; either death or life 
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with 
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing [life : 


64 


That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, 

Servile to all the skyey influences, 

That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st, 

Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death’s fool; 

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun 

And es toward him still. Thou art not 
noble; 

For all the accommodations that thou bear’st 

Are nursed by baseness. Thou’rt by no means 


valiant ; 
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, 


AT DLE. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE I. 


And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear’st 
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thy- 
For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains [self ; 
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; 
For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get, 
And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not cer- 
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, [tain: 
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou ’rt poor; 
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey, 
And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none; 
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
The mere effusion of thy proper loins, 
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth 
But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, [nor age, 
Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth 
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 
Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, 
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 
To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this 
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life 
Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear, 
That makes these odds all even. 

Claud. I humbly thank you. 
To sue to live, I find I seek to die; 
And, seeking death, find life: let it come on. 

Isab. | Within] What, ho! Peace here; grace and 

good company! 
Prov. Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves 
a welcome. 
Duke. Dear sir, ere long [11 visit you again. 
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 


Enter Isabella. 


Isab. My business is a word or two with Claudio. 

Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s 

your sister. 

Duke. Provost, a word with you. 

Prov. AS many as you please. 

Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may 
be concealed. [Hxeunt Duke and Provost. 

Claud. Now, sister, what ’s the comfort ? 

Isab. hy, 
As all comforts are; most good, most good indeed. 
Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, 

Intends you for his swift ambassador, 

Where you shall be an everlasting lieger : 
Therefore your best appointment make with speed ; 
To-morrow you set on. 

Claud. Is there no remedy ? 

Isab. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, 
To cleave a heart in twain. 

Claud. But is there any ? 

Isab. Yes, brother, you may live: 

There is a devilish mercy in the judge, 
If you ll implore it, that will free your life, 
But fetter you till death. 

Claud. Perpetual durance ? 

Isab. Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint, 
Though all the world’s vastidity you had, 

To a determined scope. 

Claud. But in what nature ? 

JIsab. In such a one as, you consenting to ’t, 

W ould bark your honour from that trunk you bear, 
And leave you naked. 

Claud. Let me know the point. 

Isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, 
Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, 

And six or seven winters more respect 

Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die? 
The sense of death is most in apprehension; 
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, 

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great 
As when a giant dies. 

Claud. Why give you me this shame ? 
Think you I can a resolution fetch 

5 


From flowery tenderness? If I must die, 

I will encounter darkness as a bride, 

And hug it in mine arms. g 
Lsab. There spake my brother; there my father’s 

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die: 

Thou art too noble to conserve a life 

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, 


[grave 


| Whose settled visage and deliberate word 


Nips youth i’ the head and follies doth etimew 
As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil; 
His filth within being cast, he would appear 
A pond as deep as hell. 
Claud. The prenzie Angelo! 
Isab. O, ’t is the cunning livery of hell, 
The damned’st body to invest and cover 
In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio ? 
If 1 would yield him my virginity, 
Thou mightst be freed. 
Claud. O heavens! it cannot be. 
Isab. Yes, he would give ’t thee, from this rank 
offence, 
So to offend him still. This night ’s the time 
That I should do what I abhor to name, 
Or else thou diest to-morrow. 
Claud. 
Isab. O, were it but my life, 
I ’ld throw it down for your deliverance 
As frankly as a pin. 
Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 
Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. 
Claud. Yes. Has he affections in him, 
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose, 
When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin; 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 
Isab. Which is the least ? 
Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fined? O Isabel! 
Isab. What says my brother ? 
Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 
Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 
Claud. Ay, but to die,and go we know not where; 
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot ; 
This sensible warm motion to become 
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; 
To be imprison’d in the viewless winds, 
And blown with restless violence round about 
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst 
Of those that lawless and incertain thought 
Imagine howling: ‘tis too horrible! 
The weariest and most loathed worldly life 
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment 
Can lay on nature is a paradise 
To what we fear of death. 
Isab. Alas, alas! 
Claud. Sweet sister, let me live: 
What sin you do to save a brother’s life, 
Nature dispenses with the deed so far 
That it becomes a virtue. | 
Isab. O you beast! 
O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! 
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life [think ? 
From thine own sister’s shame? What should I 
Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair! 
For such a warped slip of wilderness 
Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance! 
Die, perish! Might but my bending down 
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 
Ill pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 
No word to save thee. 
Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. 
Isab. O, fie, fie, fie! 
Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade. 
Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd: 


69 


Thou shalt not do ’t. 


ACT IIIT. 


’T is best that thou diest quickly. 
Claud. O hear me, Isabella! 


Re-enter Duke. 


Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one 

Isab. What is your will? _[word. 

Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, I 
would by and by have some speech with you: the 
satisfaction I would require is likewise your own 
benefit. 

TIsab. [have no superfluous leisure; my stay must 
be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you 
awhile. [ Walks apart. 

Duke. Son, I have overheard what hath passed 
‘between you and your sister. Angelo had never 
the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an 
assay of her virtue to practice his judgment with 
the disposition of natures: she, having the truth of 
honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial 
which he is most glad to receive. lam confessor 
to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore 
prepare yourself to death: do not satisfy your reso- 
lution with hopes that are fallible: to-morrow you 
must die; go to your knees and make ready. 

Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so 
out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. 

Duke. Hold you there: farewell. [Hxit Claudio.] 
Provost, a word with you! 


Re-enter Provost. 


Prov. What’s your will, father ? 

Duke. That now you are come, you will be gone. 
Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises 
with my habit no loss shall touch her by my com- 
pany. 

Prov. In good time. 

[Exit Provost. Isabella comes forward. 

Duke. The hand that hath made you fair hath 
made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty 
makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being 
the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body 
of itever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made 
to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding ; 
and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, 
I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to 
content this substitute, and to save your brother ? 

Isab. I am now going to resolve him: I had 
rather my brother die by the law than my son should 
be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good 
duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I 
can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or 
discover his government. 

Duke. That shall not be much amiss: yet, as the 
matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation; 
he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your 
ear on my advisings: to the love I have in doing 
good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself 
believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor 
wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your 
brother from the angry law; do no stain to your 
own gracious person; and much please the absent 
duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have 
hearing of this business. 

Isab. Let me hear you speak,father. I have 
spirit to do any thing that appears not foul in the 
truth of my spirit. 

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. 
Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister 
of Hrederick the great soldier who miscarried at 
sea! 

sab. I have heard of the lady, and good words 
went with her name. : 

Duke. She should this Angelo have married; was 
affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: 
between which time of the contract and limit of 
the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked 
at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of 


66 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE Il. 


his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to 
the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and re- 
nowned brother, in his love toward her ever niost 
kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew 
of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, 
her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. 

Isab. Can this be so? did Angelo so leave her ? 

Duke. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of 
them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, 
pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, 
bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she 
yet wears for his sake; and he,a marble to her 
tears, is washed with them, but relents not. 

Isab. What a merit were it in death to take this 
poor maid from the world! What corruption in 
this life; that it will let this man live! But how 
out of this can she avail ? 

Duke. It is a rupture that you may easily heal: 
and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but 
keeps you from dishonour in doing it. 

Isab. Show me how, good father. 

Duke. This forenamed maid hath yet in her the 
continuance of her first affection: his unjust un- 
kindness, that in all reason should have quenched 
her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, 
made it more violent and unruly. Go youto Angelo; 
answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; 
agree with his demands to the point; only refer 
yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with 
him may not be long; that the time may have all 
shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to 
convenience. This being granted in course,— and 
now follows all,—we shall advise this wronged 
maid to stead up your appointment, go in your 
place; if the encounter acknowledge itself here- 
after, it may compel him to her recompense: and 
here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour 
untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the 
corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and 
make fit for his attempt. If you think well to 
carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit 
Seles the deceit from reproof. What think you 
of it: 

Isab. The image of it gives me content already; 
and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous per- 
fection. ; ; 

Duke. It lies much in your holding up. Haste 
you speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat 
you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. 
I will presently to Saint Luke’s: there, at the 
moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At 
that place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, 
that it may be quickly. 

Isab. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you 
well, good father. [Exeunt severally. 


SCENE II.— The street before the prison. 


Enter, on one side, Duke disguised as before; on the 
other, Elbow, and Officers with Pompey. 


Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that 
you will needs buy and sell men and women like 
beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown 
and white bastard. 

Duke. O heavens! what stuff is here ? 

Pom. ’T!' was never merry world since, of two 
usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser 
allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him 
warm; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to 
signify, that craft, being richer than innocency, 
stands for the facing. 

Elb. Come your way, sir. ’Bless you, good 
father friar. 

Duke. And you, good brother father. What of. 
fence hath this man made you, sir ? 

Hib. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, 
sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have 


ACT III. 


found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we 
have sent to the deputy. 
Duke. Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked bawd! 
The evil that thou causest to be done, 
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think 
What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back 
From such a filthy vice: say to thyself, 
From their abominable and beastly touches 
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. 
Canst thou believe thy living is a life, 
So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend. 
Pom. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but 
yet, sir, I would prove — [for sin, 
Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs 
Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer: 
Correction and instruction must both work 
Ere this rude beast will profit. 
lb. He must before the deputy, sir; he has 
given him warning: the deputy cannot abide a 
whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes 
before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand. 
Duke. That we were all, as some would seem to be, 
From our faults, as faults from seeming, free! 
Eilb. His neck will come to your waist ,—a cord, sir. 
Pom. I spy comfort: I cry bail. Here’s a gen- 
tleman and a friend of mine. 


Enter Lucio. 


Lucio. How now, noble Pompey! What, at the 
wheels of Cesar? art thou led in triumph? What, 
is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made 
woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the 
pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, 
ha? What sayest thou to this tune, matter and 
method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain, ha? 
What sayest thou, Trot? Is the world as it was, 
man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few 
words? or how? The trick of it? 

Duke. Still thus, and thus; still worse! 

Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress ? 
Procures she still, ha? 

Pom. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, 
and she is herself in the tub. 

Lucio. Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it 
must be so: ever your fresh whore and your pow- 
dered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must 
be so. Art going to prison, Pompey ? 

Pom. Yes, faith, sir. 

Lucio. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell: 
go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey ? 
or how ? 

Eilb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. 

Lucio. Well, then, imprison him: if imprison- 
ment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: 
bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd- 
born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to 
the prison, Pompey: you will turn good husband 
now, Pompey; you will keep the house. [bail. 

Pom. I hope, sir, your good worship will be my 

Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not 
the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your 
bondage: if you take it not patiently, why, your 
mettleisthe more. Adieu,trusty Pompey. ’Bless 

Duke. And you. [you, friar. 

Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha? 

lb. Come your ways, sir; come. 

Pom. You will not bail me, then, sir ? 

Incio. Then, Pompey, nor now. What news 
abroad, friar ? what news ? 

lb. Come your ways, sir; come. 

Lucio. Go to kennel, Pompey; go. [Hxeunt EI- 
bow, Pompey and Officers.] What news, friar, of 
the duke ? 

Duke. L know none. Can you tell me of any ? 

_Lucio. Some say he is with the Emperor of Rus- 
Sia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, 
think you ? 


MHASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE II. 


Duke. I know not where; but wheresoever, I 
wish him well. 

Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to 
steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was 
never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his 
absence; he puts transgression to ’t. 

Duke. He does well in’t. 

Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would do no 
harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar. 

Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity must 
cure it. 

Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great 
kindred; it is well allied: but it is impossible to 
extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be 
put down. They say this Angelo was not made by 
man and woman after this downright way of crea- 
tion: is it true, think you? 

Duke. How should he be made, then ? 

Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawned him; 
some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes. 
But it is certain that when he makes water his 
urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true: 
and he is a motion generative; that’s infallible. 

Duke. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. 

Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, 
for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life 
of a man! Would the duke that is absent have 
done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for 
the getting a hundred bastards, he would have 
paid for the nursing a thousand: he had some feel- 
ing of the sport; he knew the service, and that in- 
structed him to mercy. 

Duke. I never heard the absent duke much de- 
tected for women: he was not inclined that way. 

Lucio. O, sir, you are deceived. 

Duke. ’T is not possible. 

Lucio. Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of 
fifty ; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack- 
dish: the duke had crotchets in him. He would 
be drunk too; that let me inform you. 

Duke. You do him wrong, surely. 

Lucio. Sir, 1 was an inward of his. A shy fellow 
was the duke: and I believe I know the cause of 
his withdrawing. 

Duke. What, I prithee, might be the cause ? 

LInucio. No, pardon; ’tis a secret must be locked 
within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let 
you understand, the greater file of the subject held 
the duke to be wise. i: 

Duke. Wise! why, no question but he was. 

Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing 
fellow. 

Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mis- 
taking: the very stream of his life and the business 
he hath helmed must upon a warranted need give 
him a better proclamation. Let him be but testi- 
monied in his own bringings-forth, and he shal 
appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman and a. 
soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or if 
your knowledge be more it is much darkened in 
your malice. 

Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. 

Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, and 
knowledge with dearer love. 

Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know. 

Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you know 
not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return, 
as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to 
make your answer before him. If it be honest you 
have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: Iam 
bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, yourname ? 

rebs8 Sir, my name is Lucio; well known to the 
duke. 

Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may 
live to report you. 

Lucio. 1 fear you not. 

Duke. O, you hope the duke will return no more; 


67 


ACT TV. 


or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But 
indeed I can do you little harm; you ’ll forswear 
this again. 

Lucio. I’ll be hanged first: thou art deceived in 
me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell 
if Claudio die to-morrow or no ? 

Duke. Why should he die, sir? 

Lucio. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun- 
dish. I would the duke we talk of were returned 
again: this ungenitured agent will unpeople the 
province with continency ; sparrows must not build 
in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The 
duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered ; 
he would never bring them to light: would he were 
returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for 
untrussing. Farewell, good friar: I prithee, pray 
forme. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat 
mutton on Fridays. He’s not past it yet, and I 
say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though 
she smelt brown bread and garlic: say that I said 
so. Farewell. | feeet. 

Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality 
Can censure ’scape; back-wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong 
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? 

But who comes here ? 


Enter Escalus, Provost, and Officers with 
Mistress Overdone. 


Escal. Go; away with her to prison! 

Mrs. Ov. Good my lord, be good to me; your 
honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord. 

Escal. Double and treble admonition, and still 
forfeit in the same kind! This would make mercy 
swear and play the tyrant. 

Prov. A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may 
it please your honour. 

Mrs. Ov. My lord, this is one Lucio’s informa- 
tion against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was 
with child by him in the duke’s time; he promised 
her marriage: his child is a year and a quarter old, 
come Philip and Jacob: I have kept it myself; and 
see how he goes about to abuse me! 

Escal. 'That fellow is a fellow of much license: 
let him be called before us. Away with her to 
prison! Go to; no more words. [Hxeunt Officers 
with Mistress Ov.] Provost, my brother Angelo 
will not be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow: 
let him be furnished with divines, and have all 
charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by 
my pity, it should not be so with him. 

Prov. So please you, this friar hath been with 
him,and advised him for the entertainment of death. 

Escal. Good even, good father. 

Duke. Bliss and goodness on you! 

Escal. Of whence are you? 

Duke. Not of this country, though my chance is 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


SCENE I. 


Duke. None, but that there is so great a fever on 
goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: 
novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous 
to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous 
to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce 
truth enough alive to make societies secure; but 
security enough to make fellowships accurst : much 
upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. 
This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. 
I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke? 

Escal. One that, above all other strifes, contended 
especially to know himself. 

Duke. What pleasure was he given to? 

Escal. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, 
than merry at any thing which professed to make 
him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But 
leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may 
prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how 
you find Claudio prepared. I am made to under- 
stand that you have lent him visitation. 

Duke. He professes to have received no sinister 
measure from his judge, but most willingly hum- 
bles himself to the determination of justice: yet 
had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his 
frailty, many deceiving promises of life; which IL 
by my good leisure have discredited to him, and 
now is he resolved to die. 

Escal. You have paid the heavens your function, 
and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I 
have laboured for the poor gentleman to the ex- 
tremest shore of my modesty: but my brother jus- 
tice have I found so severe, that he hath forced me 
to tell him he is indeed Justice. 

Duke. If his own life answer the straitness of his 
proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he 
chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself. __ [well. 

Escal. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you 

Duke. Peace be with you! 

[Hxeunt Escalus and Provost. 
He who the sword of heaven will bear 
Should beas holy as severe; 
Pattern in himself to know, 
Grace to stand, and virtue go; 
More nor less to others paying 
Than by self-offences weighing. 
Shame to him whose cruel prion: . 
Kills for faults of his own liking! 
Twice treble shame on Angelo, 
To weed my vice and let his grow! 
O, what may man within him hide 
Though angel on the outward side! 
How may likeness made in crimes, 
Making practice on the times, 
To draw with idle spiders’ strings 
Most ponderous aud substantial things! 
Craft against vice I must apply: 
With Angelo to-night shall lie 


To use it for my time: IJ am a brother [now | His old betrothed but despised ; 
Of gracious order, late come from the See So disguise shall, by the disguised, 
In special business from his holiness. Pay with falsehood false exacting, 
Escal. What news abroad i’ the world ? And perform an old contracting. [Evit. 
OFM Eine tae 


SCENE I.— The moated grange at St. Luke’s. 


Enter Mariana and a Boy. 
Boy sings. 

Take, O, take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn: 
But my kisses bring again, bring again; 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. 

68 


Mari. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick 
Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice [away: 
Hath often still’d my brawling discontent. 
[Hutt Boy. 


Enter Duke disguised as before. 


I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish 

You had not found me here so musical: 

Let me excuse me, and believe me so, 

My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe. 


AGT EV. 


Duke. "Tis good; though music oft hath such 
a charm 

To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. 
I pray you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me 
here to-day ? much upon this time have I promised 
here to meet. 

' Mari. You have not been inquired after: I have 
sat here all day. 


Enter Isabella. 


Duke. I do constantly believe you. The time is 
come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a 
little: may be I will call upon you anon, for some 
advantage to yourself. 

Mari. I am always bound to you. | Hit. 

Duke. Very well met, and well come. 

What is the news from this good deputy ? 

Isab. He hath a garden circummured with brick, 
Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d; 
And to that vineyard is a planched gate, 

That makes his opening with this bigger key: 
This other doth command a little door 

Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; 
There have I made my promise 

Upon the heavy middle of the night 

To call upon him. [way ? 

Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find this 

Isab. I have ta’en a due and wary note upon ’t: 
With whispering and most guilty diligence, 

In action all of precept, he did show me 
The way twice o’er. 

Duke. Are there no other tokens 
Between you ’greed concerning her observance ? 

Isab. No, none, but only a repair i’ the dark; 
And that I have possess’d him my most stay 
Can be but brief; for I have made him know 
I have a servant comes with me along, 

That stays upon me, whose persuasion is 
I come about my brother. 
Duke. *T is well borne up. 
I have not yet made known to Mariana 
A word of this. What, ho! within! come forth! 


Tte-enter Mariana. 
I pray you, be acquainted with this maid; 
She comes to do you good. 
Isab. I do desire the like. 
Duke. Do you persuade yourself that I respect 
you? [it. 
Mari. Good friar, I know you do, and have found 
Duke. Take, then, this your companion by the 
Whe hath a story ready for your ear. {hand, 
I shall attend your leisure: but make haste; 
The vaporous night approaches. 
Mari. Will ’t please you walk aside ? 
| Hxeunt Mariana and Isabella. 
Duke. O place and greatness! millions of false eyes 
Are stuck upon thee: volumes of report 
Run with these false and most contrarious quests 
Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit 
Make thee the father of their idle dreams 
And rack thee in their fancies. 


Re-enter Mariana and Isabella. 


Welcome, how agreed ? 
Isab. She ’ll take the enterprise upon her, father, 
If you advise it. 
Duke. It is not my consent, 
But my entreaty too. 
Isab. Little have you to say 
When you depart from him, but, soft and low, 
‘Remember now my brother.’ 
Mari. Fear me not. 
Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. 
He is your husband on a pre-contract : 
To bring you thus together, ’t is no sin, 
Sith that the justice of your title to him’ 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE II. 


Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go: 
Our corn ’s to reap, for yet our tithe ’s to sow. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— A room in the prison. 


Enter Provost and Pompey. 

Prov. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a 
man’s head ? 

_ Pom. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but 
if he be a married man, he’s his wife’s head, and I 
can never cut off a woman’s head. 

Prov. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and 
yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are 
to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our 
prison a common executioner, who in his office 
lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist 
him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, 
you shall have your full time of imprisonment and 
your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for 
you have been a notorious bawd. 

Pom. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time 
out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a law- 
ful hangman. I would be glad to receive some in- 
struction from my fellow partner. 

Prov. What, ho! Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, 


there ? 
Enter Abhorson. 


Abhor. Do you call, sir ? 

Prov. Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you to- 
morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, 
compound with him by the year, and let him abide 
here with you; if not, use him for the present and 
dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with 
you; he hath been a bawd. 

Abhor. A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will dis- 
credit our mystery. 

Prov. Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather 
will turn the scale. [ Heit. 

Pom. Pray, sir, by your good favour,—for surely, 
sir,a good favour you have, but that you havea 
hanging look,—do you call, sir, your occupation a 

Abhor. Ay, sir; a mystery. [mystery ? 

Pom. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mys- 
tery; and your whores, sir, being members of my 
occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation 
a mystery: but what mystery there should be in 
hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine. 

Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery. 

Pom. Proof ? 

Abhor. Every true man’s apparel fits your thief: 
if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks 
it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your 
thief thinks it little enough: so every true man’s 
apparel fits your thief. 


Re-enter Provost. 


Prov. Are you agreed ? 

Pom. Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your 
hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; 
he doth oftener ask forgiveness. 

Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and your 
axe to-morrow four o’clock. 

Abhor. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in 
my trade; follow. 

Pom. I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you 
have occasion to use me for your own turn, you 
shall find me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness 
I owe you a good turn. 

Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio: 

[Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson. 
The one has my pity; not a jot the other, 
Being a murderer, though he were my brother. 


Enter Claudio. 
Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death: 


| Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow 


69 


AGT LPNS 


Thou ena be made immortal. Where’s Barnar- 
ine ¢ 
Claud. As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour 
When it lies starkly in the travelier’s bones: 
He will not wake. 
Prov. 
Well, go, prepare yourself. 
But, hark, what noise ? 
Hleaven give your spirits comfort! 
By and by. 
I hope it is some pardon or reprieve 
For the most gentle Claudio. 


Who can do good on him ? 
[Knocking within.] 


[Exit Claudio.] 


Enter Duke disguised as before. 


Welcome, father. 
Duke. The best and wholesomest spirits of the 
night 
Envelope you, good provost! Who called here of 
late ? 
Prov. None, since the curfew rung. 
Duke. Not Isabel ? 


Prov. No. 
Duke. They will, then, ere ’t be long. 
Prov. What comfort is for Claudio ? 
Duke. There ’s some in hope. 
Prov. It is a bitter deputy. 
Duke. Not so, not so; his life is parallel’d 
Even with the stroke and line of his great justice: 
Ile doth with holy abstinence subdue 
That in himself which he spurs on his power 
To qualify in others: were he meal’d with that 
Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; 
But this being so, he’s just. [Knocking within. 
Now are they come. 
[Exit Provost. 
This is a gentle provost: seldom when 
The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. 
[Knocking within. 
How now! what noise? That spirit ’s possessed 
with haste [strokes. 
That wounds the unsisting postern with these 


Re-enter Provost. 


Prov. There he must stay until the officer 
_ Arise to let him in: he is eall’d up. 

Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, 
But he must die to-morrow ? 

Prov. None, sir, none. 

Duke. As near the dawning, provost, as it is, 
You shall hear more ere morning. 

Prov. Happily 
You something know; yet I believe there comes 
No countermand; no such example have we: 
Besides, upon the very siege of justice 
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear 
Profess’d the contrary. 


Enter a Messenger. 


This is his lordship’s man. 

Duke. And here comes Claudio’s pardon. 

Mes. [Giving a paper] My lord hath sent you this 
note; and by me this further charge, that you 
swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither 
in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good 
morrow ; for, as I take it, it is almost day. 

Prov. I shall obey him. [| Hxit Messenger. 

Duke. [Aside] This is his pardon, purchased by 
For which the pardoner himself is in. [such sin 
Hence hath offence his quick celerity, 

When it is borne in high authority: 

When vice makes mercy, mercy ’s so extended, 
That for the fault’s love is the offender friended. 
Now, sir, what news ? 

Prov. Ltold you. Lord Angelo, belike thinking 
me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this un- 
wonted putting-on ; methinks strangely, for he hath 
not used it before. 


70 


MEASURE FOR MEASUEE. 


SCENE II. 


Duke. Pray you, let ’s hear. 

Prov. | Reads] 

‘Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let 
Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and in 
the afternoon Barnardine: for my better satisfac- 
tion, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by five. 
Let this be duly performed; with a thought that 
more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus 
fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at 
your peril.’ 

What say you to this, sir? 

Duke. What is that Barnardine who is to be exe- 
cuted in the afternoon ? 

Prov. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and 
bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old. 

Duke. How came it that the absent duke had not 
either delivered him to his liberty or executed him ? 
I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. 

Prov. His friends still wrought reprieves for him: 
and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of 
Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof. 

Duke. It is now apparent ? 

Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by himself. 

Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? 
how seems he to be touched ? 

Prov. A man that apprehends death no more 
dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reck- 
less, and fearless of what’s past, present, or to 
come; insensible of mortality, and desperately 
mortal. 

Duke. He wants advice. 

Prov. He will hear none: he hath evermore had 
the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape 
hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if 
not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft 
awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and 
showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not 
moved him at all. 

Duke. More of him anon. There is written in 
your brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I 
read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, 
in the boldness of my cunning, I will lay myself in 
hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to 
execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo 
who hath sentenced him. ‘To make you understand 
this in a manifested effect, | crave but four days’ 
respite; for the which you are to do me both a pres- 
ent and a dangerous courtesy. 

Prov. Pray, sir, in what ? 

Duke. In the delaying death. 

Prov. Alack, how may I do it, having the hour 
limited, and an express command, under penalty, 
to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may 
make my case as Claudio’s, to cross this in the 
smallest. 

Duke. By the vow of mine order I warrant you, 
if my instructions may be your guide. Let this 
Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head 
borne to Angelo. 

Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and will dis- 
cover the favour. 

Duke. O, death ’s a great disguiser; and you may 
add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; and 
say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared 
before his death: you know the course is common. 
If any thing fall to you upon this, more than thanks 
and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I 
will plead against it with my life. 

Prov. Pardon me, good father; 
oath. 

Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the 
deputy ? 

Prov. To him, and to his substitutes. 

Duke. You will think you have made no offence, 
if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing ? 

Prov. But what likelihood is in that ? 

Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet 


it is against my 


ACT IV. 


since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, in- 
tegrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, 
I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears 
out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and 
seal of the duke: you know the character, I doubt 
not; and the signet is not strange to you. 

Prov. I know them both. 

Duke. The contents of this is the return of the 
duke: you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure ; 
where you shall find, within these two days he will 
be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; 
for he this very day receives letters of strange 


tenour; perchance of the duke’s death; perchance | 


entering into some monastery; but, by chance, 


nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star | 
calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amaze- | 


ment how these things should be: all difficulties 
are but easy when they are known. Call your exe- 
cutioner, and off with Barnardine’s head: I will 
give hima present shrift and advise him for a better 


place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall abso- 
lutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear 
dawn. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Another room in the same. 


Enter Pompey. 


Pom. [am as well acquainted here as I was in 
our house of profession: one would think it were 
Mistress Overdone’s own house, for here be many 
of her old customers. First, here’s young Master 
Rash; he’s in for a commodity of brown paper and 
old ginger, nine-score and seventeen pounds; of 
which he made five marks, ready money: marry, 
then ginger was not much in request, for the old 
women were all dead. Then is there here one 
Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the 
mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, 
which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we 
here young Dizy,and young Master Deep-vow, and 
Master Copper-spur, and Master Starve-lackey the 
rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that 
killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the 
tilter, and brave Master Shooty the great traveller, 
and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, 
forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are 
now ‘for the Lord’s sake.’ 


Enter Abhorson. 


Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. 

Pom. Master Barnardine! you must rise and be 
hanged, Master Barnardine! 

Abhor. What, ho, Barnardine! 

Bar. | Within] A pox 0’ your throats! Who makes 
that noise there? . What are you? 

Pom. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must 
be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. 

Bar. | Within] Away, you rogue, away! I am 

sleepy. 
' Abhor. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly 
00. 

Pom. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you 
are executed, and sleep afterwards. 

Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out. 

Pom. He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his 
straw rustle. 

Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ? 

Pom. Very ready, sir. 


Enter Barnardine. 

Bar. How now, Abhorson? what’s the news 
with you ? 

Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into 
your prayers; for, look you, the warrant ’s come. 

Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all night ; 
I am not fitted for ’t. 

Pom. O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


SCENE III. 


night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may 
sleep the sounder all the next day. 

Abhor. Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly 
father: do we jest now, think you? 


Enter Duke disguised as before. 

Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing 
how hastily you are to depart, I am come,to advise 
you, comfort you and pray with you. 

Bar. Friar, not I: I have been drinking hard all 
night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or 
they shall beat out my brains with billets: I will 
not consent to die this day, that’s certain. [you 

Duke. O, sir, you must: and therefore I beseech 
Look forward on the journey you shall go. 

Bar. I swear I will not die to-day for any man’s 

persuasion. 

Duke. But hear you. 

Bar. Not a word: if you have any thing to say to 
me, come to my ward; for thence will not I Pet 

wit. 

Duke. Unfit to live or die: O gravel heart! 
After him, fellows; bring him to the block. 

[Hxeunt Abhorson and Pompey. 


Re-enter Provost. 


Prov. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner ? 
Duke. A creature unprepared, unmeet for death; 
And to transport him in the mind he is 
Were damnable. 
Tov. Here in the prison, father, 
There died this morning of a cruel fever 
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, 
A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head 
Just of his colour. What if we do omit 
This reprobate till he were well inclined ; 
And satisfy the deputy with the visage 
Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio ? 
Duke. O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides ! 
Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on 
Prefix’d by Angelo: see this be done, 
And sent according to command; whiles I 
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 
Prov. This shall be done, good father, presently. 
But Barnardine must die this afternoon: 
And how shall we continue Claudio, 
To save me from the danger that might come 
If he were known alive ? 
Duke. Let this be done. 
Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and 
Claudio: 
Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting 
To the under generation, you shall find 
Your safety manifested. 
Prov. I am your free dependant. 
Duke. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to 
Angelo. [Hxit Provost. 
Now will I write letters to Angelo,— 
The provost, he shall bear them,— whose contents 
Shall witness to him I am near at home, 
And that, by great injunctions, I am bound 
To enter publicly: him I ’ll desire 
To meet me at the consecrated fount 
A league below the city; and from thence, 
By cold gradation and well-balanced form, 
We shall proceed with Angelo. 


Re-enter Provost. 


Prov. Here is the head; I ’ll carry it myself. 
Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return; 
For I would commune with you of such things 
That want no ear but yours. ; 
Prov. Ill make all speed. [Ewit. 
Isab. [Within] Peace, ho, be here! 
Duke. The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to know 
If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither : 
But I will keep her ignorant of her good, 


71 


AGT RY. 


To make her heavenly comforts of despair, 
When it is least expected. 


Enter Isabella. 


Isab. Ho, by your leave! 

Duke. Good morning to you, fair and gracious 

daughter. 

Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man. 
Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon ? 

Duke. He hath released him, Isabel, from the 
His head is off and sent to Angelo. [world: 

Isab. Nay, but it is not so. 

Duke. It isno other; show your wisdom, daughter, 
In your close patience. 

Isab. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes! 

Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight. 

Isab. Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel! 
Injurious world! most damned Angelo! 

Duke. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot; 
Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven. 
Mark what I say, which you shall find 
By every syllable a faithful verity: [eyes; 
The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your 
One of our convent, and his confessor, 

Gives me this instance: already he hath carried 
Notice to Escalus and Angelo, 
‘Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, 
There to give up their power. If you can, pace 
your wisdom 
In that good path that I would wish it go, 
And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, 
Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart, 
And general honour. 
sab. I am directed by you. 
Duke. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 
’T is that he sent me of the duke’s return: 
Say, by this token, I desire his company 
At Mariana’s house to-night. Her cause and yours 
I’l1 perfect him withal, and he shall bring you 
Before the duke, and to the head of Angelo 
Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, 
I am combined by a sacred vow 
And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter: 
Command these fretting waters from your eyes 
With a light heart; trust not my holy order, 
If I pervert your course. Who’s here? 


Enter Lucio. 


Lucio. Good even. Friar, where’s the provost ? 

Duke. Not within, sir. 

Lucio. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart 
to see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I 
am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I 
dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful 
meal would set me to’t. But they say the duke 
will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I 
loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of 
dark corners had been at home, he had lived. 

| Hxit Isabella. 

Duke. Sir, the duke is marvellous little behold- 
ne to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in 
them. 

Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well 
as Ido: he’s a better woodman tban thou takest 
him for. 

Duke. Well, you’ll answer this one day. Fare 
ye well. 

Lucio. Nay, tarry; Ill go along with thee: I can 
tell thee pretty tales of the duke. 

Duke. You have told me too many of him already, 
sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. 

Lucio. I was once before him for getting a 
wench with child. 

Duke. Did you such a thing ? 

Incio. Yes, marry, did I: but I was fain to for- 
swear it; they would else have married me to the 
rotten medlar. 


72 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


SCENE VI. 


Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than honest. 
Rest you well. 

Lucio. By my troth, I’ll go with thee to the 
lane’s end: if bawdy talk offend you, we’ll have 
very little of it. Nay, friar, lam a kind of burr: 
I shall stick. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—A room in Angelo’s house. 


Enter Angelo and Escalus. 


acing Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched 
other. 

Ang. In most uneven and distracted manner. 
His actions show much like to madness: pray 
heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet 
him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities 

Escal. I guess not. {there ? 

Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an hour 
before his entering, that if any crave redress of 
injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the 
street ? 

Escal. He shows.his reason for that: to have a 
dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from de- 
vices hereafter, which shall then have no power to 
stand against us. 

Ang. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed 
betimes i’ the morn; I Il call you at your house: 
give notice to such men of sort and suit as are 
to meet him. 

Hscal. I shall, sir. Fare you well. 

Ang. Good night. [Hxit Escalus. 
This Seca unshapes me quite, makes me unpreg- 

nan 
And dull to all proceedings. A deflower’d maid! 
And by an eminent body that enforced 
The law against it! But that her tender shame 
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, 
How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares 
her no; 
For my authority bears of a credent bulk, 
That no particular scandal once can touch f[lived, 
But it confounds the breather. He should haye 
Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, 
Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge, 
By so receiving a dishonour’d life 
With Ha pih of such shame. Would yet he had 
ived! 
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, 
Nothing goes right: we would, and we would Rilget 
{ Hicit. 
SCENE V.— Fields without the town. 


Enter Duke in his own habit, and Friar Peter. 


Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me: 
[ Giving letters. 

The provost knows our purpose and our plot. 
The matter being afoot, keep your instruction, 
And hold you ever to our special drift ; 
Though sometimes you do blench from this to that, 
As cause doth minister. Go callat Flavius’ house, 
And tell him where I stay: give the like notice 
To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 
And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate; 
But send me Flavius first. 

Fri. P. It shall be speeded well. [zit. 


Enter Varrius. 


Duke. I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made 
good haste: 

Come, we will walk. There’s other of our friends 

Will greet us hereanon, my gentleVarrius. [Hxeuwnt. 


SCENE VI.— Street near the city gate. 


Enter Isabella and Mariana. 


Isab. To speak so indirectly I am loath: 
I would say the truth; but to accuse him so, 


ACT V. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. SCENE I. 


— 


That is your part: yet I am advised to do it; 


He says, to veil full purpose. Enter Friar Peter. 
Mari. Be ruled by him. Fri. P. Come, I have found you out a stand most 
Isab. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure | Where you may have such vantage on the duke, [fit, 
He speak against me on the adverse side, He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets 
I should not think it strange; for ’t is a physic The generous and gravest citizens [sounded ; 
That ’s bitter to sweet end. Have hent the gates, and very near upon 
Mari. I would Friar Peter — The duke is entering: therefore, hence, away! 
Isab. O, peace! the friar is come. [ Haeunt. 


ACT V. 


: Duke. Away with her! Poor soul 
SCENE I.—The city gate. She speaks this in the infirmity of sense. 
Mariana veiled, Isabella, and Friar Peter, at their stand. Isab. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest 


Bulgr Duke, ‘Varriaa, Lords, “Angélo, Reoalus,| yi fs another comfort than, is word 
Lucio, P. t, Off ; iti ; ; 5 A 
ucio, Provos cers, and Citizens, at several doors Thatuiesonentdarith eh adnoss li Malwathatent 
Duke. My very worthy cousin, fairly met! possible 
Qur old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you. | That which but seems unlike: ’t is not impossible 


pee } Happy return be to your royal grace! But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground, 


May seem as shy, as.grave, as just, as absolute 
Duke. Many and hearty thankings to you both. | As Angelo; even so may Angelo, 
We have made inquiry of you; and we hear In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, 
Such goodness of your justice, that our soul Be an arch-villain; believe it, royal prince: 
Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more, 
Forerunning more requital. Had I more name for badness. 
You make my bonds still greater. 


ah Duke. By mine honesty, 
Duke. O, your desert speaks loud; and I should | If she be mad,—as I believe no other,— 
wrong it, 


Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, 
- To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, 


Such a dependency of thing on thing, 

When it deserves, with characters of brass, As e’er I heard in madness. 

A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time Isab. O gracious duke, 

. And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand, Harp not on that, nor do not banish reason 
And let the subject see, to make them know 


For inequality ; but let your reason serve 
That outward courtesies would fain proclaim To make the truth appear where it seems hid, 
Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, 


And hide the false seems true. 


You must walk by us on our other hand; Duke. Many that are not mad 
And good supporters are you. Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you 
Jsab. I am the sister of one Claudio, [say ? 


Friar Peter and Isabella come forward. 


Fri. P. Now is your time: speak loud and kneel 

before him. 

Isab. Justice, O royal duke! Veil your regard 
Upon a wrong’d, I would fain have said, a maid ? 
O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye 
By throwing it on any other object 
Till you have heard me in my true complaint 
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice! 


Condemn’d upon the act of fornication 
To lose his head; condemn’d by Angelo: 
I, in probation of a sisterhood, 
Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio 
As then the messenger,— 
Lucio. hat ’s I, an ’t like your grace: 
I came to her from Claudio, and desired her 
To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo 
For her poor brother’s pardon. 


Duke. Relate your wrongs: In what? by whom? | Jsab. That ’s he indeed. 
be brief. Duke. You were not bid to speak. . 
Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice: Lucio. No, my good lord; 
Reveal yourself to him. Nor wish’d to hold my peace. 
Isab. O worthy duke, Duke. I wish you now, then; 


You bid me seek redemption of the devil: 
Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak 
Must either punish me, not being believed, {here! 
Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, 
Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm: 
She hath been a suitor to me for her brother 
Cut off by course of justice,— 
Isab. By course of justice! 
Ang. And she will speak most bitterly and strange. 
Isab. Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak: 
That Angelo ’s forsworn; is it not strange ? 
That Angelo ’s a murderer; is ’t not strange ? 
That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 
An hypocrite, a virgin-violator ; 
Is it not strange and strange ? 
uke. Nay, it is ten times strange. 
JIsab. It is not truer he is Angelo 
Than this is all as true as it is strange: 
Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth 
To the end of reckoning. 


Pray you, take note of it: and when you have 
A business for yourself, pray heaven you then 
Be perfect. 
Lucio. I warrant your honour. 
Duke. The warrant’s for yourself; take heed to ’t. 
Isab. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,— 
Lucio. Right. 
Duke. It may be right; but you are i’ the wrong 
To speak before your time. Proceed. 
Isab. I went 
To this pernicious caitiff deputy,— 
Duke. That’s somewhat madly spoken. 
Isab. Pardon it : 
The phrase is to the matter. 
Duke. Mended again. The matter; proceed. 
Isab. In brief, to set the needless process by, 
How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d, 
How he refell’d me, and how I replied,— 
For this was of much length,—the vile conclusion 
I now begin with grief and shame to utter: 


73 


i 


ACT iV 


He would not, but by gift of my chaste body 
To his concupiscible intemperate lust, 
Release my brother; and, after much debatement, 
My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, 
And I did yield to him: but the next morn betimes, 
His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant 
For my poor brother’s head. 
Duke. This is most likely! 
Isab. O, that it were as like as it is true! 
Duke. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st not 
what thou speak’st, 
Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour 
In hateful practice. First, his integrity 
Stands without blemish. Next, it imports no reason 
That with such vehemency he should pursue 
Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended, 
He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself 
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you 
Confess the truth, and say by whose advice _ [on: 
Thou camest here to complain. 
Isab. And is this all? 
Then, O you blessed ministers above, 
Keep me in patience, and with ripen’d time 
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up [woe, 
In countenance! Heaven shield your grace from 
As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go! 
Duke. I know you’ld fain be gone. An officer! 
To prison with her! Shall we thus permit 
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall 
On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. 
Who knew of your intent and coming hither ? 
Isab. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick. 
Duke. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows 
that Lodowick ? 
Lucio. My lord, I know him; ’tisameddling friar ; 
I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord, 
For certain words he spake against your grace 
In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly. 
Duke. Words against me! this is a good friar, be- 
And to set on this wretched woman here [like! 
Against our substitute! Let this friar be found. 
Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, sheand that friar, 
I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar, 
A very scurvy fellow. 
Fri. P. Blessed be your royal grace! 
I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard 
Your royal ear abused. First, hath this woman 
Most wrongfully accused your substitute, 
Who is as free from touch or soil with her 
As she from one ungot. 

Duke. We did believe no less. 
Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of ? 
Fri. P. I know him for a man divine and holy; 

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, 
As he’s reported by this gentleman ; 
And, on my trust, a man that never yet 
Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace. 
Lucio. My lord, most villanously ; believe it. 
Fri. P. Well, he in time may come to clear him- 
But at this instant he is sick, my lord, [self ; 
Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 
Being come to knowledge that there was complaint 
Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither, 
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know 
Is true and false; and what he with his oath 
And all probation will make up full clear, 
Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman, 
To justify this worthy nobleman, 
So vulgarly and personally accused, 
Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, 
Till she herself confess it. 
Duke. Good friar, let ’s hear it. 
[Isabella is carried off guarded; and 
Mariana comes forward. 
Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo ? 
O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! 
Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo; 


74 


MEASURE FOR MEASUEE. 


SCENE I. 


In this Il] be impartial; be you judge 
Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar ? 
First, let her show her face, and after speak. 

Mari. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face 
Until my husband bid me. 

Duke. What, are you married ? 

Mari. No, my lord. 

Duke. Are you a maid ? 

Mari. No, my lord. 

Duke. A widow, then ? 

Mari. Neither, my lord. 

Duke. Why, you are nothing then; neither maid, 
widow, nor wife? 

Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of 
them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. [cause 

Duke. Silence that fellow: I would he had some 
To prattle for himself. 

Lucio. Well, my lord. 

Mari. My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married; 
And'I confess besides I am no maid: 

I have known my husband; yet my husband 
Knows not that ever he knew me. [better. 

Lucio. He was drunk then my lord: it can be no 

Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert 

Lucio. Well, my lord. [so too! 

Duke. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. 

Mari. Now I come to ’t, my lord: 

She that accuses him of fornication, 

In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, 
And charges him, my lord, with such a time 
When I ’1l depose I had him in mine arms 
With all the effect of love. 

Ang. Charges she more than me ? 

Mari. Not that I know. 

Duke. No? you say your husband. 

Mari. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, 
Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body, - 
But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s. 

Ang. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face. 

Mari. My husband bids me; now I will un- 

mask. [ Unveiling. 
This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, 
Which once thou sworest was worth the looking on; 
This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract, 
Was fast belock’d in thine; this is the body 
That took away the match from Isabel, 
And did supply thee at thy garden-house 
In her imagined person. 


Duke. Know you this woman ? 
Lucio. Carnally, she says. 
Duke. Sirrah, no more! 


Lucio. Enough, my lord. 
Ang. My lord, I must confess I know this woman: 
And five years since there was some speech of mar- 


riage 

Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, 
Partly for that her promised proportions 

Came short of composition, but in chief 

For that her reputation was disvalued 

In levity: since which time of five years 

I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, 
Upon my faith and honour. 

Mari. Noble prince, [breath, 
As there comes light from heaven and words from 
As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, © 
I am affianced this man’s wife as strongly 
As words could make up vows: and, my good lord, 
But Tuesday night last gone in ’s garden-house 
He knew me asa wife. As this is true, 

Let me in safety raise me from my knees; 
Or else for ever be confixed here, 
A marble monument. 

Ang. I did but smile till now: 
Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice; 
My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive 
These poor informal women are no more 
But instruments of some more mightier member 


ACT V. 


That sets them on: let me have way, my lord, . 
To find this practice out. 

Duke. Ay, with my heart; 
And punish them to your height of pleasure. 

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, 

Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy 
oaths, [saint, 

Though they would swear down each particular 

Were testimonies against his worth and credit 

That’s seal’d in approbation ? You, Lord Escalus, 

Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains 

To find out this abuse, whence ’t is derived. 

There is another friar that set them on; 

Let him be sent for. deed 

Fri. P. Would he were here, my lord! for he in- 
Hath set the women on to this complaint: 

Your provost knows the place where he abides 
And he may fetch him. 

Duke. Go do it instantly [ait Provost. 
And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, 
Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, 
Do with your injuries as seems you best, 
In any chastisement: I for a while will leave you; 
But stir not you till you have well determined 
Upon these slanderers. 

Escal. My lord, we’ll do it thoroughly. 

| Hxit Duke. 

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar 
Lodowick to be a dishonest person ? 

Lucio. ‘Cucullus non facit monachum:?’ honest 
in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath 
spoke most villanous speeches of the duke. 

Escal. We shall entreat you to abide here till he 
come and enforce them against him: we shall find 
this friar a notable fellow. 

Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word. 

Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again: 
I would speak with her. [Hit an Attendant.] Pray 
you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall 
see how I ’ll handle her. 

Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report. 

Escal. Say you? 

Lucio. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her 
privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, pub- 
licly, she ’1l be ashamed. 

Escal. IL will go darkly to work with her. 

Lucio. That ’s the way; for women are light at 
midnight. 


ite-enter Officers with Isabella; and Provost with 
the Duke in his friar’s habit. 


Escal. Come on, mistress: here’s a gentlewoman 
denies all that you have said. 

Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of ; 
here with the provost. 

Escal. In very good time: speak not you to him 
till we call upon you. 

Lucio. Mum. 

Escal. Come, sir: did you set these women on to 
slander Lord Angelo ? they have confessed you did. 

Duke. ’T is false. 

Escal. How! know you where you are? [devil 

Duke. Respect to your great place! and let the 
Be sometime honor’d for his burning throne! 
Where is the duke? ’t is he should hear me speak. 

Hscal. The duke’s in us; and we will hear you 
Look you speak justly. [speak : 

Duke. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, 
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox ? 
Good night to your redress! Is the duke gone? 
Then is your cause gone too. The duke’s unjust, 
Thus to retort your manifest appeal, 
And put your trial in the villain’s mouth 
Which here you come to accuse. 

Lucio. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of. 

tapsne Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d 

riar, 


MEASURE FOR 


MEASURE. SCENE I, 


Is *t not enough thou hast suborn’d these women 
To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth 
And in the witness of his proper ear, 

To call him villain ? and then to glance from him 

To the duke himself, to tax him with injustice ? 

Take him hence; to the rack with him! We/’ll 

touse you 

Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. 

What ‘ unjust’! 

Duke. Be not so hot; the duke 
Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he 
Dare rack his own: his subject am I not, 

Nor here provincial. My business in this state 

Made me a looker on here in Vienna, 

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble 

Till it o’er-run the stew; Jaws for all faults, 

But faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes 

Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop, 

As much in mock as mark. [prison ! 
Escal. Slander to the state! Away with him to 
Ang. What can you vouch against him, Signior 

Is this the man that you did tell us of ? [Lucio ? 
Lucio. ’T is he, my lord. Come hither, goodman 

baldpate: do you know me? 

Duke. 1 remember you, sir, by the sound of your 
voice: I met you at the prison, in the absence of the 
duke. 

Lucio. O, did you so? And do you remember 
what you said of the duke ? 

Duke. Most notedly, sir. 

Lucio. Do youso, sir? And was the duke a flesh- 
monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported 
him to be? 

Duke. You must, sir, change persons with me, 
ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke 
so of him; and much more, much worse. 

Lucio. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck 
thee by the nose for thy speeches ? 

Duke. I protest I love the duke as I love myself. 

Ang. Hark, how the villain would close now, 
after his treasonable abuses! 

Escal. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. 
Away with him to prison! Where is the provost ? 
Away with him to prison! lay bolts enough upon 
him: let him speak no more. Away with those 
giglots too, and with the other confederate com- 
panion! 

Duke. [To Provost] Stay, sir; stay awhile. 

Ang. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio. 

Lucio. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh, sir! 
Why, you baldpated, lying rascal, you must be 
hooded, must you? Show your knave’s visage, 
with a pox to you! show your sheep-biting face, 
and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off? 

[Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers the Duke. 

Duke. Thou art the first knave that e’er madest 

a duke. 

First, provost, let me bail these gentle three. 

[Zo Lucio] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and 

Must have a word anon. Lay holdonhim. [you 
Lucio. This may prove worse than hanging. 
Duke. [To Escalus] What you have spoke I par- 

don: sit you down: [your leave. 

We'll borrow place of him. [To Angelo] Sir, by 

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, 

That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, 

Rely upon it till my tale be heard, 

And hold no longer out. 

Ang. O my dread lord, 

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 

To think I can be undiscernible, 

When I perceive your grace, like power divine, 

Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good prince, 

No longer session hold upon my shame, 

But let my trial be mine own confession: 

Immediate sentence then and sequent death 

Is all the grace I beg. 


= 
( 


3) 


ACT V. 


Duke. Come hither, Mariana. 
Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman ? 

Ang. I was, my lord. 

Duke. Go take her hence, and marry her instantly. 
Do you the oftice, friar; which consummate, 
Return him here again. Go with him, provost. 
[Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost. 

Escal. My lord, [am more amazed at his dishonour 
Than at the strangeness of it. 

Duke. Come hither, Isabel. 
Your friar is now your prince: as I was then 
Advertising and holy to your business, 

Not changing heart with habit, I am still 
Attorney’d at your service. 

Isab. O, give me pardon, 
That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d 
Your unknown sovereignty ! 

Duke. You are pardon’d, Isabel: 
And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 

Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart; 

And you may marvel why I obscured myself, 

Labouring to save his life, and would not rather 

Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power 

Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, 

It was the switt celerity of his death, 

Which I did think with slower foot came on, 

That brain’d my purpose. But, peace be with him! 

That life is better life, past fearing death, 

Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort, 

So happy is your brother. 
Isab. I do, my lord. 


Re-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and 
Provost. 


Duke. For this new-married man approaching 
Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d [here, 
Your well defended honour, you must pardon 
For Mariana’s sake: but as he adjudged your 
Being criminal, in double violation [brother,— 
Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach 
Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life,— 

The very mercy of the law cries out 

Most audible, even from his proper tongue, 

‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death !’ 

Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; 
Like doth quit like, and MEASURE still FOR MEAS- 
Then, Angelo, thy fault ’s thus manifested; [URE. 
Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee van- 
We do condemn thee to the very block [tage. 
Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like haste. 
Away with him! 

Mari. O my most gracious lord, 

IT hope you will not mock me withahusband. [band. 

Duke. It is your husband mock’d you with a hus- 
Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation, 
For that he knew you, might reproach your life 
And choke your good to come: for his possessions, 
Although by confiscation they are ours, 
We do instate and widow you withal, 
To buy you a better husband. 
Mavi. O my dear lord, 
I crave no other, nor no better man. 

Duke. Never crave him; we are definitive. 

Mari. Gentle my liege,— [ Kneeling. 

Duke. You do but lose your labour. 
Away with him todeath! [To Lucio] Now, sir, to you. 

Mari. Omy good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part; 
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come 
I’ll lend you all my life to do you service. 

Duke. Against all sense you do importune her: 
Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, 

Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break, 
And take her hence in horror. 
Mari. Isabel, 
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; 
Hold up your hands, say nothing; I ’ll speak all. 


76 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE 


SCENE I 


They say, best men are moulded out of faults; 
And, for the most, become much more the better 
For being a little bad: so may my husband. 
O Isabel, will you not lend a knee? 
Duke. He dies for Claudio’s death. 
Isab. Most bounteous sir, [kneeling. 
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d, 
As if my brother lived: I partly think 
A due sincerity govern’d his deeds, 
Till he did look on me: since it is so, 
Let him not die. My brother had but justice, 
In that he did the thing for which he died: 
For Angelo, 
His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, 
And must be buried but as an intent 
That perish’d by the way: thoughts are no subjects; 
Intents but merely thoughts. 
Mari. Merely, my lord. 
Duke. Your suit ’s unprofitable; stand up, I say: 
I have bethought me of another fault. 
Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded 
At an unusual hour ? 
Prov. It was commanded so. 
Duke. Had you a special warrant for the deed ? 
Prov. No, my good lord ; it was by private message. 
Duke. For which I do discharge you of your office. 
Give up your keys. 
Tov. Pardon me, noble lord: 
I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; 
Yet did repent me, after more advice: 
For testimony whereof, one in the prison, 
That should by private order else have died, 
I have reserved alive. 
Duke. What’s he? 
Prov. His name is Barnardine. 
Duke. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. 
Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him. 
| Hxit Provost. 
Escal. I am sorry, one so learned and so wise 
As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d, 
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood, 
And lack of temper’d judgment afterward. 
Ang. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure: 
And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart 
That I crave death more willingly than mercy ; 
’T is my deserving, and I do entreat it. 


Re-enter Provost, with Barnardine, Claudio 
muffled, and Juliet. 


Duke. Which is that Barnardine ? 
Prov. This, my lord. 
Duke. There was a friar told me of this man. 
Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, 
That apprehends no further than this world, 
And squarest thy life according. Thou ’rt con- 
demn’d: 
But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all; 
And pray thee take this mercy to provide 
For better times to come. Friar,advise him; [that ? 
I leave him to your hand. What muffled fellow ’s 
Prov. This is another prisoner that I saved, 
Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; 
As like almost to Claudio as himself. 
[Unmuffles Claudio. 
Duke. [To Isabella] If he be like your brother, 
for his sake 
Is he pardon’d; and, for your lovely sake, 
Give me your hand and say you will be mine, . 
He is my brother too: but fitter time for that. 
By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe; 
Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. 
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well: [yours, 
Look that you love your wife; her worth worth 
I find an apt remission in myself; 
And yet here ’s one in place I cannot pardon. 
[To Lucio] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a 
One all of luxury, an ass, a madman; [coward, 


ACT V. 


Wherein have I so deserved of you, 
That you extol me thus ? 

Lucio. ’Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according 
to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; 
but I had rather it would please you I might be 
whipt. 

Duke. Whipt first, sir, and hanged after. 
Proclaim it, provost, round about the city, 

Is any woman wrong’d by this lewd fellow, 

As I have heard him swear himself there ’s one 
Whom he begot with child, let her appear, 
And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d, 
Let him be whipt and hang’d. 

Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not marry me 
toa whore. Your highness said even now, I made 
you a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me 
in making me a cuckold. 

Duke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. 
Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal 
Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison; 
And see our pleasure herein executed. 


MEASURE FOR 


MEASURE. SCENE I, 

Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to 
death, whipping, and hanging. 

Duke. Slandering a prince deserves it. 

[Hxeunt Officers with Lucio. 
She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore. 
Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo: 
I have confess’d her and I know her virtue. 
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much good- 
ness: 

There ’s more behind that is more gratulate. 
Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy: 
We shall employ thee in a worthier place. 
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home 
The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s: 
The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, 
I have a motion much imports your good; 
Whereto if you ’ll a willing ear incline, 
What ’s mine is yours and what is yours is mine. 
So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show 
What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should 
know. [ Hxeunt. 


Lucio.—I warrant, it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy 
shoulders, that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off 
Send after the duke, and appeal to him. 

Claudio.—I have done so, but he’s not to be found. 

I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service. 

This day my sister should the cloister enter, 
And there receive her approbation: 

Acquaint her with the danger of my state; 
Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends 
To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him: 

I have great hope in that; for in her youth 
There is a prone and speechless dialect, 

Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art, 
When she will play with reason and discourse, 
And well she can persuade.—Act I., Scene ii. 


77 


— (£ rf SNe a y (pas 


\ <3); | / 
Cee MEY 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Solinus, Duke of Ephesus. 

Z&geon, a merchant of Syracuse. 

Antipholus of Ephesus, ¢ twin brothers, and sons 
Antipholus of Syracuse, to Aigeon and Amilia. 


Dromio of Ephesus, fans brothers, and attend- 


Dromio of Syracuse, ants on the two Antipho- 


luses. 
Balthazar, a merchant. 

Angelo, a goldsmith. 

First Merchant, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse. 


| 
| 
| 


Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debto: 
Pinch, a schoolmaster. 

Aimilia, wife to Ageon, an abbess at Ephesus 
Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. 
Luciana, her sister. 

Luce, servant to Adriana. 

A Courtezan. 


Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants. 
SCENE — Ephesus. 


[ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIv.] 


at ha Garr Bs 


SCENE I.—A hall in the Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke, Aigeon, Gaoler, Officers, and other 
Attendants. 


tige. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall 

And by the doom of death end woes and all. 
Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more; 

I am not partial to infringe our laws: 

The enmity and discord which of late 

Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke 

To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, 

Who wanting guilders to redeem their lives 

Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods, 

Excludes all pity from our threatening looks. 

For, since the mortal and intestine jars 

*T wixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 

It hath in solemn synods been decreed, 

Both by the Syracusians and ourselves, 

To admit no traffic to our adverse towns: 

Nay, more, 

If any born at Ephesus be seen 

At any Syracusian marts and fairs; 

Again: if any Syracusian born 

Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, 

His goods confiscate to the duke’s dispose, 

Unless a thousand marks be levied, 

To quit the penalty and to ransom him. 

Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, 

Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; 

Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die. 
Aige. Yet this my comfort: when your words are 

My woes end likewise with the evening sun. [done, 
Duke. Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause 

Why thou departed’st from thy native home 

And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus. 
Aige. A heavier task could not have been imposed 

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable: 

Yet, that the world may witness that my end 

Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence, 

Ill utter what my sorrow gives me leave. 

In Syracusa was I born, and wed 

Unto a woman, happy but for me, 

And by me, had not our hap been bad. 

With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased 

3y prosperous voyages I often made 
To Epidamnum; till my factor’s death 
And the great care of goods at random left 


78 


a 


Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse: 
From whom my absence was not six months old 
Before herself, almost at fainting under 

The pleasing punishment that women bear, 
Had made provision for her following me 

And soon and safe arrived where I was. 

There had she not been long but she became 

A joyful mother of two goodly sons; 

And, which was strange, the one so like the other 
As could not be distinguish’d but by names. 
That very hour and in the self-same inn 

A meaner woman was delivered 

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike: 
Those, for their parents were exceeding poor, 

I bought and brought up to attend my sons. 

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys, 
Made daily motions for our home return: 
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon 

We came aboard. 

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d, 
Before the always wind-obeying deep 

Gave any tragic instance of our harm: 

But longer did we not retain much hope; 

For what obscured light the heavens did grant 
Did but convey unto our fearful minds 

A doubtful warrant of immediate death; 
Which though myself would gladly have embraced, 
Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, 
Weeping before for what she saw must come, 
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, 

That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear, 
Forced me to seek delays for them and me. 

And this it was, for other means was none: 

The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us: 

My wife, more careful for the latter-born, 

Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast, 
Such as seafaring men provide for storms; 

To him one of the other twins was bound, 
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other: 
The children thus disposed, my wife and I, 
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, 
Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast ; 

And floating straight, obedient to the stream, 
Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought. 
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 
Dispersed those vapours that offended us; 


ACT if. 


And, by the benefit of his wished light, 

The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered 

Two ships from far making amain to us, 

Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this: 

But ere they came,—O, let me say no more! 
Gather the sequel by that went before. SO; 

Duke. Nay, forward, old man; do not break off 
For we may pity, though not pardon thee. 

Hye. O, had the gods done so, I had not now 
Worthily term’d them merciless to us! 

For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, 
We were encounter’d by a mighty rock; 

Which being violently borne upon, 

Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst ; 

So that, in this unjust divorce of us, 

Fortune had left to both of us alike 

What to delight in, what to sorrow for. 

Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened 

With lesser weight but not with lesser woe, 

Was carried with more speed before the wind; 
And in our sight they three were taken up 

By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 

At length, another ship had seized on us; 

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, 
Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck’d guests; 
And would have reft the fishers of their prey, 

Had not their bark been very slow of sail ; 

And therefore homeward did they bend their course. 
Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss, 
That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d, 

To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. [for, 

Duke. And for the sake of them thou sorrowest 
Do me the favour to dilate at full 
What hath befall’n of them and thee till now. 

ge. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care, 
At eighteen years became inquisitive 
After his brother: and importuned me 
That his attendant —so his case was like, 
Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name — 
Might bear him company in the quest of him: 
Whom whilst I labour’d of a love to see, 

I hazarded the loss of whom I loved. 

Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece, 
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus; 
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought 
Or that or any place that harbours men. 

But here must end the story of my life ; 

And happy were I in my timely death, 

Could all my travels warrant me they live. 

Duke. Hapless Aigeon; whom the fates have 
To bear the extremity of dire mishap! [mark’d 
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, 
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity, 

Which princes, would they, may not disannul, 
My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 
But, though thou art adjudged to the death 
And passed sentence may not be recall’d 

But to our honour’s great disparagement, 
Yet I will favour thee in what I can. 
Therefore, merchant, I ’ll limit thee this day 
To seek thy life by beneficial help: 

Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; 
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum, 
And live; if no, then thou art doom’d to die. 
Gaoler, take him to thy custody. 

Gaol. I will, my lord. 

ige. Hopeless and helpless doth Ageon wend, 
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The Mart. 


Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syra- 
cuse, and First Merchant. 
First Mer. Therefore give out your are of Epidam- 
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate. [num, 
This very day a Syracusian merchant 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE II, 


Is apprehended for arrival here ; 

And not being able to buy out his life 
According to the statute of the town 
Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. 
There is your money that I had to keep. 

Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, 
And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. 
Within this hour it will be dinner-time: 

Till that, I’ view the manners of the town, 
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, 
And then return and sleep within mine inn, 
For with long travel I am stiff and weary. 
Get thee away. 

Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your word, 
And go indeed, having so good a mean. [| Heit. 

Ant. S. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft, 
When I am dull with care and melancholy, 
Lightens my humour with his merry jests. 

What, will you walk with me about the town, 
And then go to my inn and dine with me? 

First Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, 
Of whom I hope to make much benefit ; 

I crave your pardon. Soon at five o’clock, 
Please you, I ’ll meet with you upon the mart 
And afterward consort you till bed-time: 

My present business calls me from you now. 

Ant. S. Farewell till then: 1 will go lose myself 
And wander up and down to view the city. 

first Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own con- 

ent. [ Heit. 

Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own con- 
Commends me to the thing I cannot get. [tent 
I to the world am like a drop of water 
That in the ocean seeks another drop, 

Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, 
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: 
So I, to find a mother and a brother, 

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 


Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 


Here comes the almanac of my true date. 
What now ? how chance thou art return’d so soon ? 
Dro. E. Return’d so soon! rather approach’d too 
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, [late: 
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell; 
My mistress made it one upon my cheek: 
She is so hot because the meat is cold; 
The meat is cold because you come not home; 
You come not home because you have no stomach ; 
You have no stomach having broke your fast ; 
But we that know what ’t is to fast and pray 
Are penitent for your default to-day. [pray : 
Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I 
Where have you left the money that I gave you ? 
Dro. E. O,—sixpence, that I had 0’ Wednesday 
To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper ? [last 
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not. 
Ant. S. Iam not in a sportive humour now: 
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money ? 
We being strangers here, how darest thou trust 
So great a charge from thine own custody ? 
Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner: 
I from my mistress come to you in post; 
If I return, I shall be post indeed, 
For she will score your fault upon my pate. 
Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock 
And strike you home without a messenger. 
Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out 
of season ; 
Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. 
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee ? 
Dro. E. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me. 
Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have done your fool- 
ishness 
And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge. 
Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from the 
mart 


79 


A Tere 


Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner: 
My mistress and her sister stays for you. 

Ant. S. Now, as lam a Christian, answer me 
In what safe place you have bestow’d my money, 
Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours 
That stands on tricks when I am undisposed : 
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me ? 

Dro. E. [have some marks of yours upon my pate, 
Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders, 
But not a thousand marks between you both. 

If I should pay your worship those again, 
Perchance you will not bear them patiently. 
Ant. S. Thy mistress’ marks? what mistress, 
slave, hast thou ? [ Phoenix 5 

Dro. HE. Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the 
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner 
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE I. 


Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my 


ace, 

Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave. 
Dro. EL. What mean you, sir ? for God’s sake, hold 

your hands! 

Nay, an you will not, sir, I ll take my heels. [ Hzit. 
Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or other 

The villain is o’er-raught of all my money. 

They say this town is full of cozenage, 

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, 

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, 

Soul-killing witches that deform the body, 

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 

And many such-like liberties of sin: 

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. 

Il] to the Centaur, to go seek this slave: 


I greatly fear my money is not safe. [ Hatt. 


west) G4) Bld Ma Be 


SCENE I.— The house of Antipholus of Ephesus. 


Enter Adriana and Luciana. 


Adr. Neither my husband nor the slave return’d, 
That in such haste I sent to seek his master! 

Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock. 

Luc. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him 
And from the mart he ’s somewhere gone to dinner. 
Good sister, let us dine and never fret: 

A man is master of his liberty: 
Time is their master, and when they see time 
They ’ll go or come: if so, be patient, sister. 

Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more ? 

Luc. Because their business still lies out 0’ door. 

Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill. 

Luc. O, know he is the bridle of your will. 

Adr. There’s none but asses will be bridled so. 

Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe. 
There ’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye 
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky: 

The beasts, the fishes and the winged fowls 
Are their males’ subjects and at their controls: 
Men, more divine, the masters of all these, 
Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas, 
Indued with intellectual sense and souls, 

Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, 
Are masters to their females, and their lords: 
Then let your will attend on their accords. 

Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed. 

Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed. 

Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some 

sway. 

Luc. Ere I learn love, I ll practise to obey. 

Adr. How if your husband start some other 

where ? 

Luc. Till he.come home again, I would forbear. 

Adr. Patience unmoved! no marvel though she 

pause; 
They can be meek that have no other cause. 
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, 
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; 
But were we burden’d with like weight of pain, 
As much or more we should ourselves complain: 
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, 
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me; 
But, if thou live to see like right bereft, 
This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left. 

Luc. Well, L will marry one day, but to try. 
Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh. 


Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 


Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ? 
Dro. E. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that 


my two ears can witness. 
80 


Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? know’st 

thou his mind ? 

Dro. EH. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear; 
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. 

Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel 
his meaning ? 

Dro. H. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well 
feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could 
scarce understand them. 

Adr. But say, I prithee, is he coming home? 

It seems he hath great care to please his wife. [mad. 
Dro. EH. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn- 
Adr. Horn-mad, thou villain! 

Dro. E. I mean not cuckold-mad ; 
But, sure, he is stark mad. 

When I desired him to come home to dinner, 

He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold: 

‘°T is dinner-time,’ quoth I; ‘My gold!* quoth he: 

‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth 1; ‘ My gold!’ quoth 


he: 1e, 

‘Will you come home ?’ quoth I; ‘My gold!? quoth 

‘Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain ?’ 

‘ The pig,’ quoth I,‘ is burn’d; ’‘ My gold!’ quothhe: 

‘My mistress, sir,’ quoth 1; ‘ Hang up thy mistress! 

I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!’ 
Luc. Quoth who ? 

Dro. EH. Quoth my master: 

‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’ 

So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 

I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders; 

For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.  [home. 
Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him 
Dro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home ? 

For God’s sake, send some other messenger. 

Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across. 
Dro. H. And he will bless that cross with other 

Between you I shall have a holy head. [beating : 

edi Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master 
ome. 
Dro. LE. Am Iso round with you as you with me, 

That like a football you do spurn me thus ? 

You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither: 

If I last in this service, you must case mein mae 

Exit. 
Luc. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face! 
Adr. His company must do his minions grace, 

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. 

Hath homely age the alluring beauty took 

From my poor cheek ? then he hath wasted it: 

Are my discourses dull ? barren my wit ? 

If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d, 

Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard: 

Do their gay vestments his affections bait ? 

That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state: 


ACT II. 


What ruins are in me that can be found, 

By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground 

Of my defeatures. My decayed fair 

A sunny look of his would soon repair: 

But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale 

And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale. 
Luc. Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence! 
Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dis- 

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere; __[pense. 

Or else what lets it but he would be here ? 

Sister, you know he promised me a chain; 

Would that alone, alone he would detain, 

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed! 

I see the jewel best enamelled 

Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still, 

That others touch, and often touching will 

Wear gold: and no man that hath a name, 

By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. 

Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, 

I ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die. 
Luc. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy ! 


[ Exeunt. 
SCENE II.—A public place. 


Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 


Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up 
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave 
Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out 
By computation and mine host’s report. 
I could not speak with Dromio since at first 
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes. 


Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 


How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d ? 

As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 

You know no Centaur ? you received no gold ? 
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner ? 
My house was at the Phonix? Wast thou mad, 
That thus so madly thou didst answer me ? [word ? 

Dro. S. What answer, sir? when spake I such a 

Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an hour 

since. 

Dro. S. L did not see you since you sent me hence, 
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. 

Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt 
And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner; 

For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeased. 

Dro. S. Lam glad to see you in this merry vein: 
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me. 

Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the 

teeth ? : 
Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and 
that. [ Beating him. 

Dro. S. Hold, sir, for God’s sake! now your jest is 
Upon what bargain do you give it me? _[earnest: 

Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes 
Do use you for my fool and chat with you, 

Your sauciness will jest upon my love 

And make a common of my serious hours. 

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, 
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. 
If you will jest with me, know my aspect 

znd fashion your demeanour to my looks, 

Or I will beat this method in your sconce. 

Dro. S. Sconce call you it ? so you would leave 
battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use 
these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head 
and insconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in 
my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten ? 

Ant. S. Dost thou not know ? 

Dro. S. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten. 

Ant. S. Shall I tell you why ? 

Dro. 8. Ay,sir,and wherefore : for they say every 
why hath a wherefore. 

Ant. S. Why, first,—for flouting me; and then, 

wherefore, — 
For urging it the second time to me. 


6 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 


SCENE ITI. 


Dro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten out 
of season, 
When in the why and the wherefore is neither 
rhyme nor reason ? 
Well, sir, I thank you. 
Ant. S. Thank me, sir! for what ? 
Dro. S. Marry, sir, for this something that you 
gave me for nothing. 
Ant. S. I’ll make you amends next, to give you 
nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner- 


time ? 
Dro. S. No, sir: I think the meat wants that I 
Ant. S. In good time, sir; what’s that? [have. 
Dro. S. Basting. 
Ant. S. Well, sir, then ’t will be dry. 
Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it. 
Ant. S. Your reason ? 
Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric and purchase 


me another dry basting. 

Ant. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: 
there ’s a time for all things. 

Dro. S. I durst have denied that, before you were 
so choleric. 

Ant. S. By what rule, sir ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain 
bald pate of father Time himself. 

Ant. S. Let’s hear it. 

Dro. S. There’s no time for a man to recover his 
hair that grows bald by nature. 

Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery ? 

Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and re- 
cover the lost hair of another man. 

Ant. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, 
being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement ? 

Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that he bestows 
on beasts; and what he hath scanted men in hair 
he hath given them in wit. 

Ant. S. Why, but there ’s many a man hath more 
hair than wit. 

Dro. S. Not a man of those but he hath the wit 
to lose his hair. 

Ant. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain 
dealers without wit. 

Dro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet 
he loseth it in a kind of jollity. 

Ant. S. For what reason ? 

. For two; and sound ones too. 

Ant. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you. 

Dro. S. Sure ones then. 

Ant. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing. 

Dro. S. Certain ones then. 

Ant. S. Name them. 

Dro. S. The one, to save the money that he 
spends in trimming; the other, that at dinner they 
should not drop in his porridge. 

Ant. S. You would all this time have proved there 
is no time for all things. 

Dro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to 
recover hair lost by nature. 

Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, why 
there is no time to recover. 

Dro. S. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald 
and therefore to the world’s end will have bald fol- 
lowers. 

Ant. S. I knew ’t would be a bald conclusion: 
But, soft! who wafts us yonder ? 


Enter Adriana and Luciana. 


Adr. Ay,ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown: 
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects; 
I am not Adriana nor thy wife. 
The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow 
That never words were music to thine ear, 
That never object pleasing in thine eye, 
That never touch well welcome to thy hand, 
That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste, [thee. 
Unless I spake, or look’d, or touched, or carved to 


81 


ACT III. 


How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, 
That thou art thus estranged from thyself ? 
Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 

That, undividable, incorporate, 

Am better than thy dear self’s better part. 

Ah, do not tear away thyself from me! 

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall 

A drop of water in the breaking gulf 

And take unmingled thence that drop again, 
Without addition or diminishing, 

As take from me thyself and not me too. 

How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, 
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious 

And that this body, consecrate to thee, 

By ruftian lust should be contaminate! 

Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me 
And hurl the name of husband in my face 

And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow 
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring 
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow ? 

I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it. 

I am possess’d with an adulterate blot; 

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust: 

For if we two be one and thou play false, 

I do digest the poison of thy flesh, 

Being strumpeted by thy contagion. 

Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed; 
I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured. [not : 

Ant. S. Plead you to me, fairdame? I know you 

In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 

As strange unto your town as to your talk; 

Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d, 
Want wit in all one word to understand. [you! 

Luc. Fie, brother! how the world is changed with 
When were you wont to use my sister thus ? 

She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. 

Ant. S. By Dromio? 

Dro. 8. By me? 

Ady. By thee; and this thou didst return from 
That he did buffet thee and in his blows [him, 
Denied my house for his, me for his wife. [woman ? 

Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle- 
What is the course and drift of your compact ? 

Dro. S. I, sir? I never saw her till this time. 

Ant. S. Villain, thou liest ; for even her very words 
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 

Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. 

Ant. S. How can she thus then call us by our 
Unless it be by inspiration. [names, 

Adr. How ill agrees it with your gravity 
To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, 
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood! 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE I. 


Be it my wrong you are from me exempt, 

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. 

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine: 

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, 

Whose weakness married to thy stronger state 

Makes me with thy strength to communicate: 

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss; 

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion 

Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion. [theme: 
Ant. S. To me she speaks; she moves me for her 

What, was I married to her in my dream ? 

Or sleep I now and think I hear all this ? 

What error drives our eyes and ears amiss ? 

Until I know this sure uncertainty, 

1 7ll entertain the offer’d fallacy. 

Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner. 
Dro. S. O,for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. 

This is the fairy land: O spite of spites! 

We talk with goblins, owls and sprites: 

Ii we obey them not, this will ensue, 

They ’ll suck our breath or pinch us black and blue. 
Luc. Why pratest thou to thyself and an- 

swer’st not ? 

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! 
Dro. S. I am transformed, master, am I not? 
Ant. S. I think thou art in mind, and so am I. 
Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. 
Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. 

Dro. S. No, I am an ape. 
Luc. If thou art changed to aught, ’tis to an ass. 
Dro. S. "Tis true; she rides me and I long for 

’T is so, I am an ass; else it could never be [grass. 

But I should know her as well as she knows me. 
Adr. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, 

To put the finger in the eye and weep, 

Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn. 

Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. 

Husband, Il] dine above with you to-day 

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. 

Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, 

Say he dines forth and let nocreature enter. 

Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. 

Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? 

Sleeping or waking ? mad or well-advised ? 

Known unto these, and to myself disguised! 

I'll say as they say, and persever so, 

And in this mist at all adventures go. 

Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate? 

Adr. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate. 

Luc. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. 
[ Kxeunt. 


HALO Pah Tale, 


SCENE I.— Before the house of Antipholus of 
Ephesus. 


Hinter Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of 
Ephesus, Angelo, and Balthazar. 

Ant. H. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us 
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:  [all; 
Say that I linger’d with you at your shop 
To see the making of her carcanet 
And that to-morrow you will bring it home. 

But here ’s a villain that would face me down 
Iie met me on the mart and that I beat him 
And charged him with a thousand marks in gold 
And that I did deny my wife and house. ; 
Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this ? 
Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what 
I know; 
That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to 
show: 
82 


If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave 
were ink, 
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. 
Ant. #. I think thou art an ass. 
Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear 
By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. 
I should kick, being kick’d; and, being at that pass, 
You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass. 
Ant. H. Youre sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God 
our cheer {lere. 
May answer my good will and your good welcome 
Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your 
welcome dear. 
Ant. E. O,Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, 
A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty 
dish. [affords. 
Bal. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl 
Ant. #. And welcome more common; for that’s 
nothing but words. 


£OT Til. 


—— 


Bal. 
merry feast. 
Ant. HE. Ay to a niggardly host and more sparing 
guest: [part ; 
But though my cates be mean, take them in good 
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. 
But, soft ! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in. 
Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, 
Ginn! 
Dro. S. [Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, cox- 
comb, idiot, patch! [hatch. 
Either get thee from the door or sit down at the 
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st 
for such store, [door. 
When one is one too many? Go get thee from the 
Dro. EH. What patch is made our porter? My 
master stays in the street. 
Dro. S. [Within] Let him walk from whence he 
came, lest he catch cold on’s feet. [door! 
Ant. E. Who talks within there? ho, open the 
Dro. S. [Within] Right, sir; Ill tell you when, 
an you ‘ll tell me wherefore. 
Ant. HE. Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not 
dined to-day. 
Dro. 8. | Within] Nor to-day here you must not; 
come again when you may. 
Ant. E. What art thou that keepest me out from 
the house I owe ? 
Dro. S. [Within] The porter for this time, sir, 
and my name is Dromio. 
Dro. #. O villain! thou hast stolen both mine 
office and my name. 
The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, 
Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name 
or thy name for an ass. 
Luce. | Within] What a coil is there, Dromio? 
who are those at the gate? 
Dro. EH. Let my master in, Luce. 
Luce. [Within] Faith, no; he comes too late ; 
And so tell your master. 
' Dro. E. O Lord, I must laugh! 
Have at you with a proverb—Shall Tset in my staff ? 
Tae. | Within] Have at you with another; that ’s— 
When ? can you tell ? 
Dro. S. [Within] If thy name be call’d Luce,— 
Luce, thou hast answer’d him well. 
Ant. EH. Do oe hear, you minion? you’ll let us 
in, I hope 
Luce. [Wathin| I thought to have ask’d you. 
Dro Within] And you said no. 
io. th So, come, help: well struck! there was 
blow for blow. 
Ant. H. Thou baggage, let me in. 
Luce. {| Within] Can you tell for whose sake ? 
Dro. EH. Master, knock the door hard. 
Luce. [Within] Let him knock till it ache. 
Ant. H. Youll cry for this, minion, if I beat 
the door down. 


Luce. [Within] What needs all that, and a pair | 


of stocks in the town? 

Adr. | Within] Who is that at the door that keeps 
all this noise ? 

Dro. S. [Within] By my troth, your town is 
troubled with unruly boys. 

Ant. H. Are you there, wife? you might have 
come before. 

Adr. [Within] Your wife, sir knave! go get you 
from the door. 

Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this ‘ knave’ 
would go sore. 

Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: 
we would fain have either. 

Bal. In debating which was best, we shall part 
with neither. 

Dro. H. They stand at the door, master: bid 
them welcome hither. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


Small cheer and great welcome makes a 


SCENE II. 


— 


Ant. H. There is something in the wind, that 
we cannot get in. 

Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your gar- 
ments were thin. 

Your cake there is warm within; you stand here 

in the cold: 

It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so 

bought and sold. 

Ant. E. Go fetch me something: Ill break ope 
the gate. 

Dro. 8. [Within] Break any breaking here, and 
Ill break your knave’s pate. 

Dro. H. A man may break a word with you, sir, 
and words are but wind, [hind. 

Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not be- 
‘Dro. 8. [ Within] It seems thou want’st breaking : 

out upon thee, hind! 
Dro. E. Here’s too much 
pray thee, let me in. 
Dro. S.[ Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers 
and fish have no fin. 
Ant. EH. Well, Ill break in: go borrow me a crow. 
Dro. E. A crow without feather ? Master, mean 
you so? {feather : 
For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a 
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow 
together. 
Ant. EB. Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow. 
Bal. Have patience, sir; Os let it not be so! 

Herein you war against your reputation 

And draw within the compass of suspect 

The unviolated honour of your wife. 

Once this,— your long experience of her wisdom, 

Her sober virtue, years and modesty, 

Piead on her part some cause to you unknown; 

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 

Why at this time the doors are made against you. 

Be ruled by me: depart in patience, 

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner, 

And about evening come yourself alone — 

To know the reason of this strange restraint. 

If by strong hand you offer to break in 

Now in the stirring passage of the day, 

A vulgar comment will be made of it, 

And that supposed by the common rout 

Against your yet ungalled estimation 

That may with foul intrusion enter in 

And dwell upon your grave when you are dead; 

For slander lives upon succession, 

For ever housed where it gets possession. [quiet, 
Ant. H. You have prevail’d: I will depart in 

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. 

I know a wench of excellent dis course, 

Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle: 

There will we dine. This woman that I mean, 

My wife — but, I protest, without desert — 

Hath oftentimes upbr aided me withal: 

To her will we to dinner. [Zo Ang.] Get you home 

And fetch the chain; by this 1 know ’tis made: 

Bring it, I pray you, ‘to the Porpentine ; 

For there ’s the house: that chain will T bestow— 

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife— - 

Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste. 

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 

I ’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they ‘Il disdain me. 
Ang. Ill meet you ‘at that place some hour hence. 
Ant. EH. Do so. This jest shall cost me some ex- 

pense. [| Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.—The same. 


Enter Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse. 


Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot 
A husband’s office ? shall, Antipholus, 

Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot ? 
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous ? 

If you did wed my sister for her wealth, [ness : 
Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kind- 


83 


‘out upon thee!’ I 


ACT III. 


Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; 
Mufile your false love with some show of blind- 

Let not my sister read it in your eye; [ness : 
Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator ; 

Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; 
Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger ; 

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted ; 
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; 

Be secret-false : what need she be acquainted ? 
What simple thief brags of his own attaint ? 


THE COMEDY OF EREORS. 


*T is double wrong, to truant with your bed 
And let her read it in thy looks at board: 
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed ; 
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 
Alas, poor women! make us but believe, 
Being compact of credit, that you love us; 
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve ; 
We in your motion turn and you may move us. 
Then, gentle brother, get you in again; 
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife: 
’T is holy sport to be a little vain, 
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. 
Ant. S. Sweet mistress,— what your name is else, 
I know not, 
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,— [not 
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show 
Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine. 
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak ; 
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, 
Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, 
The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. 
Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you 
To make it wander in an unknown field ? 
Are you a god? would you create me new ? 
Transform me then, and to your power Ill yield. 
But if that I am I, then well I know 
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, 
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe: 
Far more, far more to you do I decline. 
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, 
To drown me in thy sister’s fiood of tears: 
Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote: 
Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, 
And as a bed I’ take them and there lie, 
And in that glorious supposition think 
He gains by death that hath such means to die: 
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink! 
Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reason so ? 
Ant. S. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know. 
Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. 
Ant. S. For gazing onyour beams,fair sun,being by. 
Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear 
your sight. [night. 
Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on 


Luc. Why call you me love? call my sister so. 
Ant. S. Thy sister’s sister. 
Lue. 
Ant. S. 
It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, 
Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart, 
My food, my fortune and my sweet hope’s aim, 
My sole earth’s heaven and my heaven’s claim. 
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. 
Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee. 
Thee will I love and with thee lead my life: 
Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife. 
Give me thy hand. 
Lue. O, soft, sir! hold you still: 
Ill fetch my sister, to get her good will. [ Hxvit. 


That ’s my sister. 
No; 


Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 

Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio! where runn’st 
thou so fast ? 

Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? 
am I your man? am I myself? : 

Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou | 
art thyself. 

84 


SCENE II. 


Dro. S. 1 am an ass, 1 am a woman’s man and 
besides myself. 

Ant. S. What woman’s man? and how besides _ 
thyself ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a 
woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, 
one that will have me. 

Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay 
to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: 
not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but 
that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim 
to me. 

Ant. S. What is she? 

Dro. S. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as 
aman may not speak of without he say ‘ Sir-rever- 
ence.’ Ihave but lean luck in the match, and yet 
is she a wondrous fat marriage. 

Ant. S. How dost thou mean a fat marriage ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen wench and 
all grease; and I know not what use to put her to 
but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her 
own light. I warrant, her rags and the tallow in 
them will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till 
doomsday, she ’ll burn a week longer than the 
whole world. 

Ant. S. What complexion is she of ? 

Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing 
like so clean kept: for why, she sweats; a man may 
go over shoes in the grime of it. 

Ant. S. That ’s a fault that water will mend. 

Dro. S. No, sir, tis in grain; Noah’s flood could 
not do it. 

Ant. S. What ’s her name ? 

Dro. S. Nell, sir; but her name and three quar- 
ters, that ’s an ell and three quarters, will not meas- 
ure her from hip to hip. 

Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth ? 

Dro. S. No longer from head to foot than from 
hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could 
find out countries in her. 

Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland ? 

Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it 
out by the bogs. 

Ant. S. Where Scotland ? 

Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness; hard in the 
palm of the hand. 

Ant. S. Where France? 

Dro. S. In her forehead; armed and reverted, 
making war against her hair. 

Ant. S. Where England ? 

Dro. S. I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could 
find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in 
her fo by the salt rheum that ran between France 
and it. 

Ant. S. Where Spain ? 

Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in 
her breath. 

Ant. S. Where America, the Indies ? 

Dro. S. Oh, sir, upon her nose, all o’er embel- 
lished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining 
their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who 
sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her 
nose. 

Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands ? 

Dro. S. Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To con- 
clude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; 
called me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told 
me what privy marks I had about me, as, the mark 
of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart 
on my left arm, that I amazed ran from her as a 
witch: ; ; 
And, I think, if my breast had not been made of 

faith and my heart of steel, 
She had transform’d me to a curtal dog and made 
me turn i’ the wheel. 

Ant. S. Go hie thee presently, post to the road: 


ao IV. 


An if the wind blow any way from shore, 

I will not harbour in this town to-night: 

_ Jf any bark put forth, come to the mart, 

Where I will walk till thou return to me. 

If every one knows us and we know none, 

Lf is time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone. 
Dro. S. As from a bear aman would run for life, 

So fly I from her that would be my wife. [ Hxit. 
Ant. S. There ’s none but witches do inhabit here ; 

And therefore ’t is high time that I were hence. 

She that doth call me husband, even my soul 

Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, 

Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, 

Of such enchanting presence and discourse, 

Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, 

Ill stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song. 


Enter Angelo with the chain. 


Ang. Master Antipholus,— 
Ant. S 


! Ay, that’s my name. 
Ang. I know it well, sir: 


lo, here is the chain. 


THE COMEDY OF EREORS. 


SCENE I, 


I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine: 
The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long. 
Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do with this ? 
Ang. What please yourself, sir: I have made it 
for you. 
Ant. S. Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not. 
Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you 


lave. 
Go home with it and please your wife withal; 
And soon at supper-time I ’ll visit you 
And then receive my money for the chain. 
Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, 
For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more. 
Ang. You are a merry man, sir: fare you Ws 
Exit. 
Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot tell: 
But this I think, there ’s no man is so vain 
That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain. 
I see a man here needs not live by shifts, 
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. 
Ill to the mart and there for Dromio stay: 
If any ship put out, then straight away. [ Hixtt. 


anus GUNG Bathe’ BE Ygs 


SCENE I.— A public place. 


Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an 
Officer. 


Sec. Mer. You know since Pentecost the sum is 
And since I have not much importuned you; [due, 
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound 
To Persia and want guilders for my voyage: 
Therefore make present satisfaction, 

Or 1’ll attach you by this officer. 

Ang. Even just the sum that I do owe to you 

Is growing to me by Antipholus, 

And in the instant that I met with you 

He had of me a chain: at five o’clock 

I shall receive the money for the same. 
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, 
I will discharge my bond and thank you too. 


Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of 
Ephesus from the courtezan’s. 


Off. That labour may you save: see where he 
comes. [thou 
Ant. H. While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go 
And buy a rope’s end: that will I bestow 
Among my wife and her confederates, 
For locking me out of my doors by day. 
But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone; 
Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me. 
Dro. HE. I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a 
rope. Exit. 
Ant. H. A man is well holp up that trusts to you: 
I promised your presence and the chain; 
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. 
Belike you thought our love would last too long, 
If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not. 
Ang. Saving your merry humour, here’s the note 
Hiow much your chain weighs to the utmost carat, 
The fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion, 
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 
Than I stand debted to this gentleman : 
I pray you, see him presently discharged, 
For he is bound to sea and stays but for it. 
Ant. H. I am not furnish’d with the present 
money ; 
Besides, I have some business in the town. 
Good signior, take the stranger to my house 
And with you take the chain and bid my wife 
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof : 
Perchance I will be there as soon as you. 


Ang. oe you will bring the chain to her your. 
se 


Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I come not 
time enough. [you ? 
Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about 
Ant. H. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have; 
Or else you may return without your money. 
Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the 


chain: 

Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman, 

And I, to blame, have held him here too long. 
Ant. H. Good Lord! you use this dalliance to ex- 

Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. [cuse 

I should have chid you for not bringing it, 

But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl. [patch. 
Sec. Mer. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dis- 
Ang. You hear how he importunes me;—the 

chain ! [money. 
Ant. H. Why, give it to my wife and fetch your 
Ang. Come, come, you know I gave it you even 
now. 

Either send the chain or send me by some token. 
Ant. H. Fie, now you run this humour out of 

breath, 

Come, where ’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it. 
Sec. Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance. 

Good sir, say whether you ’ll answer me or no: 

If not, I ll leave him to the officer. 

Ant. H. Lanswer you! what should I answer you ? 

Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain. 

Ant. H. I owe you none till I receive the chain. 

Ang. You know I gave it you half an hour since. 

Ant. E. You gave me none: you wrong me much 
to say so. 

Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it: 

Consider how it stands upon my credit. 

Sec. Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. 

Off. Ido; and charge you in the duke’s name to 
obey me. 

Ang. This touches me in reputation. 

Either consent to pay this sum for me 

Or I attach you by this officer. 

Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had! 

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest. 

Ang. Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer. 

I would not spare my brother in this case, 

If he should scorn me so apparently. 
Off. I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit. 
Ant. E. I do obey thee till I give thee bail. 


89 


ACT IV. THE 


But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear 

As all the metal in your shop will answer. 
Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 

To your notorious shame; I doubt it not. 


Enter Dromio of Syracuse, from the bay. 


Dro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum 
That stays but till her owner comes aboard 
And then, sir,she bearsaway. Our fraughtage, sir, 
I have convey’d aboard and I have bought 
The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vite. 
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind 
Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all 
But for their owner, master, and yourself. 

Ant. EK. Hownow! amadman! Why, thou peevish 
What ship of Epidamnum stays forme? _ [sheep, 
Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 

Ant. H. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope 
And told thee to what purpose and what end. 
Dro. S. You sent me for a rope’s end as soon: 
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 
Ant. H. I will debate this matter at more leisure 
And teach your ears to list me with more heed. 
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight: 
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk 
That ’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry 
There is a purse of ducats; let her send it: 
Tell her I am arrested in the street 
And that shall bail me: hie thee, slave, be gone! 
On, ofiicer, to prison till it come. 
|Hxeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, 
Officer, and Ant. E. 
Dro. S. To Adriana! that is where we dined, 
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband: 
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. 
Thither I must, although against my will, 
- Forservants must their masters’ minds fulfil. [Hzit. 


SCENE II. — The house of Antipholus of Ephesus. 


Enter Adriana and Luciana. 


Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so ? 
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye 
That he did plead in earnest ? yea or no? 
Look’d he or red or pale, or sad or merrily ? 
What observation madest thou in this case 
Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face ? 
Lue. First he denied you had in him no right. 
Adr. ui meant he did me none; the more my 
spite. 
Luc. Then swore he that he was a stranger here. 
Adr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he 
Inc. Then pleaded I for you. [were. 
Adr. And what said he ? 
Luc. That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me. 
Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love ? 
Luc. With words that in an honest suit might 
move. 
First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 
Adr. Didst speak him fair ? 
Lue. Have patience, I beseech. 
Adr. I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; 
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. 
He is deformed, crooked, old and sere, 
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere ; 
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, 
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. 
Luc. Who would be jealous then of such a one ? 
No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone. 
Adr. Ah, but I think him better than I say, 
And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse. 
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away: 
My heart prays for him,though my tongue do curse. 


Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 


Dro. S. Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, 
make haste. 


86 


COMEDY 


OF HRROKS. 


Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? 
Dro. 8. By running fast- 
Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well ? 
Dro. S. No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. 
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him; 
One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel ; 
A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; [mands 
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that counter- 
The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands; 
A hound that runs counter and yet draws dry-foot 
well; {hell. 
One that before the judgment carries poor souls to 
Adr. Why, man, what is the matter ? 
Dro. S. I do not know the matter: he is ’rested 
on the case. 
Adr. What, is he arrested ? Tell me at whose suit. 
Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is arrested 
well; [I tell. 
But he’s ina suit of buff which ’rested him, that can 
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money 
in his desk ? 
Adr. Go fetch it, sister. 
This I wonder at, 
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. 
Tell me, was he arrested on a band ? 
Dro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 
A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring? 
Adr. What, the chain ? 
Dro. S. No, no, the bell; ’tis time that I were gone: 
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes 
one. 
Adr. The hours come back! that did I never hear. 
Dro. S. O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ 
turns back for very fear. 
Adr. As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost 
thou reason ! 
Dro. S. Time is a very bankrupt and owes more 
than he’s worth to season. 
Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say, 
That Time comes stealing on by night and day ? 
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the 


SCENE III. 


[Exit Luciana.] 


way 
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day ? 


Re-enter Luciana with a purse. 


Adr. Go, Dromio; there’s the money, bear it 
straight, 
And bring thy master home immediately. 
Come, sister: I am press’d down with conceit — 
Conceit, my comfort and my injury. [ Haewnt. 


SCENE III.—A public place. 


Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 


Ant. S. There’s not a man I meet but doth salute 
As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; {me 
And every one doth call me by my name. 

Some tender money to me; some invite me; 
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; 
Some offer me commodities to buy: 

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop 

And show’d me silks that he had bought for me 
And therewithal took measure of my body. 
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles 

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 


Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 


Dro. S. Master, here’s the gold you sent me for. 
What, have you got the picture of old Adam new- 
apparelled ? [mean ? 

Ant. S. What gold is this ? what Adam dost thon 

Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, 
but that Adam that keeps the prison: he that goes 
in the calf’s skin that was killed for the Prodigal, 
he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and 
bid you forsake your liberty. 


Za 
SARIS dg 


Lif / ; 
Ly} ry 


nw 


i > 7 Ht 
f 4 so 
and (((( yee 


Hi ti 


Mil 


= 
= 


a 


iy J 
TY 
ly 


a 
ws 
s'- See ~ 


EWAN ave 


Q 
O 
KS 
es] 
s) 
wy, 
fe) 
os 
es] 
Ay) 
ey) 
O 
Ww 
” 
| 
> 
S 
S 
n 
OQ 
0 
ah 
0 
7 


WD 


Ny os as 
“iN 
OAM A Ml 
J (fy NE 


d ces i ue . 


eM a a 


Ant. S. I understand thee not. 

Dro. S. No? why, ’tis a plain case: he that went, 
like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, 
that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob and 
’rests them ; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men 
and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his 
rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris- 

Ant. S. What, thou meanest an officer? _—[pike. 

Dro. S. Ay,sir, the sergeant of the band; he that 
brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; 
one that thinks a man always going to bed and says 
‘God give you good rest!’ 

Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is 
there any ship puts forth to-night ? may we be gone ? 

Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour 
since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; 
and then were you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry 
for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you 
sent for to deliver you. 

Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I; 

And here we wander in illusions: 
Some blessed power deliver us from hence! 


Enter a Courtezan. 


Cour. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus. 

I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now: 
Is that the chain you promised me to-day ? 

Ant. S. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not. 

Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan ? 

Ant. S. It is the devil. 

Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil’s dam; 
and here she comes in the habit of a light wench: 
and thereof comes that the wenches say ‘God 
damn me;’ that’s as much to say ‘God make me 
a light wench.’ It is written, they appear to men 
like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, and 
fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come 
not near her. 

Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry, 

sir. [here ? 
Will you go with me? Well mend our dinner 

Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or 
bespeak a long spoon. 

Ant. S. Why, Dromio ? 

Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon that 
must eat with the devil. 

Ant. S. Avoid then, fiend! what tell’st thou me 

of supping ? 
Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress: 
I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. 

Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner, 
- Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised, 

And Ill be gone, sir, and not trouble you. __[nail, 

Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of one’s 
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, 

A nut, a cherry-stone ; 

But she, more covetous, would have a chain. 
Master, be wise: an if you give it her, 

The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it. 

Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain: 
I hope you do not mean to cheat me so. [us go. 

Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let 

Dro. S. ‘ Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, 

that you know. [Hxeunt Ant. S. and Dro S. 
_ Cour. Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad, 
Else would he never so demean himself. 
A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 
And for the same he promised me a chain: 
Both one and other he denies me now. 
The reason that I gather he is mad, 
Besides this present instance of his rage, 
Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner, 
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. 
Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits, 
On purpose shut the doors against his way. 
My way is now to hie home to his house, 
And tell his wife that, being lunatic, 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE IV. 


He rush’d into my house and took perforce 
My ring away. ‘This course I fittest choose; 
For forty ducats is too much to lose. 


SCENE IV.—A street. 


Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer. 


Ant. E. Fear me not, man; I will not break away: 
I'll give thee, ere [ leave thee, so much money, 
To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for. 
My wife is in a wayward mood to-day, 
And will not lightly trust the messenger. 
That I should be attach’d in Ephesus, 
I tell you, ’t will sound harshly in her ears. 


Exit. 


Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope’s end. 


Here comes my man; I think he brings the money. 
How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?  [all. 
Dro. FE. Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them 
Ant. E. But where’s the money ? 
Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope ? 
Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope ? 
Dro. H. Ill serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate. 
Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home? 
Dro. EH. To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am 
I returned. 
Ant. H. And to that end, sir, I will welcome 


you. [ Beating him. 

Off. Good sir, be patient. 

Dro. E. Nay, ‘tis for me to be patient; I am in 
adversity. 

Off. Good, now, hold thy tongue. 

Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his 
hands. 

Ant. KE. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! 

Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I 
might not feel your blows. 

Ant. EH. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, 
and so is an ass. 

Dro. E. Tam an ass, indeed; you may prove it by 
my long ears. I have served him from the hour of 
my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at 
his hands for my service but blows. When I am 
cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, 
he cools me with beating: I am waked with it 
when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out 
of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed 
home with it when I return: nay, I bear it on my 
shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat; and, I think, 
when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from 
door to door. [der. 

Ant. E. Come, go along; my wife is coming yon- 


Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and 
Pinch. 

Dro. E. Mistress, ‘respice finem,’ respect your 
end; or rather, the prophecy like the parrot, ‘ be- 
ware the rope’s end.’ 

Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk ? [Beating him. 

Cour. How say you now? is not your husband 

Adr. His incivility confirms no less. mad ? 
Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer; 

Establish him in his true sense again, 

And I will please you what you will demand. 

Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks! 

Cour. Mark how he trembles in hisecstasy! [pulse. 

Pinch. Give me your hand and let me feel your 

Ant. HE. There is my hand, and let it feel your 

ear. [Striking him. 

Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, housed within this 
To yield possession to my holy prayers [man, 
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight : 

I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven! [mad. 
Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not 
Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul! 
Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your custom- 

Did this companion with the saffron face [ers ? 


87 


ACT V. 


Revel and feast it at my house to-day, 
Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut 
And I denied to enter in my house ? [home ; 
Adr. O husband, God doth know you dined at 
Where would you had remain’d until this time 
Free from these slanders and this open shame! 
Ant. H. Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest 
thou ? 
Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home. 
Ant. E. Were not my doors lock’d up and I shut 
out ? [shut out. 
Dro. EH. Perdie, your doors were lock’d and you 
Ant. HE. And did not she herself revile me there ? 
Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself reviled you there. 
Ant. EF. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt and 
scorn me? [you. 
Dro. E. Certes,she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d 
Ant. H. And did not I in rage depart from thence ? 
Dro. E. Inverity youdid; my bones bear witness, 
That since have felt the vigour of his rage. 

Adr. Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries ? 
Pinch. It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein 
And yielding to him humours well his frenzy. [me. 

Ant. H. Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest 
Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you, 
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it. [might; 
Dro. E. Money by me! heart and good-will you 
But surely, master, not a rag of money. [cats ? 
Ant. E. Went’st not thou to her for a purse of du- 
Ady. He came to me and I deliver’d it. 
Tuc. And I am witness with her that she did. 
Dro. HE. God and the rope-maker bear me witness 
That I was sent for nothing but a rope! 
Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is possess’d ; 
I know it by their pale and deadly looks: 
They must be bound and laid in some dark room. 
Ant. E. Say wherefore didst thou lock me forth to- 
And why dost thou deny the bag of gold? ([day? 
Ady. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth. 
Dro. EF. And, gentle master, I received no gold; 
But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out. [both. 
Ady. Dissembling villain, thou speak’st false in 
Ant. EH. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all 
And art confederate with a damned pack 
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me: 
But with these nails Ill pluck out these false eyes 
That would behold in me this shameful sport. 


Enter three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives. 
Adr. O, bind him, bind him! let him not come 
near me. [him. 
Pinch. More company! The fiend is strong within 
Luc. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks! 
Ant. E. What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, 
Il am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them [thou, 
To make a rescue ? 
Off. Masters, let him go: 
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE I. 


Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantie too. 
[They offer to bind Dro. E. 
Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer ? 
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 
Do outrage and displeasure to himself ? 
Off. He is my prisoner: if I let him go, 
The debt he owes will be required of me. 
Adr. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee: 
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor 
And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it. 
Good master doctor, see him safe convey’d 
Home to my house. O most unhappy day! 
Ant. HE. O most unhappy strumpet! 
Dro. E. Master, I am here entered in bond for you. 
Ant. EH. Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou 
mad me ? 
Dro. E. Will you be bound for nothing ? be mad, 
good master: cry ‘ The devil!’ 
Luc. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk! 
Adr. Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with 
me. [Exeunt all but Adriana, Luciana, 
Officer and Courtezan. | 
Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ? 
Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith : do you know him ? 
Adr. Iknowtheman. What is the sum he owes ? 
Ot Two hundred ducats. 
dr. Say, how grows it due ? 
Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. 
Adr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not. 
Cour. When as your husband all in rage to-day 
Came to my house and took away my ring — 
The ring I saw upon his finger now — 
Straight after did I meet him with a chain. 
Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it. 
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is: 
I long to know the truth hereof at large. 


Enter Antipholus of Syracuse with his rapier 
drawn, and Dromio of Syracuse. 


Luc. God, for thy mercy! they are loose again. 

Adr. And come with naked swords. . 

Let ’s call more help to have them bound again. 

Off. Away! they ’ll kill us. 

[Hxeunt all but Ant. S. and Dro. 8S. 

Ant. S. I see these witches are afraid of swords. 

Dro. S. She that would be your wife now ran 

from you. 

Ant. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff 

from thence: 
I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 

Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night; they will 
surely do us no harm: you saw they speak us fair, 
give us gold: methinks they are such a gentle na- 
tion that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that 
claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to 
stay here still and turn witch. 

Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the town, 
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. |[Hxeunt. 


ey Ns 


SCENE I.—A street before a Priory. 


Enter Second Merchant and Angelo. 


_ Ang. Iam sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you; 
But, I protest, he had the chain of me, 
Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. 
Sec. Mer. How is the man esteem’d here in the 
Ang. Of very reverend reputation, sir, _—_ [city ? 
Of credit infinite, highly beloved, 
Second to none that lives here in the city: 
His word might bear my wealth at any time. 
Sec. sent Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he 
walks. 


88 


Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio 
of Syracuse. 


Ang. ’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck 
Which he forswore most monstrously to have. 
Good sir, draw near to me, I’ speak to him. 
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
That you would put me to this shame and trouble; 
And, not without some scandal to yourself, 

With circumstance and oaths so to deny 

This chain which now you wear so openly: 
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, 
You have done wrong to this my honest friend, 


ACT V. 


Who, but for staying on our controversy, 

Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day : 

This chain you had of me; can you deny it ? 
Ant. S. I think I had; I never did deny it. [too. 
Sec. Mer. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it 
Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it ? 
Sec. Mer. These ears of mine, thou know’st, did 

hear thee. 

Fie on thee, wretch! *tis pity that thou livest 

To walk where any honest men resort. 
Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus: 

Ill prove mine honour and mine honesty 

Against thee presently, if thou darest stand. 
Sec. Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. 

[They draw. 


Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and 

others. 

Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is 
Some get within him, take his sword away: [mad. 
Lind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. 

Dro. S. Run, master, run; for God’s sake, take 

a house! 
This is some priory. In, or we are spoil’d! 
[Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the Priory. 


Enter the Lady Abbess. 
Abb. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you 
hither ? 
Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. 
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast 
And bear him home for his recovery. 
Ang. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. 
Sec. Mer. I am sorry now that I did draw on him. 
Abb. How long hath this possession held the man? 
Ady. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, 
And much different from the man he was; 
But till this afternoon his passion 
Ne’er brake into extremity of rage. [sea ? 
Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of 
Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye 
Stray’d his affection in unlawful love ? 
A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. 
Which of these sorrows is he subject to ? 
Adr. To none of these, except it be the last ; 
Namely, some love that drew him oft from home. 
Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. 
Adr. Why, so I did. 
Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 
Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. 
Abb. Haply, in private. 
Adr. And in assemblies too. 
Abb. Ay, but not enough. 
Ady. It was the copy of our conference: 
In bed he slept not for my urging it; 
At board he fed not for my urging it; 
Alone, it was the subject of my theme; 
In company I often glanced it; 
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 
Abb. And thereof came it that the man was mad: 
The venom clamours of a jealous woman 
Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. 
It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing, 
And thereof comes it that his head is light. 
Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbraid- 
Unquiet meals make ill digestions; lings: 
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred; 
And what’s a fever but a fit of madness ? 
Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls: 
Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue 
But moody and dull melancholy, 
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, 
And at her heels a huge infectious troop 
Of pale distemperatures and foes to life ? 
In food, in sport and life-preserving rest 
To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast: 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE I 


The consequence is then thy jealous fits 
Have seared thy husband from the use of wits. 
Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly, 
When he demean’d himself rough, rude and wildly. 
Why bear you these rebukes and answer not ? 
Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof. 
Good people, enter and lay hold on him. 
Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house. 
eu mes let your servants bring my husband 
orth. 
Abb. Neither: he took this place for sanctuary, 
And it shall privilege him from your hands 
Till I have brought him to his wits again, 
Or lose my labour in assaying it. 
Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse, 
Diet his sickness, for it is my office, 
And will have no attorney but myself; 
And therefore let me have him home with me. 
Abb. Be patient; for I will not let him stir 
Till I have used the approved means I have, 
With wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers, 
To make of him a formal man again: 
It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 
A charitable duty of my order. 
Therefore depart and leave him here with me. 
Adr. I will not hence and leave my husband here: 
And ill it doth beseem your holiness 
To separate the husband and the wife. 
Abb. Be quiet and depart: thou shalt not have 
him. [ Hcit. 
Luc. Complain unto the duke of this indignity. 
Adr. Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet 
And never rise until my tears and prayers 
Have won his grace to come in person hither 
And take perforce my husband from the abbess. 
Sec. Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five: 
Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person 
Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 
The place of death and sorry execution, 
Behind the ditches of the abbey here. 
Ang. Upon what cause ? 
Sec. Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, 
Who put unluckily into this bay 
Against the laws and statutes of this town, 
Beheaded publicly for his offence. [death. 
Ang. See where they come: we will behold his 
Luc. Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey. 


Enter Duke, attended ; Aigeon bareheaded ; with 
the Headsman and other Officers. 


Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, 

If any friend will pay the sum for him, 

He shall not die; so much we tender him. __[bess! 
Ady. Justice, most sacred duke, against the ab- 
Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: 

It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. 

Adr. May it please your grace, Antipholus my 
Whom I made lord of meandall Lhad, [husband. 
At your important letters,—this ill day 
A most outrageous fit of madness took him; 

That desperately he hurried through the street,— 

With him his bondman, all as mad as he,— 

Doing displeasure to the citizens 

By rushing in their houses, bearing thence 

Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. 

Once did I get him bound and sent him home, 

Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went 

That here and there his fury had committed. 

Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 

He broke from those that had the guard of him; 

And with his mad attendant and himself, 

Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, 

Met us again and madly bent on us 

Chased us away, till raising of more aid - 

We came again to bind them. Then they fled 

Into this abbey, whither we pursued them: 

And here the abbess shuts the gates on us 


89 


A CTs ¥. 


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 


SCENE I. 


And will not suffer us to fetch him out, 

Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence. 

Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command 

Let him be brought forth and borne hence for 

help. [wars, 

Duke. Long since thy husband served me in my 

And I to thee engaged a prince’s word, 

When thou didst make him master of thy bed, 

To do him all the grace and good I could. 

Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate 

And bid the lady abbess come to me. 

i will determine this before I stir. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself ! 
My master and his man are both broke loose, 
Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor, 
Whose beard they have singed off with brands of 
And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him [fire ; 
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: 
My master preaches patience to him and the while 
His man with scissors nicks him like a fool, 

And sure, unless you send some present help, 
Between them they will kill the conjurer. 

Adr. Peace, fool! thy master and his man are 
And that is false thou dost report to us. [here, 

Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; 

I have not breathed almost since I did see it. 
He cries for you and vows, if he can take you, 
To scorch your face and to disfigure you. 
[Cry within. 
Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone! 

Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard 

with halberds! 

Adr. Ay me, it is my husband! 
That he is borne about invisible: 
Even now we housed him in the abbey here; 

And now he’s there, past thought of human reason. 


Witness you, 


Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of 
Ephesus. 
Ant. E. Justice, most gracious duke, O, grant me 
justice ! 

Even for the service that long since I did thee, 

When I bestrid thee in the wars and took 

Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood 

That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. 
Age. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote 

I see my son Antipholus and Dromio. [there ! 
Ant. EH. Justice, sweet prince, against that woman 

She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife, 

That hath abused and dishonour’d me 

Even in the strength and height of injury! 

Beyond imagination is the wrong 

That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. 
Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just. 
Ant. HE. This day, great duke, she shut the doors 

upon me, 

While she with harlots feasted in my house. [so ? 
Duke. A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou 
Adr. No, my good lord: myself, he and my sister 

To-day did dine together. So befall my soul 

As this is false he burdens me withal! 

Lue. Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night, 

But she tells to your highness simple truth! 

Ang. O perjured woman! They are both forsworn: 

In this the madman justly chargeth them. 

_ Ant. H. My liege, I am advised what I say, 

Neither disturbed with the effect of wine, 

Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire, 

Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. 

This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner: 

That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her, 

Could witness it, for he was with me then; 

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain, 

Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, 

Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 


90 


Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 
I went to seek him: in the street 1 met him 

And in his company that gentleman. 

There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down 
That I this day of him received the chain, 

Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which 
He did arrest me with an officer. 

I did obey, and sent my peasant home 

For certain ducats: he with none return’d. 

Then fairly I bespoke the officer 

To go in person with me to my house. 

By the way we met 

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 

Of vile confederates. Along with them flain, 
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced vil- 
A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 

A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller, 

A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, 

A living-dead man: this pernicious slave, 
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer, 

And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 

And with no face, as ’t were, outfacing me, 

Cries out, I was possess’d. ‘Then all together 
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence 

And in a dark and dankish vault at home 

There left me and my man, both bound together : 
Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 

I gain’d my freedom and immediately 

Ran hither to your grace; whom I beseech 

To give me ample satisfaction 

For these deep shames and great indignities. [him, 

Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with 
That he dined not at home, but was lock’d out. 

Duke. But had he such a chain of thee or no? 

Ang. He had, my lord: and when he ran in here, 
These people saw the chain about his neck. [mine 

Sec. Mer. Besides, I will be sworn these ears of 
Heard you confess you had the chain of him 
After you first forswore it on the mart: 

And thereupon I drew my sword on you; 
And then you fled into this abbey here, 
From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. 

Ant. H. I never came within these abbey-walls, 
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me: 

I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven! 
And this is false you burden me withal. 

Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this! 
I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup. 

If here you housed him, here he would have been ; 
If he were mad he would not plead so coldly: 

You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here 
Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you? {tine. 

Dro. E. Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpen- 

Cour. He did, and from my finger snateh’d that 

ring. 

Ant. HE. °T is true, my liege; this ring I had of her. 

Duke. Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here ? 

Cour. AS sure, my liege, as I do see your grace. 

Duke. Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess 
I think you are all mated or stark mad. _ [hither. 

[ Hxit one to the Abbess. 

Age. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a 
Haply I see a friend will save my life [word: 
And pay the sum that may deliver me. 

Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt. 

ge. Is not your name, sir, eall’d Antipholus ? 
And is not that your bondman, Dromio ? 

Dro. E. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir, 
But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords: 
Now am I Dromio and his man unbound. 

Aige. 1am sure you both of you remember me. 

Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you; 
For lately we were bound, as you are now. 

You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir ? 

Atge. Why look you strange on me? you know 

me well. | 

Ant. H, I never saw you in my life till now. 


ACT V. 


Ege. O, grief hath changed me since you saw me 


ast, 
And careful hours with time’s deformed hand 
Have written strange defeatures in my face: | 
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice ? 

Ant. H. Neither. 

Aige. Dromio, nor thou? 

Dro. EH. No, trust me, sir, nor I. 

Atge. 1 am sure thou dost. 

Dro. E. Ay, sir, but lam sure I do not; and what- 
soever &@ Man denies, you are now bound to believe 
him. 

Aige. Not know my voice! O time’s extremity, 
Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue 
In seven short years, that here my only son 
Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares ? 
Though now this grained face of mine be hid 
In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow 
And all the conduits of my blood froze up, 

Yet hath my night of life some memory, 

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, 
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear: 

All these old witnesses— I cannot err — 
Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. 

Ant. EH. I never saw my father in my life. 

ge. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, 
Thou know’st we parted: but perhaps, my son, 
Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery. 

Ant. E. The duke and all that know me in the 
Can witness with me that it is not so: [city 
I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life. 

Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years 
Have I been patron to Antipholus, 

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa: 
I see thy age and dangers make thee dote. 


Fie-enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse 
and Dromio of Syracuse. 


Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man much 
wrong’d. All gather to see them. 
Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me. 
Duke. One of these men is Genius to the other; 
And so of these. Which is the natural man, 
And which the spirit ? who deciphers them ? 
Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio: command him away. 
Dro. H. I, sir, am Dromio: pray, let me stay. 
Ant. S. Aégeon art thou not ? or else his ghost ? 
LANE S. O, my old master! who hath bound him 
ere ? 
Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds 
And gain a husband by his liberty. 
Speak, old Aégeon, if thou be’st the man 
That hadst a wife once call’d Amilia 
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons: 
O, if thou be’st the same A%geon, speak, 
And speak unto the same Amilia ! 
ige. If I dream not, thou art Amilia: 
If thou art she, tell me where is that son 
That floated with thee on the fatal raft ? 
Abb. By men of Epidamnum he and I[ 
And the twin Dromio all were taken up; 
But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth 
By force took Dromio and my son from them, 
And me they left with those of Epidamnum. 
What then became of them I cannot tell; 
I to this fortune that you see me in. 
Duke. Why, here begins his morning story right: 
These two Antipholuses, these two so like, 
And these two Dromios, one in semblance,— 
Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,— 
These are the parents to these children, 
Which accidentally are met together. 
Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first ? 
Ant. S. No, sir, not 1; I came from Syracuse. 
organ Me stand apart; I know not which is 
which. 


THE COMEDY OF EREORS. 


SCENE I. 


Pio ey I came from Corinth, my most gracious 
ord,— 
Dro. EH, And I with him. 
Ant. EL. Brought to this town by that most famous 
warrior, 
Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. 
Ady. Which of you two did dine with me to-day ? 
Ant. S. I, gentle mistress. , 
Adr. And are not you my husband ? 
Ant. H. No; I say nay to that. 
Ant. S. And so do I; yet did she call me so: 
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, 
Did call me brother. [To Luc.] What I told you 
I hope I shall have leisure to make good; [then, 
If this be not a dream I see and hear. 
Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. 
Ant. S. I think it be, sir; I deny it not. 
Ant. H. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me. 
Ang. I think I did, sir; I deny it not. 
Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail, 
By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. 
Dro. EF. No, none by me. 
Ant. S. This purse of ducats I received from you 
And Dromio my man did bring them me. 
I see we still did meet each other’s man, 
And I was ta’en for him, and he for me, 
And thereupon these ERRORS are arose. 
Ant. H. These ducats pawn I for my father here. 
Duke. It shall not need; thy father hath his life. 
Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. 
Ant. H. There, take it; and much thanks for my 
good cheer. 
Abb. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains 
To go with us into the abbey here 
And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes : 
And all that are assembled in this place, 
That by this sympathized one day’s error 
Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company, 
And we shall make full satisfaction. 
Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail 
Of you, my sons; and till this present hour 
My heavy burthen ne’er delivered. 
The duke, my husband and my children both, 
And you the calendars of their nativity, 
Go to a gossips’ feast, and go with me; 
After so long grief, such festivity ! 
Duke. With all my heart, I ’ll gossip at this feast. 
[Hxeunt all but Ant. S., Ant. H., Dro. S., and 


Dro. E. 

Dro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from ship- 
board ? 

Ant. HE. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou 
embark’d ? 

Dro. S. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the 
Centaur. 

Ant. S. He speaks to me. I am your master, 
Dromio: 


Come, go with us; we’ll look to that anon: 
Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him. 
[Hxreunt Ant. S. and Ant. E. 
Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master’s 
house, 
That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner: 
She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 
Dro. E. Methinks you are my glass, and not my 
brother : 
I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. 
Will you walk in to see their gossiping ? 
Dro. S. Not I, sir; you are my elder. 
Dro. E. That’s a question: how shall we try it ? 
Dro. S. We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then 
lead thou first. 
Dro. E. Nay, then, thus: 
We came into the world like brother and brother ; 
And now let’s go hand in hand, not one _ before 
another. [ Hxeunt. 


Gh 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4, 


Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon. 
Don John, his bastard brother. 
Claudio, a young lord of Florence. 
Benedick, a young lord of Padua, 
Leonato, Governor of Messina. 
Antonio, his brother. 

Balthasar, attendant on Don Pedro 
Conrade, 
Borachio, 
Friar Francis. 
Dogberry, a constable. 


followers of Don John 


Verges, a headborough. 

A Sexton. 

A Boy. 

Hero, daughter to Leonato. 
Beatrice, niece to Leonato. 
Margaret, 


entlewomen attending on Hero 
Ursuia, 5 S 


Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &e. 


SCENE — Messina. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLV.] 


Wee A WLI OO 


SCENE I.—Before Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a 
Messenger. 


Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of 
Arragon comes this night to Messina. 

Mess. He is very near by this: he was not three 
leagues off when I left him. faction ? 

Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this 

Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name. 

Leon. A victory is twice itself when the achiever 
brings home full numbers. I find here that Don 
Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Flor- 
entine called Claudio. 

Mess. Much deserved on his part and equally re- 
membered by Don Pedro: he hath borne himself 
beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure 
of alamb, the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better 
bettered expectation than you must expect of me 
to tell you how. 

Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be 
very much glad of it. 

Mess. I have already delivered -him letters, and 
there appears much joy in him; even so much that 
joy could not show itself modest enough without a 
badge of bitterness. 

Leon. Did he break out into tears ? 

Mess. In great measure. 

Leon. A kind overflow of kindness: there are no 
faces truer than those that are so washed. How 
much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at 
weeping! 

Beat. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned 
from the wars or no ? 

Mess. I know none of that name, lady: there was 
none such in the army of any sort. 

Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece ? 

Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of 
Padua. [he was. 

Mess. O, he’s returned; and as pleasant as ever 

Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina and 
challenged Cupid at the flight ; and my uncle’s fool, 
reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and 
challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how 
many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But 
* how many hath he killed? for indeed I promised to 
eat all of his killing. 

, 92 


Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too 
much; but he ’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not. 

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these 
wars. : 

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath holp 
to eat it: he is a very valiant trencher-man; he 
hath an excellent stomach. 

Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 

Beat. And a good soldier to a lady: but what is 
he to a lord? 

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed 
with all honourable virtues. 

Beat. It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed 
man: but for the stutfing,— well, we are all mortal. 

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. 
There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Bene- 
dick and her: they never meet but there’s a skir- 
mish of wit between them. 

Beat. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last 
conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and 
now is the whole man governed with one: so that 
if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let 
him bear it for a difference between himself and his 
horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to 
be known a reasonable creature. Who is his com- 
panion now? He hath every month a new sworn 

Mess. Ist possible ? [brother. 

Beat. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but 
as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the 
next block. [books. 

Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your 

Beat. No; an he were, I would burn my study. 
But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there 
no young squarer now that will make a voyage with 
him to the devil ? 

Mess. He is most in the company of the right 
noble Claudio. 

Beat. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a dis- 
ease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and 
the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble 
Claudio! if he have caught the Benedick, it wil] 
cost him a thousand pound ere a’ be cured, 

Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 

Beat. Do, good friend. 

Leon. You will never run mad, niece. 

Beat. No, not till a hot January. 

Mess. Don Pedro is approached. 


ACT l. 


Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, 
and Balthasar. 


D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to 
meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to 
avoid cost, and you encounter it. 

Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the like- 
ness of your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort 
should remain; but when you depart from me, sor- 
row abides and happiness takes his leave. 

D. Pedro. Youembrace your charge too willingly. 
I think this is your daughter. 

Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so. 

Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her ? 

ae Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a 
child. 

D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick: we may 
guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, 
the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you 
are like an honourable father. 

Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would 
not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, 
as like him as she is. 

_ Beat. 1 wonder that you will still be talking 
Signior Benedick: nobody marks you. [living 3 

Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet 

Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while she 
hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick ? 
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come 
in her presence. 

Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is cer- 
tain Lam loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and 
I would I could find in my heart that I had not a 
hard heart; for, truly, I love none. 

Beat. A dear happiness to women: they would 
else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. 
I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your 
humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark 
at a crow than a man swear he loves me. 

Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that mind! 
so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predesti- 
nate scratched face. 

Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 
’t were such a face as yours were. 

Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 

Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast 
of yours. 

Bene. I would my horse had the speed of your 
tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your 
way, i’ God’s name; I have done. 

Beat. You always end with a jade’s trick : I know 
you of old. 

D. Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. 
Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear 
friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we 
shall stay here at the least a month; and he heartily 
prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare 
swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. 

Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be for- 
sworn. [Zo Don John] Let me bid you welcome, 
my lord: being reconciled to the prince your 
brother, I owe you all duty. 

D. John. 1 thank you: Iam not of many words, 
but I thank you. 

Leon. Please it your grace lead on ? 

D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato; we will go to- 
gether. [Exeunt all except Benedick and Claudio. 

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of 
Signior Leonato ? 

ene. I noted her not; but I looked on her. 

Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 

Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man 
should do, for my simple true judgment: or would 
you have me speak after my custom, as being a pro- 
fessed tyrant to their sex ? 

Claud. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. 

Bene. Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCEN EF. 
a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too 
little for a great praise: only this commendation I 
can afford her, that were she other than she is, she 
were unhandsome; and being no other but as she 
is, I do not like her. 

Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee 
tell me truly how thou likest her. [her ? 

Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire after 

Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ? 

Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak 
you this with a sad brow ? or do you play the flout. 
ing Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good harefinder and 
Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall 
a man take you, to go in the song ? 

Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that 
ever I looked on. 

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles and I see 
no such matter: there’s her cousin, and she were 
not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in 
beauty as the first of May doth the last of Decem- 
ber. But I hope you have no intent to turn hus- 
band, have you? 

Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I had 
sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. 

Bene. Is’t come to this? In faith, hath not the 
world one man but he will wear his cap with sus- 
picion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore 
again? Go to,i’ faith; and thou wilt needs thrust 
thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh 
ee Sundays. Look; Don Pedro is returned to 
seek you. 

‘ Re-enter Don Pedro. 

D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that 
you followed not to Leonato’s? {tell. 

Bene. I would your grace would constrain me to 

D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance. 

Bene. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret 
as a dumb man; 1 would have you think so; but, 
on my allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. 
He is inlove. With who? nowthat is your grace’s 
part. Mark how short his answer is;—With Hero, 
Leonato’s short daughter. 

Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered. 

Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, 
nor ’t was not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should 
be so.’ 

Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God 
forbid it should be otherwise. 

D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is 
very well worthy. 

Cluud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. 

D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. 

Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. 

Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, 
I spoke mine. 

Clana. That I love her, I feel. 

D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. 

Bene. That I neither feel how she should be loved 
nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion 
that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at 
the stake. 

D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic 
in the despite of beauty. 

Claud. And never could maintain his part but in 
the force of his will. 

Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; 
that she brought me up, I likewise give her most 
humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat 
winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an 
invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. 
Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust 
any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and 
the fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will 
live a bachelor. | 

D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale 
with love. i : 

Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, 

93 


ACT I. 


blood with love than I will get again with drink- 
ing, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen 
and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for 
the sign of blind Cupid. 

D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this 
faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. 

Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and 
shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clap- 
ped on the shoulder, and called Adam. 

D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try: 

‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’ 

Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensi- 
ble Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and 
set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely 
painted, and in such great letters as they write 
‘ Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under 
my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married 
man. 

Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst 
be horn-mad. 

D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his 
quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. 

Bene. 1 look for an earthquake too, then. 

D. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the 
hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, 
repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell 
him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he 
hath made great preparation. 

Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for 
such an embassage; and so I commit you— 

Claud. To the tuition of God: From my house, if 
I had it,— 

D. Pedro. The sixth of July: Your loving friend, 
Benedick. 

Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of 
your discourse is sometime guarded with frag- 
ments, and the guards are but slightly basted on 
neither: ere you flout old ends any further, exam- 
ine your conscience: and so I leave you. [ Exit. 

Claud. My liege, your highness now may do me 

good. [how, 

D. Pedro. My love is thine to teach: teach it but 
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 

Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ? 

D. Pedro. No child but Hero; she’s his only heir. 
Dost thou affect her, Claudio ? 

Claud. O, my lord, 

When you went onward on this ended action, 
I look’d upon her with a soldier’s eye, 

That liked, but had a rougher task in hand 
Than to drive liking to the name of love: 

But now I am return’d and that war-thoughts 
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 

All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars. 

D. Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently 

And tire the hearer with a book of words. 

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, 

And I will break with her and with her father 
And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end 
That thou began’st to twist so fine a story ? 

Claud. How sweetly you do minister to love, 
That know love’s grief by his complexion! 

But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 
1 would have salved it with a longer treatise. 

D, Pedro. What need the bridge much broader 

than the flood ? 
The fairiest grant is the necessity. 
Look, what will serve is fit: tis once, thou lovest, 
And I will fit thee with the remedy. 
I know we shall have revelling to-night: 
1 will assume thy part in some disguise 
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, 
And in her bosom Ill unclasp my heart 


94 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


my lord, not with love: prove that ever I lose more | 


SCENE III. 


And take her hearing prisoner with the force 
And strong encounter of my amorous tale; 
Then after to her father will I break ; 

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. 
In practice let us put it presently. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A room in Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato and Antonio, meeting. 


Leon. How now, brother! Where is my cousin, 
your son? hath he provided this music ? 

Ant. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I 
can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. 

Leon. Are they good ? 

Ant. As the event stamps them: but they have a 
good cover; they show well outward. The prince 
and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached 
alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard 
by a man of mine: the prince discovered to Clau- 
dio that he loved my niece your daughter and 
meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and 
if he found her accordant, he meant to take the 
present time by the top and instantly break with 
you of it. 

Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this ? 
. Ant. A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; 
and question him yourself. 

Leon. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it 
appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter 
withal, that she may be the better prepared for an 
answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and 
tell her of it. [Enter attendants.| Cousins, you 
know what you have to do. O,I1 cry you mercy, 
friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. 
Good cousin, have a care this busy time. |[|Hzeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter Don John and Conrade. 

Con. What the good-year, my lord! why are you 
thus out of measure sad ? . 

D. John. There is no measure in the occasion 
that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. 

Con. You should hear reason. 

D. John. And when I have heard it, what bless- 
ing brings it ? [sufferance. 

Con. If not a present remedy, at least a patient 

D. John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou say- 
est thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to 
apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. 
I cannot hide what Jam: I must be sad when I 
have cause and smile at no man’s jests, eat when 
I have stomach and wait for no man’s leisure, sleep 
when I am drowsy and tend on no man’s business, 
laugh when I am merry and claw no man in his 
humour. 

Con. Yea, but you must not make the full show 
of this till you may do it without controlment. 
You have of late stood out against your brother, 
and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace; where 
it is impossible you should take true root but by 
the fair weather that you make yourself: it is need- 
ful that you frame the season for your own harvest. 

D. John. Thad rather be a canker in a hedge than 
arose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be 
disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob 
love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to 
be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied 
but Lam a plain-dealing villain. Iam trusted with 
a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I 
have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my 
mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would 
do my liking: in the meantime let me be that lam 
and seek not to alter me. 

Con. Can you make no use of your discontent ? 

D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. 
Who comes here ? 


mse UL... 


Enter Borachio. 


What news, Borachio ? 

Bora. I came yonder from a great supper: the 
prince your brother is royally entertained by Leon- 
ato;.and I can give you intelligence of an intended 
marriage. 

D. John. Will it serve for any model to build 
mischief on? What is he for a tool that betroths 
himself to unquietness ? 

Bora. Marry, it is your brother’s right hand. 

D. John. Who? the most exquisite Claudio ? 

Bora. Even he. 

D. John. A proper squire! And who, and who? 
which way looks he ? [Leonato. 

Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of 

D, John. A very forward March-chick! How 
came you to this? 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE I. 


Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was 
smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and 
Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt 
me behind the arras; and there heard it agreed 
upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, 
and having obtained her, give her to Count Clau- 
dio. 

D. John. Come, come, let us thither: this may 
prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up 
hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross 
him any way, I bless myself every way. You are 
both sure, and will assist me ? 

Con. To the death, my lord. 

D. John. Let us to the great supper: their cheer 
is the greater that Lam subdued. Would the cook 
were A my mind! Shall we go prove what ’s to be 
done 


Bora. We’ll wait upon your lordship. [Hzeunt. 


tyes St (D4 Die ra 


SCENE I.—A ball in Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and 
others. 


Leon. Was not Count John here at supper ? 

Ant. I saw him not. 

Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never 
can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after. 

Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. 

Beat. He were an excellent man that were made 
just in the midway between him and Benedick: the 
one is too like an image and says nothing, and the 
oa too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tat- 
tling. 

Leon. Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in 
Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melan- 
choly in Signior Benedick’s face,— 

Beat. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and 
money enough in his purse, such a man would win 
Buy woman in the world, if a’ could get her good- 
will. 

Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee 
a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. 

Ant. In faith, she’s too curst. 

Beat. Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen 
God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends 
a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he 
sends none. 

Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you 
no horns. 

Beat. Just, if he send me no husband; for the 
which blessing Iam at him upon my knees every 
morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a 
husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie 
in the woollen. 

Leon. You. may light ona husband that hath 
no beard. 

Beat. What should I do with him ? dress him in my 
apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman ? 
He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he 
that hath no beard is less than a man: and he that 
is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is 
less than a man, I am not for him: therefore I will 
even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and 
lead his apes into hell. 

Leon. Well, then, go you into hell ? 

Beat. No, but to the gate; and there will the devil 
meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his 
head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get 
you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids:’ so 
deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for 
the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, 
and there live we as merry as the day is long. 


Ant. [To Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be 
ruled by your father. 

Beat. Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make 
curtsy and say, ‘ Father, as it please you.’ But yet 
for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, 
or else make another curtsy and say, ‘ Father, as it 
please me.’ 

Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted 
with a husband. 

Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal 
than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be 
overmastered with a piece of valiant dust ? to make 
an account of her life to a clod of wayward mar] ? 
No, uncle,I ll none: Adam/’s sons are my brethren ; 
and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. 

Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you: if 
the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know 
your answer. 

Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if 
you be not wooed in good time: if the prince be 
too important, tell him there is measure in every 
thing, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, 
Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting, isasaScotch 
jig, a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is 
hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantas- 
tical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, 
full of state and ancientry ; and then comes repent- 
ance and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque 
pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 

Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. 

Beat. Lhave a good eye, uncle; I can see a church 
by daylight. 

Leon. The revellers are entering, brother; make 
good room. [All put on their masks. 


Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, 
Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula, and others, 
masked. 


D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with your 
friend ? 

Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly and 
say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and espe- 
cially when I walk away. 

D. Pedro. With me in your company ? 

Hero. I may say so, when I please. 

D. Pedro. And when please you to say so? 

Hero. When I like your favour; for God defend 
the lute should be like the case! 

D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon’s roof; within 
the house is Jove. 

Hero. Why, then, your visor should be thatched. 

D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. 

| Drawing her aside. 
99 


ACT iil: 


Balth. Well, I would you did like me. 

Marg. So would not I, for your own sake; for I 
have many 111 qualities. 

Balth. Which is one? 

Marg. I say my prayers aloud. 

Balth. I love you the better: 
cry, Amen. 

Mary. God match me with a good dancer! 

Balth. Amen. 

Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when 
the dance is done! Answer, clerk. 

Balth. No more words: the clerk is answered. 

Urs. I know you well enough; you are Signior 
Antonio. 

Ant. At a word, I am not. 

Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head. 

Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. 

Urs. You could never do him so ill-well, unless 
you were the very man. WHere’s his dry hand up 
and down: you are he, you are he. 

Ant. At a word, I am not. 

Urs. Come, come, do you think I do not know 
you by your excellent wit ? can virtue hide itself? 
Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and 
there ’s an end. 

Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so? 

Bene. No, you shall pardon me. 

Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are? 

Bene. Not now. 

Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my 
good wit out of the ‘ Hundred Merry Tales : ’—well, 
this was Signior Benedick that said so. 

Bene. What ’s he? 

Beat. 1 am sure you know him well enough. 

Bene. Not I, believe me. 

Beat. Did he never make you laugh ? 

Bene. I pray you, what is he? 

Beat. Why, he is the prince’s jester: a very dull 
fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slan- 
ders: none but libertines delight in him; and the 
commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany ; 
for he both pleases men and angers them, and then 
they laugh at him and beat him. Iam sure he is 
in the fleet: I would he had boarded me. 

Bene. When I know the gentleman, [71] tell him 
what you say. 

Beat. Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or 
two onme; which, peradventure not marked or not 
laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then 
there ’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat 
no supper that night. [Music.] We must follow the 

Bene. In every Sen ee [leaders. 

Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave 
them at the next turning. 

[ Dance. Then exeunt all except Don John, 
Borachio, and Claudio. 

D. John. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and 
hath withdrawn her father to break with him about 
it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. 

Bora. And that is Claudio: I know him by his 
bearing. 

D. John. Are not you Signior Benedick ? 

Claud. You know me well; I am he. 

D. John. Signior, you are very near my brother 
in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, 
dissuade him from her: she is no equal for his birth: 
you may do the part of an honest man in it. 

Claud. How know you he loves her ? 

D. John. I heard him swear his affection. 

Bora. So did I too; and he swore he would marry 
her to-night. 

D. John. Come, let us to the banquet. 

[Laxeunt Don John and Borachio. 

Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, 

But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 
*T is certain so; the prince wooes for himself. 
Friendship is eonstant in all other things 


96 


the hearers may 


MUCH ADO’ ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE I. 


Save in the oflice and affairs of love: 

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues ; 
Let every eye negotiate for itself 

And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch 
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. 
This is an accident of hourly proof, 

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero ! 


Re-enter Benedick. 


Bene. Count Claudio ? 

Claud. Yea, the same. 

Bene. Come, will you go with me? 

Claud. Whither ? 

Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own 
business, county. What fashion Will you wear the 
garland of ? about your neck, like an usurer’s chain ? 
or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You 
a wear it one way, for the prince hath got your 

ero. 

Claud. I wish him joy of her. 

Bene. Why, that ’s spoken like an honest drovier: 
so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince 
would have served you thus ? 

Claud. I pray you, leave me. 

Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 
*t was the boy that stole your meat, and you ‘ll beat 
the post. 

Claud. If it will not be, Il] leave you. [ Exit. 

Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep 
into sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should 
know me, and not know me! The prince’s fool! 
Ha? It may be I go under that title because I am 
merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; 
I am not so reputed : it is the base, though bitter, 
disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her 
person, and so givesme out. Well, Ill be revenged 
Sail an Re-enter Don Pedro. 

D. Pedro. Now, signior, where ’s the count ? did 
you see him ? 

Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of 
Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a 
lodge in a warren: I told him, and I think I told 
him true, that your grace had "got the good will of 
this young lady; and I offered him my company to 
a willow-tree, either to make him a garland, as 
being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being 
worthy to be whipped. 

D. Pedro. To be whipped! What’s his fault ? 

Bene. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, 
being overjoyed with finding a bird’s nest, shows it 
his companion, and he steals it. 

D. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgres- 
sion? The transgression is in the stealer. 

Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been 
made, and the garland too; for the garland he 
might have worn himself, and the rod he might 
have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen 
his bird’s nest. 

D. Pedro. I will but teach them to’sing, and re- 
store them to the owner. 

Bene. If their singing answer your saying, by my 
faith, you say honestly. 

. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to 
you: the gentleman that danced with her told her 
she is much wronged by you. 

Bene. QO, she misused me past the endurance of 
a block! an oak but with one green leaf on it would 
have answered her; my very visor began to assume 
life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking 
I had been myself, that I was the prince’s jester, 
that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest 
upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon 
me that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole 
army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and 
every word stabs : if her breath were as terrible as 
her terminations, there were no living near her; 


ACT II. 


MLE CH ADO ABOUT) NOTHING. 


SCENE If, 


— 


she would infect to the north star. I would not 
marry her, though she were endowed with all that 
Adam had left him before he transgressed: she 
would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, 
and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, 
talk not of her: you shall find her the infernal Ate 
in good apparel. I would to God some scholar 
would conjure her; for certainly, while she is here, 
aman may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; 
and people sin upon purpose, because they would 
go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and per- 
turbation follows her. 

D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. 


Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato. 


Bene. Will your grace command me any service 
to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest 
errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise 
to send me on; I will fetch you a tooth-picker now 
from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length 
of Prester John’s foot, fetch you a hair off the great 
Cham’s beard, do you any embassage to the Pig- 
mies, rather than hold three words’ conference with 
this harpy. You have no employment for me? 

D. Pedro. None, butto desire your good company. 

Bene. O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I can- 
not endure my Lady Tongue. [ Exit. 

D. Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the 
heart of Signior Benedick. 

Beat. Indeed, my lord, he Jent it me awhile; and 
I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single 
one: marry, once before he won it of me with false 
dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it. 

D. Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you 
have put him down. 

Beat. So I would not he should do me, my lord, 
lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have 
brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. 

D,. Pedro. Why, how now, count! wherefore are 
you sad ? 

Claud. Not sad, my lord. 

D. Pedro. How then? sick ? 

Claud. Neither, my lord. 

Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor 


merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, | 


and something of that jealous complexion. 

D. Pedro. 1’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to 
be true; though, I’ ll be sworn, if he be so, his con- 
ceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy 
name, and fair Hero is won: I have broke with 
her father, and his good will obtained: name the 
day of marriage, and God give thee joy! 

Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with 
her my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, 
and all grace say Amen to it. 

Beat. Speak, count,’t is your cue. 

Olaud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I 
were but little happy, if I could say how much. 
Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away 
myself for you and dote upon the exehange. 

_ Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his 
mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. 

D, Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 

Beat. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it 
keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells 
him in his ear that he is in her heart. 

Claud. And so she doth, cousin. 

Beat. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every 
one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may 
sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! 

D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 

Beat. I would rather have one of your father’s 
getting. Hath your grace ne’er a brother like 
you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a 
maid could come by them. 

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 

Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another 


7 


for working-days: your grace is too costly to wear 
every day. But I beseech your grace, pardon me: 
I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. 

D. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to 
be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, 
you were born in a merry hour. 

Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but 
then there was a star danced, and under that was 
I born. Cousins, God give you joy! 

Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told 
you of ? 

Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace’s 
pardon. [ Heit. 

D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. 

Leon. There’s little of the melancholy element 
in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she 
sleeps, and not even sad then; for I have heard 
my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of un- 
happiness and waked herself with laughing. 

D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a 
husband. 

Leon. O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers 
out of suit. [dick. 

D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Bene- 

Leon. O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week 
married, they would talk themselves mad. 

D. Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you to go 
to church ? 

Claud. To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches 
till love have all his rites. 

Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is 
hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief, too, 
to have all things answer my mind. 

D. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long 
a breathing: but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time 
shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim un- 
dertake one of Hercules’ labours: which is, to 
bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into 
a mountain of affection the one with the other. I 
would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to 
fashion it, if you three will but minister such assist- 
ance as I shall give you direction. 

Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me 
ten nights’ watchings. 

Claud. And I, my lord. 

D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? 

Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to 
help my cousin to a good husband. 

D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest 
husband that I know. ‘Thus far can I praise him; 
he is of a noble strain, of approved valour and 
confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to hu- 
mour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with 
Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so prac- 
tise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit 
and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with 
Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an 
archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only 
love-gods. o in with me, and I will tell you my 


drift. [ Exeunt. 
SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Don John and Borachio. 


D. John. It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry 
the daughter of Leonato. 

Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. 

D. John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment 
will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure 
to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affec- 
tion ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou 
eross this marriage ? 

Bora. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly 
that no dishonesty shall appear in me. 

D. John. Show me briefly how. 

Bora. I think I told your lordship a year since, 
how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the 
waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 


97 


AOE ETS 


D. John. I remember. 

Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the 
night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s cham- 
ber-window. 

D. John. What life is in that, to be the death of 
this marriage ? 

Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. 
Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell 
him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying 
the renowned Claudio — whose estimation do you 
mightily hold up —to a contaminated stale, such a 
one as Hero. 

D. John. What proof shall I make of that ? 

Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex 
Claudio, to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you 
for any other issue ? 

D. John. Only to despite them, I will endeavour 
anything. 

Bora. Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don 
Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that 
you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal 
both to the prince and Claudio, as,—in love of your 
brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and 
his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened 
with the semblance of a maid,—that you have dis- 
covered thus. They will scarcely believe this with- 
out trial: offer them instances; which shall bear 
no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber- 
window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret 
term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the 
very night before the intended wedding,—for in 
the meantime I will so fashion the matter that 
Hero shall be absent,— and there shall appear such 
seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty that jealousy 
shall be called assurance and all the preparation 
overthrown. 

D. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, 
I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the work- 
ing this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. 

Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my 
cunning shall not shame me. 

D. John. I will presently go learn their day of 
malriage. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Leonato’s orchard. 


Enter Benedick. 

Bene. Boy! 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Signior ? 

Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book: bring 
it hither to me in the orchard. 

Boy. Lam here already, sir. 

Bene. I know that ; but I would have thee hence, 
and here again. [zit Boy.] I do much wonder 
that one man, seeing how much another man is a 
fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, 
after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in 
others, become the argument of his own scorn by 
falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have 
known when there was no music with him but the 
drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the 
tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would 
have walked ten mile a-foot to see a good armour; 
and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the 
fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak 
plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a 
soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his 
words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many 
strange dishes. May I beso converted and see with 
these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not 
be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster ; 
but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an 
oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. 
One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, 
yet [ am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but 
till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall 


98 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE Iit. 


not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s 
certain ; wise, or I ll none; virtuous, or Ill never 
cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, 
or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; 
of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her 
hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the 
prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the 
arbour. [ Withdraws. 


Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato. 


D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? 

Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the even- 
As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony! fing is, 

aE Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid him- 
self : 

Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended, 
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. 


Enter Balthasar with Music. 


D. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we ’ll hear that song 

again. 

Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice 
To slander music any more than once. 

D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency 
To put a strange face on his own perfection. 

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. 

Balih. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; 
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit 
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes, 

Yet will he swear he loves. 

D. Pedro. Now, pray thee, come; 
Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, 
Do it in notes. 

Balth. Note this before my notes ; 

There ’s not a note of mine that ’s worth the noting. 

D. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he 

speaks; 
Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. [Aar. 

Bene. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished ! 
Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls 
out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, 
when all’s done. 


THE SONG. 


Balth. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever, 

One foot in sea and one on shore, 
To one thing constant never: 

Then sigh not so, but let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny, 

Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into Hey nonny, nonny. 


Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, 
Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 
The fraud of men was ever so, 
Since summer first was leafy: 
Then sigh not so, &e. 


D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 

Balth. And an ill singer, my lord. 

D. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well 
enough for a shift. 

Bene. An he had been a dog that should have 
howled thus, they would have hanged him: and I 
pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as 
lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague 
could have come after it. 

D. Pedro. Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? 
I pray thee, get us some excellent music; for to- 
morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s 
chamber-window. 

Balth. The best I can, my lord. 

D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exit Balthasar. 
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me 
of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with 


Signior Benedick ? 


ACT II. 


Claud. O, ay: stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. 
I did never think that lady would have loved any 
man. 

Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful 
that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom 
she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to 
abhor. 

Bene. Is’t possible ? Sits the wind in that corner ? 

Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what 
to think of it but that she loves him with an en- 
raged affection; it is past the infinite of thought. 

D. Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit. 

Claud. Faith, like enough. 

Leon. O God, counterfeit! There was never 
counterfeit of passion came so near the life of pas- 
sion as she discovers it. 

D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she? 

Claud. Bait the hook well; this fish will bite. 

Leon. What effects, my lord? She will sit you, 
you heard my daughter tell you how. 

Claud. She did, indeed. 

D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze 
me: I would have thought her spirit had been in- 
vincible against all assaults of affection. 

Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; espe- 
cially against Benedick. . 

Bene. I should think this a gull, but that the 
white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, 
sure, hide himself in such reverence. 

Claud. He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up. 

D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to 
Benedick ? 

Leon. No; and swears she never will: that’s her 
torment. 

Claud. ’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: 
‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered 
him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’ — 

Leon. This says she now when she is beginning 
to write to him; for she ’ll be up twenty times a 
night, and there she will sit in her smock till she 
have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all. 

Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I re- 
member a pretty jest your daughter told us of. 

Leon. O, when she had writ it and was reading 
it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between 
the sheet ? . 

Claud. That. 

Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand half- 
pence; railed at herself, that she should be so im- 
modest to write to one that she knew would flout 
her; ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘ by my own spirit; 
for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, 
though I love him, I should.’ 

Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, 
weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, 
curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience! ’ 

Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so: 
and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my 
daughter is sometime afeard she will do a desperate 
outrage to herself: it is very true. 

D. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it 
by some other, if she will not discover it. 

Claud. To what end? He would make but a 
sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. 

__ _D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang 
him. She’s an excellent sweet lady; and, out of 
_ all suspicion, she is virtuous. 

Claud. And she is exceeding wise. 

D. Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick. 
_ Leon. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating 
in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that 
blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I 
have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. 

D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage 
on me: I would have daffed all other respects and 
made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of 
it, and hear what a’ will Say. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE ITI. 


Leon. Were it good, think you ? 

Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she 
Says she will die, if he love her not, and she will die, 
ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he 
woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her 
accustomed crossness. 

D. Pedro. She doth well: if she should make 
tender of her love, ’t is very possible he’ll scorn it; 
for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible 
_ Claud. He is a very proper man. [spirit. 

D. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward hap- 
piness. 

Claud. Before God! and, in my mind, very wise. 

D. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that 
are like wit. 

Claud. And I take him to be valiant. 

D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you: and in the 
managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for 
either he avoids them with great discretion, or un- 
dertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. 

Leon. If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep 
peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into 
a quarrel with fear and trembling. 

D. Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth 
fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some 
large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your 
niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of 
her love ? 

Claud. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it 
out with good counsel. 

Leon. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her 
heart out first. 

D. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by 
your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Bene- 
dick well; and I could wish he would modestly ex- 
amine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so 
good a lady. 

Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. 

Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will 
never trust my expectation. 

D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for 
her; and that must your daughter and her gentle- 
women carry. The sport will be, when they hold one 
an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter : 
that ’s the scene that I would see, which will be 
merely a dumb-show, Let us send her to call him in 
to dinner. [Hxeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato. 

Bene. [Coming forward] This can be no trick: 
the conference was sadly borne. They have the 
truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the 
lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. 
Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I 
am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, 
if I perceive the love come from her; they say too 
that she will rather die than give any sign of affec- 
tion. I did never think to marry: I must not seem 
proud: happy are they that hear their detractions 
and can put them to mending. They say the lady 
is fair; *tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and 
virtuous ; ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but 
for loving me; by my troth, it is no addition to her 
wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will 
be horribly in love with her. I may chance have 
some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, 
because I have railed so long against marriage: but 
doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat 
in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. 
Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of 
the brain awe a man from the career of his humour ? 
No, the world must be peopled. When I said I 
would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live 
till | were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this 
day! she’s a fair lady: I dospy some marks of love 
in her. ; 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you come 

in to dinner. 


99 


quae iat MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. su hoe 


Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Bene. Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you 
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than | come in to dinner ; ’ there’s a double meaning in 
you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, | that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than 
I would not have come. you took pains to thank me;’ that ’s as much as to 
Bene. You take pleasure then in the message ? say, Any pains that I take for you is aS easy as 
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a | thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a vil- 
knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have | lain; if Ido not love her, lam a Jew. I will go 


no stomach, signior: fare you well. [ Hit. | get her picture. [ Exit. 
ot 8 By a EN BS 
SCENE I.— Leonato’s garden. Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 
She is so self-endeared. 


Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Ure. Sure, I think so; 


Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; | And therefore certainly it were not good 
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 
Proposing with the prince and Claudio: Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw 
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula man, 
Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, 
Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us; But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced, 
And bid her steal into the pleached bower, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister ; ; 
Where honeysuckles, ripen’d by the sun, If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique, 
Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed ; 
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride If low, an agate very vilely cut; 
Against that power that bred it: there will she hide | If speaking, why, a vane blown ‘with all winds; 3 
To listen our purpose. This is thy office ; [her, | If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. So tums she every man the wrong side out 

Marg. 1’ll make her come, I warrant you, pres- ; And never gives to truth and virtue that 


a i 


ently. (Evit. Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 

Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. 
As we do trace this alley up and down, Hero. No, not to be so odd and from all fashions 
Our talk must only be of Benedick. AS Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: 

When I do name him, let it be thy part But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, 

To praise him more than ever man did merit: She would mock me into air; O,she would laugh me 
My talk to thee must be how Benedick Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 

Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, 

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly : 

That only wounds by hearsay. It were a better death than die with pa be 


Which is as bad as die with tickling. 


Enter Beatrice, behind. Urs. Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say. 


Now begin; Hero. No; rather I will go to Benedick 

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs And counsel him to fight against his passion. 

Close by the ground, to hear our conference. And, truly, Ill devise some honest slanders 
Urs. The pleasant?” st angling is to see the fish To stain my cousin with: one doth not know 

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, How much an ill word may empoison liking. 

And greedily devour the treacherous bait: Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. 

So angle we for Beatrice; who even now She cannot be so much without true judgment — 

Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Having so swift and excellent a wit 

Fear you not my part of the dialogue. As she is prized to have — as to refuse 
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose noth- | So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. 

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. [ing Hero. He is the only man of Italy, 

[Approaching the bower. | Always excepted my dear Claudio. 

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; Urs. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, 

I know her spirits are as coy and wild Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, 

As pansetus of the rock. For shape, for bearing, ‘argument and valour, 

But are you sure Goes foremost in report through Italy. 

That. Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name, 
Hero. So says the prince and my new-trothed lord. Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. 
Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? |} When are you married, madam? » 

Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; Hero. Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in: 
But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, I ‘ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel. 
To wish him wrestle with affection, Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. 

And never to let Beatrice know of it. Urs. She’s limed, I warrant you: we have caught 
Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman her, madam. 

Deserve as full as fortunate a bed Hero. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps: 

As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.. 
Hero. O god of love! I know he doth deserve [ Exeunt Hero and Ursu ila. 

As much as may be yielded to a man: eh [Comin gonna What fire is in mine ears ? 

But Nature never framed a woman’s heart Can this bet true ? 

Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice ; Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much ? 

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! 

Misprising what they look on, and her wit No clory lives behind the back of such. 

Values itself so highly that to her And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, 

All matter else seems weak: she cannot love, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: 


100 


the loss of a beard. 


_ you smell him out by that ? 


- of all, dies for him. 


ACT III. 


WOUCH ADOVABOUTINOTHING. 


SCENE III. 


If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 
To bind our loves up in a holy band; 
For others say thou dost deserve, and I 
Believe it better than reportingly. [ Heit. 
SCENE II. — A room in Leonato’s house. 


Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and 
Leonato. 


D. Pedro. Ido but stay till your marriage be con- 
summate, and then go I toward Arragon. 

Olaud. Ill bring you thither, my lord, if you ’ll 
vouchsafe me. 

D. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the 
new gloss of your marriage as to showachild his new 
coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold 
with Benedick for his company ; for, from the crown 
of his head to the sole of his foot, he isall mirth: he 
hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bow-string and the 
little hang-man dare not shoot at him; he hatha 
heart as sound as a bell and his tongue is the clapper, 
for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. 

Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been. 

Leon. So say 1: methinks you are sadder. | 

Claud. I hope he be in love. | 

D. Pedro. Hang him, truant! there ’s no true drop 
of blood in him, to be truly touched with love: if he 


be sad, he wants money. 


Bene. I have the toothache. 
D. Pedro. Draw it. 
Bene. Hang it! [wards. 

Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it after- 

D. Pedro. What! sigh for the toothache ? 

Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm. 

Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but he ; 
that has it. 

Claud. Yet say I, he is in love. 

D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, 
unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises ; 
as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-mor- 
row, or in the shape of two countries at once, as, a | 
German from the waist downward, all slops, and a 
Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless 
he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, 
- is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear 

e is. 

Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, 
there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his ha 
0’ mornings; what should that bode ? } 

D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber’s ? 

Claud. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen 
with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath 
already stuffed tennis-balls. 

Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by 


D. Pedro. Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can 
[in love. 
. Claud. That’s as muchas to say, the sweet youth’s 
D, Pedro. The greatest note of it ishis melancholy. 
Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face ? 
D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself ? for the which, 
I hear what they say of him. 
Claud. Nay, but. his jesting spirit ; which is now 
crept into a lute-string and now governed by stops. 
D. Pedvo. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: 
conclude, conclude he is in love. 
Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. 
D, Pedvo. That would I know too: I warrant, 
one that knows him not. 
Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in ve 
wards. 
D. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face up- 
Bene. Yetisthisno charm forthe toothache. Old 
Signor, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or 
hine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby- 
horses must not hear. 
| Hxeunt Benedick and Leonato. 


D. Pedro. For my life, to break with him about 
Beatrice. 

Claud. ’Tisevenso. Heroand Margaret have by 
this played their parts with Beatrice; and then the 
two bears will not bite one another when they meet. 


Enter Don John. 


D. John. My lord and brother, God save you! 

D. Pedro. Good den, brother. 

D. John. If your leisure served, I would speak 
with you. 

D. Pedro. In private ? 

D. John. If it please you: yet Count Claudio may 
hear; for what I would speak of concerns him. 

D. Pedro. What’s the matter ? 

D. John. [To Claudio] Means your lordship to be 
married to-morrow ? 

D. Pedro. You know he does. [know. 

D. John. I know not that, when he knows what I 

Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray you 
discover it. 

D. John. You may think I love you not: let that 
appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I 
now will manifest. For my brother, I think he 
holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp 
to effect your ensuing marriage;—surely suit ill 
spent and labour ill bestowed. 

D. Pedro. Why, what’s the matter ? 

D. John. I came hither to tell you; and, circum- 
stances shortened, for she has been too long a talk- 
ing of, the lady is disloyal. 

Claud. Who, Hero? 

D. John. Even she; Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, 
every man’s Hero. 

Claud. Disloyal ? 

D. John. The word is too good to paint out her 
wickedness; I could say she were worse: think you 
of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder 
not till further warrant: go but with me to-night, 
you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the 
night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, 
to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your 
honour to change your mind. 

Claud. May this be so ? 

D, Pedro. I will not think it. 

D. John. If you dare not trust that you see, con- 
fess not that you know: if you will follow me, I 
will show you enough; and when you have seen 
more and heard more, proceed accordingly. 

Claud. If Isee anything to-night why I should not 
marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I 
should wed, there will I shame her. 

D. Pedro. And,as I wooed for thee to obtain her, 
I will join with thee to disgrace her. 

D. John. I will disparage her no farther till you 
are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, 
and let the issue show itself. 

D. Pedro. O day untowardly turned! 

Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting! 

D. John. O plague right well prevented! so will 
you say when you have seen the sequel. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— A street. 


Enter Dogberry and Verges with the Watch. 


Dog. Are you good men and true ? 

Verge. Yea, or else it were pity but they should 
suffer salvation, body and soul. 

Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for 
them, if they should have any allegiance in them, 
being chosen for the prince’s watch. 

Verge. Well, give them their charge, neighbour 
Dogberry. 

Dog. First, who think you the most desartless 
man to be constable ? 

First Watch. Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Sea- 
cole; for they can write and read. 

101 


ACT Bias 


Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath 
blessed you with a good name: to bea well-favoured 
man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read 
comes by nature. 

Sec. Watch. Both which, master constable,— 

Dog. You have: I knew it would be your answer. 
Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, 
and make no boast of it; and for your writing 
and reading, let that appear when there is no need of 
such vanity. You are thought here to be the most 
senseless and fit man for the constable of the 
watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is 
your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; 
you are to bid any man stand, in the prince’s name. 

Sec. Watch. How if a’ will not stand ? 

Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him 
go; and presently call the rest of the watch together 
and thank God you are rid of a knave. . 

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he 
is none of the prince’s subjects. 

Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but 
the prince’s subjects. Youshall also make no noise 
in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to 
talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. 


Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know | 


what belongs to a watch. 

Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most 
quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping 
should offend : only, havea care that your bills be not 
stolen. Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, 
and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 

Watch. How if they will not ? 

Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: 
if they make you not then the better answer, you 
may say they are not the men you took them for, 

Watch. Well, sir. 

Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, 
by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for 


such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with | 


them, why, the more is for your honesty. 

Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we 
not lay hands on him ? 

Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think 
they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peace- 
able way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him 
showhimself what he isandstealout of yourcompany. 

Verg. You have been always called a merciful 
man, partner. 

Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, 
much more a man who hath any honesty in him. 

Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you 
must call to the nurse and bid her still it. 

Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not 
hear us ? 

Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the 
child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will 
not hear her lamb when it baes will never answer 
a calf when he bleats. 

Verg. ’T is very true. 

Dog. This is the end of the charge: — you, con- 
stable, are to present the prince’s own person: if 
you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. 

Verg. Nay, by ’r lady, that I think a’ cannot. 

Dog. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man 
that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, 
not without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the 
watch ought to offend no man; and it is an offence 
to stay a man against his will. 

Verg. By ’r lady, I think it be so. 

Dog. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an 
there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: 
keep your fellows’ counsels and your own; and good 
night. Come, neighbour. 

Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let 
us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and 
then all to bed. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE III. 


you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the 

wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great 

coil to-night. Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you. 
[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges. 


Enter Borachio and Conrade, 


Bora. What, Conrade! 

Watch. [Aside] Peace! stir not. 

Bora. Conrade, I say! 

Con. Here, man; I am at thy elbow. 

Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought 
there would a scab follow. 

Con. I will owe thee an answer for that: and now 
forward with thy tale. 

Bora. Stand thee close, then, under this pent- 
house, for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a true 
drunkard, utter all to thee. 

Watch. [Aside] Some treason, masters: yet stand 
close. 

Bora. Therefore know I have earned of Don John 
a thousand ducats. 

ae Is it possible that any villany should be so 
dear : 

Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were pos- 
sible any villany should be so rich; for when rich 
villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make 
what price they will. 

Con. I wonder at it. 

Bora. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou 
knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or 
a Cloak, is nothing to a man. 

Con. Yes, it is apparel. 

Bora. I mean, the fashion. 

Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 

Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the 
fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief 
this fashion is ? 

Watch. [Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has 
been a vile thief this seven year; a’ goes up and 
down like a gentleman: I remember his name. 

Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody ? 

Con. No; ’t was the vane on the house. 

Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed 
thief this fashion is? how giddily a’ turns about 
all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and- 
thirty ? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s 
soldiers in the reeky painting, sometime like god 
Bel’s priests in the old church-window, sometime 
like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm- 
eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems aS massy 
as his club? 

Con. All this I see; and I see that the fashion 
wears out more apparel than the man. But art not 
thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou 
hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the 
fashion ? 

Bora. Not so, neither: but know that I have 
to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentle- 
woman, by the name of Hero; she leans me out at 
her mistress’ chamber-window, bids me a thousand 
times good-night,— I tell this tale vilely :—I should 
first tell thee how the prince, Claudio and my mas- 
ter, planted and placed and possessed by my mas- 
ter Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this 
amiable encounter. 

Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero ? 

Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; 
but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; 
and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, 
partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, 
but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any 
slander that Don John had made, away went Clau- 
dio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was 
appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, 
before the whole congregation, shame her with 
what he saw o’er night and send her home again 


Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray | without a husband. 


102 


ACT 111. 


First Watch. 
name, stand! 

Sec. Waich. Call up the right master constable. 
We have here recovered the most dangerous piece 
of lechery that ever was known in the common- 
wealth. 

First Watch. And one Deformed is one of them: 
I know him; a’ wears a lock. 

Con. Masters, masters,— 

Sec. Watch. Youll be made bring Deformed 
forth, I warrant you. 

Con. Masters,— 

First Watch. Never speak: we charge you let us 
obey you to go with us. 

Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, 
being taken up of these men’s bills. 

Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. 
Come, we ’ll obey you. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—Hero’s apartment. 


Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. 


Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, 
and desire her to rise. 

Urs. I will, lady. 

Hero. And bid her come hither. 

Urs. Well. [ Hvit. 

Marg. Troth, I think your other rabato were 
better. 

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this. 

Marg. By my troth, ’s not so good; and I war- 
rant your cousin will say so. 

Hero. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: 
I?ll wear none but this. 

Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if 
the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s 
a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of 
Milan’s gown that they praise so. 

Hero. O, that exceeds, they say. 

Marg. By my troth, ’s but a night-gown in re- 
spect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced 
with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side 
sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with a bluish 
tinsel: but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent 
fashion, yours is worth ten on’t. 

Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart 
is exceeding heavy. 

Marg. ’T will be heavier soon by the weight of a 

Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? = [man. 

Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably ? 
Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not 
your lord honourable without marriage? I think 
you would have me say, ‘Saving your reverence, a 
husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true 
speaking, Ill offend nobody: is there any harm 
in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, 
an it be the right husband and the right wife; 
otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady 
Beatrice.else; here she comes. 


We charge you, in the prince’s 


Enter Beatrice. 


Hero. Good morrow, coz. 
peat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. 
d sero Why, how now? do you speak in the sick 
une | 
Peat. I am out of all other tune, methinks. 
Marg. Clap’s into ‘Light 0’ love;’ that goes 
without a burden: do you sing it, and Ill dance it. 
Beat. Ye light o’ love, with your heels! then, if 
your husband have stables enough, you ’ll see he 
shall lack no barns. 
Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that 
with my heels. 
Beat. "Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time 
ite were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: 
eigh-ho! 
Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband ? 


PUCHVADOVABOU Ds NO THING. 


SCENE V. 


Beat. For the letter that begins them all, 11. 

Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk, there’s 
no more sailing by the star. 

Beat. What means the fool, trow ? 

Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their 
heart’s desire! 

Hero. These gloves the count sent me; they are 
an exceltent perfume. f 

Beat. I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell. 

_ Marg. A maid, and stuffed! there ’s goodly catch- 
eNO cold. 

eat. O, God help me! God help me! how long 
have you professed apprehension ? 

Marg. Even since you left it. 
become me rarely ? 

Beat. It isnot seen enough, you should wear it in 
your cap. By my troth, I am sick. 

Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus 
Benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only 
thing for a qualm. 

Hero. There thou prickest her with a thistle. 

Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have 
some moral in this Benedictus. ' 

Marg. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral 
meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may 
think perchance that I think you are in love: nay, 
by ’r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list, 
nor I list not to think what I can, nor indeed I 
cannot think, if I would think my heart out of 
thinking, that you are in love or that you will be 
in love or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick 
was such another, and now is he become a man: 
he swore he would never marry, and yet now, in 
despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudg- 
ing: and how you may be converted I know not, but 
methinks you look with your eyes as other women do. 

Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps ? 

Marg. Not a false gallop. 


Doth not my wit 


Re-enter Ursula. 


Urs. Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, 
Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants 
of the town, are come to fetch you to church. 

Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good 
Ursula. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Another room in Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. 


Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour? ~ 

Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence 
with you that decerns you nearly. 

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy 
time with me. 

Dog. Marry, this it is, sir. 

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir. 

Leon. What is it, my good friends ? 

Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the 
matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so 
blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, 
in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. 

Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any 
man living that is an old man and no honester 
than I. 

Dog. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neigh- 
bour Verges. 

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. 

Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we 
are the poor duke’s officers; but truly, for mine 
own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could 
find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. 

Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah? 

Dog. Yea, an *twere a thousand pound more 
than ‘tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your 
worship as of any man in the city; and though I 
be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. 

Verg. And so am I. 

103 


ACT IV. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE IL. 


Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. 

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting 
your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as 
arrant knaves as any in Messina. 

Dog. A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as 
they say, When the age is in, the wit is out: God 
help us! it is a world to see. Well said, i’ faith, 
neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good than; an 
two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An 
honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever 
broke bread; but God is to be worshipped ; all men 
are not alike; alas, good neighbour! {you. 

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of 

Dog. Gifts that God gives. 

Leon. I must leave you. 

Dog. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed 
comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would 
have them this morning examined before your 
worship. 


Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring 
it me: Iam now in great haste, as it may appear 
unto you. 

Dog. It shall be suffigance. 

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well. 


Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your 
daughter to her husband. 

Leon. 1’ll wait upon them: I am ready. 

[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger. 

Dog. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis 
Seacole; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the 
gaol: we are now to examination these men. 

Verg. And we must do it wisely. 

Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; 
here ’s that shall drive some of them to a noncome: 
only get the learned writer to set down our excom- 
munication and meet me at the gaol. [Hxeunt. 


LAR Ts LN Vis 


SCENE I.— A church. 


Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Fran- 
cis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, and Atten- 
dants. 

Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the 
plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their 
particular duties afterwards. lady. 

Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this 

Claud. No. 

Leon. To be married to her: friar, you come to 
marry her. [count. 

Friar. Lady, youcome hitherto be married to this 

Hero. I do. 

Friar. Tf either of you know any inward impedi- 
ment why you should not be conjoined, I charge 
you, on your souls, to utter it. 

Claud: Know you any, Hero ? 

Hero. None, my lord. 

Friar. Know you any, count ? 

Leon. I dare make his answer, none. 

Claud. O, what men dare do! what men may do! 
what men daily do, not knowing what they do! 

. Bene. Hownow! interjections? Why,then,some 
be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he! [leave : 
Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your 

Will you with free and unconstrained soul 

Give me this maid, your daughter ? 

Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. 

Claud. And what have I to give you back, whose 
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ? [worth 

D. Pedvo. Nothing, unless you render her again. 

Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thank- 
There, Leonato, take her back again: {fulness. 
Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; 

She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. 

Behold how like a maid she blushes here! 

O, what authority and show of truth 

Can cunning sin cover itself withal! 

Comes not that blood as modest evidence 

To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, 

All you that see her, that she were a maid, 

By these exterior shows? But she is none: 

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; 

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. 

Leon. What do you mean, my lord ? 

Claud. Not to be married, 
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 

Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, 
Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, 

And made defeat of her virginity,— [known her, 
Claud. I know what you would say: if I have 


104 


You will say she did embrace me as a husband, 
And so extenuate the forehand sin: 
No, Leonato, 
I never tempted her with word too large; 
But, as a brother to his sister, show’d 
Bashful sincerity and comely love. 
Hero. And seem’d I ever otherwise to you? [it: 
Claud. Out onthee! Seeming ! I will write against 
You seem to me as Dian in her orb, 
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; 
But you are more intemperate in your blood 
Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals 
That rage in savage sensuality. 
Hero. Ismy lord well, that he doth speak so wide ? 
Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you? 
D. Pedro. What should I speak ? 
I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about 
To link my dear friend to a common stale. 
Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream ? 
D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things 
Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. [are true. 
Hero. True! O God! 
Claud. Leonato, stand I here ? 
Is this the prince ? is this the prince’s brother ? 
Is this face Hero’s? are our eyes our Own ? 
Leon. All this is so: but what of this, my lord ? 
Claud. Let me but move one question to your 
And, by that fatherly and kindly power [daughter ; 
That you have in her, bid her answer truly. 
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. 
Hero. O, God defend me! how am I beset! 
What kind of catechising call you this? 
Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. 
Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name 
With any just reproach ? 
Claud. Marry, that can Hero; 
Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. 
What man was he talk’d with you yesternight 
Out at your window betwixt twelve and one ? 
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. 
Hero. I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord. 
ay). See: Why, then are you no maiden. Leo- 
nato, 
I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour, 
Myself, my brother and this grieved count 
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night 
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window; 
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, 
Confess’d the vile encounters they have had 
A thousand times in secret. flord, 
D. John. Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my 
Not to be spoke of; 


ACT IV. 


There is not chastity enough in language 
Without offence to utterthem. Thus, pretty lady, 
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. 
Claud. O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been, 
If half thy outward graces had been placed 
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! 
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, 
Thou pure impiety and impious purity! 
For thee Ill lock up all the gates of love, 
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, 
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, 
And never shall it more be gracious. 
Leon. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me? ! 
[ Hero swoons. 
Beat. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you 
down ? 
D. John. Come, let us go. 
thus to light, 
Smother her spirits up. 
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio. 
Bene. How doth the lady ? 
Beat. Dead, I think. Help, uncle! 
Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! 
Friar ! 
Leon. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand. 
Death is the fairest cover for her shame 
That may be wish’d for. 
Beat. How now, cousin Hero! 
Friar. Have comfort, lady. 
Leon. Dost thou look up ? 
Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not ? 


These things, come | 


[thing | 
Leon. Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly | 
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny 


_ The story that is printed in her blood ? 


Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes: 
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, 
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy 
shames, 
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, 
Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one? 
Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame ? 
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one ? 
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? 
Why had I not with charitable hand 
Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates, 
Who smirch’d thus and mired with infamy, 
I might have said ‘ No part of it is mine; 
This shame derives itself from unknown loins’ ? 
But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised 
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much 
That I myself was to myself not mine, 
Valuing of her,— why, she, O, she is fallen 
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea 
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again 
And salt too little which may season give 
To her foul-tainted flesh! 
Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. 
For my part, I am so attired in wonder, 
I know not what to say. 
Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! 
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ? 
Beat. No, truly not; although, until last night, 
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. 
Leon. Confirm’d, confirm’d! O, that is stronger 
_ Made 
Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron! 
Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, 
Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, 
Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. 
Friar. Hear me a little; for I have only been 
Silent so long and given way unto 
This course of fortune . .. . 
By noting of the lady I have mark’d 
A thousand blushing apparitions 
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames 
In angel whiteness beat away those blushes ; 
And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


- That appertain unto a burial. 


SCENE I. 


To burn the errors that these princes hold 
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; 
Trust not my reading nor my observations, 
Which with experimental seal doth warrant 
The tenour of my book; trust not my age, 
My reverence, calling, nor divinity, 
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
Under some biting error. 
Leon. Friar, it cannot be. 
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left 
Is that she will not add to her damnation 
A sin of perjury; she not denies it: 
Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse 
That which appears in proper nakedness ? 
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accused of ? 
Hero. They know that do accuse me; Iknownone: 
If I know more of any man alive 
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, 
Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father, 
Prove you that any man with me conversed 
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
Maintain’d the change of words with any creature, 
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! 
Friar. There is some strange misprision in the 
princes. four; 
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of hon- 
And if their wisdoms be misled in this, 
The practice of it lives in John the bastard, 
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. her, 
Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of 
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her hon- 
The proudest of them shall well hear of it. [our, 
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, 
Nor age so eat up my invention, 
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, 
But they shall find, awaked in such a kind, 
Both strength of limb and policy of mind, 
Ability in means and choice of friends, 
To quit me of them throughly. 
Friar. Pause awhile, 
And let my counsel sway you in this case. 
Your daughter here the princes left for dead: 
Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 
And publish it that she is dead indeed ; 
Maintain a mourning ostentation 
And on your family’s old monument 
Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites [do ? 
om 
Leon. What shall become of this ? what will this 
pachtr ie wait this well carried shall on her be- 
a 
Change slander to remorse; that is some good: 
But not for that dream I on this strange course, 
But on this travail look for greater birth. 
She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, 
Upon the instant that she was accused, 
Shall be lamented, pitied and excused 
Of every hearer: for it so falls out 
That what we have we prize not to the worth 
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, 
Why, then we rack the value, then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show us 
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: 
When he shall hear she died upon his words, 
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
Into his study of imagination, 
And every lovely organ of her life 
Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit, 
More moving-delicate and full of life, 
Into the eye and prospect of his soul, 
Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn, 
If ever love had interest in his liver, 
And wish he had not so accused her, 
No, though he thought his accusation true. 
Let this be so, and doubt not but success 
Will fashion the event in better shape 


105 


MUCH ADO 


Than I can lay it down in likelihood. 

But if all aim but this be levell’d false, 

The supposition of the lady’s death 

Will quench the wonder of her infamy: 

And if it sort not well, you may conceal her, 
As best befits her wounded reputation, 

In some reclusive and religious life, 

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries. 

Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you: 
And though you know my inwardness and love 
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, 

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this 
As secretly and justly as your soul 
Should with your body. 

Leon. Being that I flow in grief, 
The smallest twine may lead me. 

Friar. ’T is well consented: presently away ; 
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. 
Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day 
Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and en- 

dure. [Hreunt all but Benedick and Beatrice. 

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 

while ? 

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. 

Bene. I will not desire that. 

Beat. You have no reason; I do it freely. 

Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is 
wronged. 

Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of 
me that would right her! 

Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship ? 

Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. 

Bene. May a man do it ? 

Beat. It is a man’s office, but not yours. 

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as 
you: is not that strange ? 

Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It 
were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so 
well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; 
I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. Iam sorry 
for my cousin. 

Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 

Beat. Do not swear, and eat it. 

Bene. I will swear by it that you love me; and I 
will make him eat it that says I love not you. 

Beat. Will you not eat your word ? 

Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I 
protest I love thee. 

Beat. Why, then, God forgive me! 

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? 

Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I 
was about to protest I loved you. 

Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that 
none is left to protest. 

Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. 

Beat. Kill Claudio. 

Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. 

Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. 

Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. 

Beat. Lam gone, though I am here; 
love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go. 

Bene. Beatrice,— 

Beat. In faith, I will go. 

Bene. We'll be friends first. 

Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than 
fight with mine enemy. 

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 

Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, 
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kins- 
woman? O that I wereaman! What, bear her 
in hand until they come to take hands; and then, 
with public accusation, uncovered slander, un- 
mitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I 
would eat his heart in the market-place. 

Bene. Hear me, Beatrice,— [saying ! 

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window! A proper 

106 


AOCTAY 2 


there is no 


ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE II. 


Bene. Nay, but, Beatrice,— 

Beat. Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slan- 
dered, she is undone. : 

Bene. Beat — 

Beat. Princes and counties! Surely, a princely 
testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet 
gallant, surely! O that I were a man for his sake! 
or that I had any friend would be a man for my 
sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, 
valour into compliment, and men are only turned 
into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant 
as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I 
cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die 
a woman with grieving. 

: Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love 
thee. 

Beat. Use it for my love some other way than 
swearing by it. 

Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio 
hath wronged Hero ? 

Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul. 

Bene. Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge 
him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By 
this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. 
As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort 
your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, fare- 


well. [ Exeunt. 
SCENE II.— A prison. 


Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; 
and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. 


Dog. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? 

Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. 

Sex. Which be the malefactors ? 

Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner. 

Verg. Nay, that’s certain; we have the exhi- 
bition to examine. 

Sex. But which are the offenders that are to be 
examined ? let them come before master constable. 

Dog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. 
What is your name, friend ? 

Bora. Borachio. 

Dog. Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours,sirrah ? 

a Iam a gentleman, sir, and my name is Con- 
rade. 

Dog. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. 
Masters, do you serve God ? 

sy Yea, sir, we hope. 

Dog. Write down, that they hope they serve God: 
and write God first; for God defend but God should 
go before such villains! Masters, it is proved al- 
ready that you are little better than false knaves; 
and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How 
answer you for yourselves ? 

Con. Marry, sir, we Say we are none. 

Dog. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; 
but I will go about with him. Come you hither, 
sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is 
thought you are false knaves. 

Bora. Sir, I say to you we are none. 

Dog. Well, stand aside. ’Fore God, they are 
both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are 
none ? 

Sex. Master constable, you go not the way to ex- 
amine: you must call forth the watch that are their 
accusers. 

Dog. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the 
watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the 
prince’s name, accuse these men. 

First Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, 
the prince’s brother, was a villain. 

Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, 
this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain. 

Bora. Master constable,— 

Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy 
look, I promise thee. 


Aw *v.. 


a 


Sex. What heard you him say else ? 

Sec. Watch. Marry, that he had received a thou- 
sand duecats of Don John for accusing the Lady 
Hero wrongfully. 

Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed. 

Verg. Yea, by mass, that it is. 

Sex. What else, fellow ? 

First Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, 
upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole 
assembly, and not marry her. 

Dog. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into 
everlasting redemption for this. 

Sex. What else ? 

Watch. This is all. 

Sex. And this is more, masters, than you can 
deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen 
away; Hero was in this manner accused, in this 
very manner refused, and upon the grief of this sud- 
denly died. Master constable, let these men be 
bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before 
and show him their examination. [ Hatt. 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE I. 


Dog. Come, let them be opinioned. 

Verg. Let them be in the hands— 

Con. Off, coxcomb! 

Dog. God’s my life, where ’s the sexton ? let him 
write down the prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, 
bind them. Thou naughty varlet! 

Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an ass. 

Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place ? dost thou 
not suspect my years? O that he were here to write 
me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I 
am an ass; though it be not written down, yet for- 
get not that Iam an ass. No, thou villain, thou 
art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by 
good witness. I am a wise fellow, and, which is 
more, an officer, and, which is more, a householder, 
and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any 
is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to; 
and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that 
hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and 
every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. 
O that I had been writ down an ass! | Hxeunt. 


OCT ON *, 


SCENE I.— Before Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato and Antonio. 


Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself ; 
And *tis not wisdom thus to second grief 
Against yourself. 

eon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, 

Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
As water in a sieve: give not me counsel; 
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear 
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. 
Bring me a father that so loved his child, 
Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine, 
And bid him speak of patience; 
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine 
And let it answer every strain for strain, 
As thus for thus and such a grief for such, 
In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: 
If such a one will smile and stroke his beard, 
Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem!’ when he should groan, 
Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk 
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, 
And I of him will gather patience. 
But there is no such man: for, brother, men 
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief 
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, 
Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 
Charm ache with air and agony with words: 
No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience 
To those that wring under the load of sorrow, 
But no man’s virtue nor sufliciency 
To be so moral when he shall endure 
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: 
My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 

Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ. 

Leon. I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood ; 
For there was never yet philosopher 
That could endure the toothache patiently, 
However they have writ the style of gods 
And made a push at chance and sufferance. 

Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself ; 
Make those that do offend you suffer too. 

Leon. There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will 


0 SO. 
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied; 
And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince 
And all of them that thus dishonour her. 
Ant. Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily. 


Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. 


D. Pedro. Good den, good den. 
Claud. Good day to both of you. 
Leon. Hear you, my lords,— 
D, Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. 
Leon. Some haste, my lord ! well, fare you well, my 
Are you so hasty now? well, all is one. [lord : 
D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good 
old man. 
Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling, 
Some of us would lie low. 
Jlaud. Who wrongs him ? 
Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dis- 
sembler, thou : — 
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; 
I fear thee not. 
Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand, 
If it should give your age such cause of fear: 
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. 
Leon. Tush, tush, man ; never fleer and jest at me: 
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, 
As under privilege of age to brag 
What I have done being young, or what would do 
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, 
Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me 
That I am forced to lay my reverence by 
And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, 
Do challenge thee to trial of a man. 
I say thou hast belied mine innocent child ; 
Thy slander hath gone through and through her 
heart, 
And she lies buried with her ancestors; 
O, in a tomb where never scandal slept, 
Save this of hers, framed by thy villany! 
Claud. My villany ? 
Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. 
D. Pedro. You say not right, old man. 
Leon. My lord, my lord, 
Ill prove it on his body, if he dare, 
Despite his nice fence and his active practice, 
His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. 
Claud. Away! I will not have to do with you. 
Leon. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d 
my child: 
If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. 
Ant. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed: 


| But that’s no matter; let him kill one first; 


Win me and wear me; let him answer me. __[me: 
Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow 


107 


A Tis 


Sir boy, Ill whip you from your foining fence ; 
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 
Leon. Brother,— [niece ; 
Ant. Content yourself. God knows I loved my 
And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains, 
That dare as well answer a man indeed 
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue: 
Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops! 
Leon. Brother Antony,— 
Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know 
- them, yea, 
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,— 
Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, 
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, 
Go anticly, show outward hideousness, 
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, 
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst ; 
And this is all. 
Leon. But, brother Antony,— 
Ant. ome, ’tis no matter: 
Do not you meddle; let me deal in this. 
D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake 
your patience. 
My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death: 
But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing 
But what was true and very full of proof. 
Leon. My lord, my lord,— 
D, Pedro. I will not hear you. 
Leon. No? Come, brother; away! I will be heard. 
Ant. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. 
[EKxeunt Leonato and Antonio. 
D. Pedro. See, see; here comes the man we 
went to seek. 


Enter Benedick. 


Claud. Now, signior, what news ? 

Bene. Good day, my lord. 

D. Pedro. Welcome, signior: you are almost come 
to part almost a fray. 

Claud. We had like to have had our two noses 
snapped off with two old men without teeth. 

D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. Whatthink- 
est thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have 
been too young for them. 

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. 
I came to seek you both. 

Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee; 
for we are high-proof melancholy and would fain 
have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit ? 

Bene. It is in my scabbard: shall I draw it ? 

D,. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? 

Claud. Never any did so, though very many have 
been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we 
do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us. 

D, Pedro. As lam an honest man, he looks pale. 
Art thou sick, or angry ? 

Claud. What, courage, man! What though care 
killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill 
care. 

Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an 
you charge it against me. I pray you choose an- 
other subject. 

Claud. Nay, then, give him another staff: this 
last was broke cross. 

D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and 
more: I think he be angry indeed. 

Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. 

Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear ? 

Claud. God bless me from a challenge! 

Bene. [Aside to Claudio] You are a villain; I jest 
not: I will make it good how you dare, with what 
you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I 
will protest your cowardice. You have killed a 
sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. 
Let me hear from you. 

Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have 
good cheer. 

108 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 


SCENE I. 


D. Pedro. What, a feast, a feast ? 

Claud. I’ faith, I thank him: he hath bid me toa 
calf’s head and a capon; the which if Ido not carve 
most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not 
find a woodcock too ? 

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily. 

D. Pedro. I’ll teii thee how Beatrice praised thy 
wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: 
‘ True,’ said she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘ No,’ said I, ‘a 
great wit:’ ‘ Right,’ says she, ‘a great gross one.’ 
‘Nay,’ said I,‘a good wit:’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it 
hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is 
wise:’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ 
‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues:’ ‘That I be- 
lieve,’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Mon- 
day night, which he forswore on Tuesday morn- 
ing; there’s a double tongue; there ’s two tongues.’ 
Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy par- 
ticular virtues: yet at last she concluded with a 
sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. 

Claud. For the which she wept heartily and said 
she cared not. 

D. Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, 
an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love 
him dearly: the old man’s daughter told us all. 

Claud. All, all; and, moreover, God saw him 
when he was hid in the garden. 

D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull’s 
horns on the sensible Benedick’s head? 

Claud. Yea, and text underneath, ‘ Here dwells 
Benedick the married man!’ 

Bene. Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. 
I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour: 
you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, 
God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many 
courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your 
company: your brother the bastard is fled from Mes- 
sina: you have among you killed a sweet and inno- 
cent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I 
shall meet: and, till then, peace be with him. [ Hxit. 

D. Pedro. He is in earnest. 

Claud. In most profound earnest; and, Ill war- 
rant you, for the love of Beatrice. 

D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee. 

Claud. Most sincerely. 

D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he 
goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! 

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is 
an ape a doctor to such a man. 

D, Pedro. But, soft you, let me be: pluck up, my 
Ayer and besad. Did he not say, my brother was 

ed ? 


Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with 
Conrade and Borachio. 


Dog. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, 
she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance: 
nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must 
be looked to. 

D. Pedro. How now? two of my brother’s men 
bound! Borachio one! 

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. 

4 8M ae Officers, what offence have these men 
one t 

Dog. Marry, sir, they have committed false re- 
port ; moreover, they have spoken untruths; sec- 
ondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they 
have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust 
things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves. 

D. Pedro. First, 1 ask thee what they have done; 
thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and 
lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, 
what you lay to their charge. 

Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; 
and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited. 

D. Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, that 
you are thus bound to your answer ? this learned 


ACT V. 


constable is too cunning to be understood: what’s 
your offence ? 

Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine 
answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me. 
I have deceived even your very eyes: what your 
wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools 
have brought to light; who in the night overheard 
me confessing to this man how Don John your 
brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero, how 
you were brought into the orchard and saw me 
court Margaret in Hero’s garments, how you dis- 
graced her, when you should marry her: my villany 
they have upon record; which I had rather seal 
with my death than repeat over to my shame. The 
lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accu- 
sation ; and, briefly, [desire nothing but the reward 
of a villain. 

D. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through 

your blood ? 

Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it. 

D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this ? 

Oe an and paid me richly for the practice 

of it. éj 

D. Pedro. He is composed and framed of treach- 
And fled he is upon this villany. [ery: 

Claud. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear 
In the rare semblance that I loved it first. 

Dog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this 
time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of 
the matter: and, masters, do not forget to specify, 
when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. 

Verg. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, 
and the sexton too. 


Re-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the Sexton. 


Leon. Which is the villain ? let me see his eyes, 
That, when I note another man like him, 

I may avoid him: which of these is he ? [me. 
Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on 
Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy breath 

Mine innocent child ? [hast kill’d 
Bora. Yea, even I alone. 

Leon. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: 
Here stand a pair of honourable men; 

A third is fled, that had a hand in it. 

I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death: 

Record it with your high and worthy deeds: 

*T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. 
Claud. I know not how to pray your patience; 
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself ; 

Impose me to what penance your invention 

Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not 

But in mistaking. 

D,. Pedro. By my soul, nor I: 

And yet, to satisfy this good old man, 

1 would bend under any heavy weight 

That he ’ll enjoin me to. 

Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; 
That were impossible: but, I pray you both, 
Possess the people in Messina here 
How innocent she died; and if your love 
Can labour aught in sad invention, 

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb 

And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night: 

To-morrow morning come you to my house, 

And since you could not be my son-in-law, 

Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter, 

Almost the copy of my child that ’s dead, 

And she alone is heir to both of us: 

Give her the right you should have given her cousin, 

And so dies my revenge. 

Claud. O noble sir, 

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me! 

I do embrace your offer; and dispose 

For henceforth of poor Claudio. 

Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your coming ; 
To-night I take my leave. This naughty man 


DELO Ea) Os VAIO TON ONE EN G. 


SCENE II. 


Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, 
Who I believe was packed in all this wrong, 
Hired to it by your brother. 

Bora. No, by my soul, she was not, 
Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me, 
But always hath been just and virtuous 
In any thing that I do know by her. 

Dog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is-not under 
white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, 
did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered 
in his punishment. And also,the watch heard them 
talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in 
his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money 
in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and 
never paid that now men grow hard-hearted and 
will lend nothing for God’ssake: pray you, examine 
him upon that point. 

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. 

Dog. Your worship speaks like a most thankful 
and reverend youth; and I praise God for you. 

Leon. There ’s for thy pains. 

Dog. God save the foundation! 

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and. 
I thank thee. 

Dog. I leave an arrant knave with your worship ; 
which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, 
for the example of others. God keep your worship ! 
I wish your worship well; God restore you to health ! 
I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry 
meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, 
neighbour. [Hxeunt Dogberry and Verges.. 

Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.. 

Ant. Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-. 

D. Pedro. We will not fail. [morrow.. 

Claud. To-night I 1] mourn with Hero.. 

Leon. [To the Watch} Bring you these fellows on.. 
We'll talk with Margaret, 

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. 
[Hxeunt, severally. 


SCENE II.—Leonato’s garden. 


Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. 


Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, de-. 
serve well at my hands by helping me to the speech 
of Beatrice. 

Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise 
of my beauty ? 

Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man 


| living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, 


thou deservest it. 

Marg. To have no man come over me! why, shall 
I always keep below stairs ? 

Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s 
mouth; it catches. 

Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, 
which hit, but hurt not. 

Bene. A. most manly wit, Margaret; it will not 
hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: 
I give thee the bucklers. 

Marg. Give us the swords; we have bucklers of 
our Own. 

Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put 
in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous 
weapons for.maids. 

Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I 
think hath legs. 

Bene. And therefore will come. 


[Sings] 


[ Heit. Margaret. 


The god of love, 
That sits above, 
And knows me, and knows me, 
How pitiful I deserve,— 


I mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good 
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders,. 
and a whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mon-. 


109 


AO DIV: 


MUCH, ADOVCABOUR WOTHING. 


SCENE IV. 


gers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even 
road of a blank verse, why, they were never so 
truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. 
Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: IL 
can find out no rhyme to ‘lady’ but ‘ baby,’ an in- 
nocent rhyme; for ‘scorn,’ ‘ horn,’ a hard rhyme; 
for, ‘school,’ ‘fool,’ a babbling rhyme; very omi- 
nous endings: no, I was not born under a rhyming 
planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. 


Enter Beatrice. 


Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called 
thee ? 

Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. 

Bene. O, stay but till then! 

Beat. ‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and 
yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came; which 
is, with knowing what hath passed between you 
and Claudio. 

Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss 
thee. 

Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind 
is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; 
therefore I will depart unkissed. 

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his 
right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell 
thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and 
either I must shortly hear from him, or I will sub- 
scribe him a coward. And,I pray thee now, tell 
me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall 
in love with me? 

Beat. For them all together; which maintained 
so politic a state of evil that they will not admit 
any good part to intermingle with them. But for 
which of my good parts did you first suffer love 
for me? 

Bene. Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer 
love indeed, for I love thee against my will. 

Beat. In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor 
heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it 
for yours; for I will never love that which my 
friend hates. 

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. 

Beat. It appears not in this confession: there ’s 
not one wise man among twenty that will praise 
himself. 

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that 
lived in the time of good neighbours. If aman do 
not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he 
shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings 
and the widow weeps. 

Beat. And how long is that, think you ? 

Bene. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a 
quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient 
for the wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no 
impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of 
his own virtues, as Lam to myself. So much for 
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, 
is praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your 
cousin ? 

Beat. Very ill. 

Bene. And how do you? 

Beat. Very ill too. 

Bene. Serve God, love me and mend. There will 
I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. 


Enter Ursula. 


Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. 
Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved my Lady 
Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and 
Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the 
author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come 
presently ? 

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ? 

Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap and 
be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with 
thee to thy uncle’s. | Kxeunt. 


110 


| SCENH ITII.—A church. 


Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four with 
tapers. 
Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato ? 
A Lord. It is, my lord. 
Claud. [Reading out of a scroll] 


Done to death by slanderous tongues 
Was the Hero that here lies: 
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, 
Gives her fame which never dies. 
So the life that died with shame 
Lives in death with glorious fame. 


Hang thou there upon the tomb, 
Praising her when I am dumb. 
Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. 


SONG. 


Pardon, goddess of the night, 
Those that slew thy virgin knight; 
For the which, with songs of woe, 
Round about her tomb they go. 
Midnight, assist our moan; 
Help us to sigh and groan, 
Heavily, heavily: 
Graves, yawn and yield your dead, 
Till death be uttered, 
Heavily, heavily. 


Claud. Now, unto thy bones good night! 
Yearly will I do this rite. fout: 
D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; put your torches 
The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day, 
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about 
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey. 
Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well. 
Claud. Good morrow, masters: each his several 
way. 
D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on other 
And then to Leonato’s we will go. [weeds ; 
Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds, 
Than this for whom we render’d up this woe. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— A room in Leonato’s house. 


Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, 
Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis, and Hero. 


Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? 
ee So are the prince and Claudio, who accused 
1er 
Upon the error that you heard debated : 
But Margaret was in some fault for this, 
Although against her will, as it appears 
In the true course of all the question. 
Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. 
Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforced 
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, 
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, 
And when I send for you, come hither mask’d. 
[Hxeunt Ladies. 
The prince and Claudio promised by this hour 
To visit me. You know your office, brother: 
You must be father to your brother’s daughter, 
And give her to young Claudio. 
Ant. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance. 
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. 
Friar. To do what, signior ? 
Bene. To bind me, or undo me; one of them. 
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, 
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. 
ay That eye my daughter lent her: ’tis most 
rue. 
Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. 


mol Vv. 


MUCHVADO ABOGT NOTITING: 


SCENE IV. 


Leon. The sight whereof I think you had from me, 

From Claudio andthe prince: But what ’s your will ? 
Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: 

But, for my will, my will is your good will 

May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d 

In the state of honourable marriage: 

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. 
Leon. My heart is with your liking. 
Friar. 

Here comes the prince and Claudio. 


And my help. 


Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, and two or three 
others. 


D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. 
Leon. Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Clau- 
dio: 
We here attend you. Are you yet determined 
To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter ? 

Claud. 1711 hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. 

Leon. Call her forth, brother; here’s the friar 

ready. [Exit Antonio. 

D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s 

the matter, 
That you have such a February face, 
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness ? 

Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. 
Tush, fear not, man; we ‘ll tip thy horns with gold 
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, 

As once Europa did at lusty Jove, 
When he would play the noble beast in love. 

Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low ; 

And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow, 

And got a calf in that same noble feat 

_ Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. 

‘Claud. For this I owe you: here comes other 
reckonings. 


Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies masked. 


Which is the lady I must seize upon ? 
Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. 
Claud. Why, then she’s mine. ey let me see 
your face. 
Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand 
Before this friar and swear to marry her. 
Claud. Give me your hand: before this holy friar, 
J am your husband, if you like of me. 
Hero, And when I lived, I was your other wife: 
[ Unmasking. 
And when you loved, you were my other husband. 
Claud. Another Hero! 
Hero. Nothing certainer: 
One Hero died defiled, but I do live, 
And surely as I live, I am a maid. 
D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! 
rit me died, my lord, but whiles her slander 
ived. 
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify; 
When after that the holy rites are ended, 
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death: 
Meantime let wonder seem familiar, 
And to the chapel let us presently. 
Bene. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice ? 
Beat. [Unmasking] I answer to thatname. What 
is your will? 


v . 
Dogberry.—Dost thou not suspect my place? 


Bene. Do not you love me? 

Beat. Vhy,no; no more than reason. 

Bene. Why, then your uncle and the prince and 
Have been deceived; they swore you did. [Claudio 

Beat. Do not you love me? 

Bene. Troth, no; no more than reason. 

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret and Ursula 
Are much deceived; for they did swear you did. 

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. 

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead 

for me. [me ? 

Bene. ’T isno such matter. Then you do not love 

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. 

Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gen- 

tleman. 

Claud. And Ill be sworn upon ’t that he loves 
For here ’s a paper written in his hand, [her ° 
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 

Fashion’d to Beatrice. 

Hero. And here ’s another 
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, 
Containing her affection unto Benedick. 

Bene. A miracle! here’s our own hands against 
our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this 
light, I take thee for pity. 

Beat. IT would not deny you; but, by this good 
day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to 
save your life, for I was told you were in a con- 
sumption. : 

Bene. Peace! I willstop your mouth. [ Kissing her. 

D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick, the mar- 
ried man ? 

Bene. Ill tell thee what, prince; a college of wit- 
crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost 
thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No: 
if a man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear 
nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do 
purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any pur- 
pose that the world can say against it; and there- 
fore never flout at me for what I have said against 
it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclu- 
sion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have 
beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kins- 
man, live unbruised and love my cousin. 

Claud. ILhad well hoped thou wouldst have denied 
Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of 
thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer ; which, 
out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not 
look exceeding narrowly to thee. 

Bene. Come, come, we are friends: let’s have a 
dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our 
own hearts and our wives’ heels. 

Leon. Well have dancing afterward. 

Bene. First, of my word; therefore play, music. 
Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wite, get thee a 
wife: there is no staff more reverend than one 
tipped with horn. 


Enter a Messenger. 
Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, 
And brought with armed men back to Messina. 
Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow: Ill devise 


thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers. 
Dance.—Hxeunt. 


113 


“2 
) 
\ 


ws 
bp) WS 


LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Ferdinand, King of Navarre. 

Biron, 

Longaville, tn attending on the King. 
Dumain, 

Boyet, lords attending on the Princess of 
Mercade, France. 

Don Adriano de Armado, a fantastical Spaniard. 
Sir Nathaniel. a curate. 

Holofernes, a schoolmaster, 

Dull, a constable. 

Costard, a clown. 


Moth, page to Armado. 

A Forester. 

The Princess of France. 
Rosaline, 
Maria, 
Katharine, 
Jaquenetta, a country wench. 


ladies attending on the Princess. 


Lords, Attendants, &c. 


SCENE —WNavarre. 


[ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVI.] 


ye. Od Ras Ee 


SCENE I.— The king of Navarre’s park. 


Enter Ferdinand, King of Navarre, Biron, 
Longaville, and Dumain. 


King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, 
Live register’d upon our brazen tombs 
And then grace us in the disgrace of death ; 
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, 
The endeavour of this present breath may buy 
That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge 
And make us heirs of all eternity. 
Therefore, brave conquerors,—for so you are, 
That war against your own affections 
And the huge army of the world’s desires,— 
Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: 
Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; 
Our court shall be a little Academe, 
Still and contemplative in living art. 
You three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville, 
Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me 
My fellow-scholars and to keep those statutes 
That are recorded in this schedule here: [names, 
Your oaths are pass’d; and now subscribe your 
That his own hand may strike his honour down 
That violates the smallest branch herein: 
If you are arm’d to do as sworn to do, 
Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. 
Long. Lam resolved; ’tis but a three years’ fast: 
The mind shall banquet, though the body pine: 
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits 
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. 
Dum. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified: 
The grosser manner of these world’s delights 
He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves: 
To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die! 
With all these living in philosophy. 
Biron. I can but say their protestation over; 
So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, 
That is, to live and study here three years. 
But there are other strict observances; 
As, not to see a woman in that term, 
Which I hope well is not enrolled there; 
And one day in a week to touch no food 
And but one meal on every day beside, 
The which I hope is not enrolled there; 
And then, to sleep but three hours in the night, 


112. 


And not be seen to wink of all the day— 

When I was wont to think no harm all night 

And make a dark night too of half the day — 

Which I hope well is not enrolled there: 

O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, 

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep! 
King. Y our oath is pass’d to pass away from these. 
Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please: 

I only swore to study with your grace 

And stay here in your court for three years’ space. 
Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest. 
Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. 

What is the end of study ? let me know. 

King. Why, that to know, which else we should 
not know. 
Biron. Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from 
common sense ? 
King. Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense. 
Biron. Come on, then ; I will swear to study so, 
To know the thing I am forbid to know: 
As thus,—to study where I well may dine, 
When I to feast expressly am forbid ; 

Or study where to meet some mistress fine, 

When mistresses from common sense are hid ; 

Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath, 

Study to break it and’not break my troth. 

If study’s gain be thus and this be so, 

Study knows that which yet it doth not know: 

Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no. 

King. These be the stops that hinder study quite 

And train our intellects to vain delight. 

Biron. Why, all delights are vain; but that most 
vain, 

Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain : 

As, painfully to pore upon a book 
To seek the light of truth; while truth the while 

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look: | 
Light seeking light doth light of light beguile: 

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, 

Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. 

Study me how to please the eye indeed 
By fixing it upon a fairer eye, 

Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed 

_ And give him light that it was blinded by. 

Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun 
That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks: 


aot T. 


Small have continual plodders ever won 
Save base authority from others’ books. 
These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights 
That give a name to every fixed star 
Have no more profit of their shining nights 
Than those that walk and wot not what they are. 
Too much to know is to know nought but fame; 
And every godfather can giveaname. (reading! 
King. How well he’s read, to reason against 
. Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding ! 
Lony. He weeds the corn and still lets grow the 
weeding. [a-breeding. 
Biron. The spring is near when green geese are 
Dum. How follows that ? 


Biron. Fit in his place and time. 
Dum. In reason nothing. 
Biron. Something then in rhyme. 


King. Biron is like an envious sneaping frost 
That bites the first-born infants of the 
spring. 
Biron. Well, say I am; why should proud sum- 
mer boast 
Before the birds have any cause to sing ? 

Why should I joy in any abortive birth? 

At Christmas I no more desire a rose 

Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth; 

But like of each thing that in season grows. 

So you, to study now it is too late, 

Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate. 
King. Well, sit you out: go home, Biron: adieu. 
Biron. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay 

with you: — 

And though I have for barbarism spoke more 
Than for that angel knowledge you can say, 

Yet confident I 11 keep what I have swore 
And bide the penance of each three years’ day. 

Give me the paper; let me read the same; 

And to the strict’st decrees I ll write my name. 
King. How well this yielding rescues thee from 

shame! 

Biron [reads]. ‘Item, That no woman shall come 
within a mile of my court:’ Hath this been pro- 

Long. Four days ago. {claimed ? 

Biron. Let ’s see the penalty. [Reads] ‘On pain 
of losing her tongue.’ Who devised this penalty ? 

Long. Marry, that did I. 

Biron. Sweet lord, and why ? [penalty. 

Long. To fright them hence with that dread 

Biron. A dangerous law against gentility! 

| Reads] ‘Item, If any man be seen to talk with 

a woman within the term of three years, he shall 

endure such public shame as the rest of the court 

can possibly devise.’ 

This article, my liege, yourself must break ; 

For well you know here comes in embassy 

The French king’s daughter with yourself to speak— 
A maid of grace and complete majesty — 

About surrender up of Aquitaine 
To her decrepit, sick and bedrid father: 

Therefore this article is made in vain, 

Or vainly comes the admired princess hither, 
King. What say you, lords? why, this was quite 
Biron. So study evermore is overshot: — [forgot. 

While it doth study to have what it would 

It doth forget to do the thing it should, 

And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 

*T is won as towns with fire, so won, so lost. 

King. We must of force dispense with this decree ; 

She must lie here on mere necessity. 

Biron. Necessity will make us all forsworn 
Three thousand times within this three years’ 

For every man with his affects is born, [space ; 
Not by might master’d but by special grace: 

If I break faith, this word shall speak for me; 

I am forsworn on ‘ mere necessity.’ 

So to the laws at large I write my name: [Subscribes. 
And he that breaks them in the least degree 

8 


LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 


SCENE I. 


Stands in attainder of eternal shame: 
Suggestions are to other as to me; 
But I believe, although I seem so loath, 
IT am the last that will last keep his oath. 
But is there no quick recreation granted ? 
King. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is 
haunted 
With a refined traveller of Spain; . 
A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, 
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ; 
One whom the music of his own vain tongue 
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; 
A man of complements, whom right and wrong 
Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: 
This child of fancy that Armado hight 
For interim to our studies shall relate 
In high-born words the worth of many a knight 
From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate. 
How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; 
But, I protest, I love to hear him lie 
And I will use him for my minstrelsy. 
Biron. Armado is a most illustrious wight, 
A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight. 
Long. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport; 
And so to study, three years is but short. 


Enter Dull with a letter, and Costard. 


Dull. Which is the Duke’s own person ? 

Biron. This, fellow: what wouldst ? 

Dull. I myself reprehend his own person, for I 
am his grace’s tharborough: but I would see his own 
person in flesh and blood. 

Biron. This is he. 

Dull. Signior Arme—Arme—commends you. 
There ’s villany abroad : this letter will tell you more. 

Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching 
me. .- 

King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. 
Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God 
for high words. 

Long. A high hope for a low heaven: God grant 
us patience! 

Biron. To hear? or forbear laughing ? 

Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moder- 
ately: or to forbear both. 

Biron. Well, sir, be it as‘the style shall give us 
cause to climb in the merriness. 

Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning 
Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, 1 was taken with 
the manner. 

Biron. In what manner ? 

Cost. Inmanner and form following, sir; all those 
three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sit- 
ting with her upon the form, and taken following 
her into the park; which, put together, is in man- 
ner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner, 
—it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman: 
for the form,—in some form. 

Biron. For the following, sir? 

Cost. As it shall follow in my correction: and 
God defend the right ! 

King. Will you hear this letter with attention ? 

Biron. As we would hear an oracle. 

Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken 
after the flesh. 

King [reads]. ‘Great deputy, the welkin’s vice- 
gerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's 
earth’s god, and body’s fostering patron.’ 

Oost. Not a word of Costard yet. 

King [reads]. ‘So it is,’— ede 

Cost. It may be so: but if he say it is so, he is, in 
telling true, but so. 

King. Peace! ; 

Cost. Be to me and every man that dares not fight. 

King. No words! 

Cost. Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you. 

King [reads]. ‘ So it is, besieged with sable-coloured 

113 


ACT I. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE II. 


melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing 
humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health- 
giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook my- 
self to walk. The time when. About the sixth 
hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and 
men sit down to that nourishment which is called 
supper: so much for the time when. Now for the 
ground which; which, I mean, I walked upon: it 
is yeleped thy park. Then for the place where; 
where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and 
most preposterous event, that draweth from my 
snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here 
thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest: but to 
the place where; it standeth north-north-east and 
by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted 
garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, 
that base minnow of thy mirth,’— 

Cost. Me? 

King [reads]. ‘that unlettered small-knowing 

Cost. Me? [soul,’— 

Kang [reads]. ‘that shallow vassal,’— 

Cost. Still me? 

King [reads]. ‘ which, as I remember, hight Cos- 

Cost. O, me! [tard ,’— 

King [reads]. ‘sorted and consorted, contrary to 
thy established proclaimed edict and continent 
canon, which with,— O with—but with this I pas- 
sion to say wherewith,— 

Cost. With a wench. 

King [reads]. ‘with a child of our grandmother 
Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understand- 
ing,a woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty 
pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed 
of punishment, by thy sweet grace’s officer, Anthony 
Dull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and 
estimation.’ ' Dull. 

Dull. Me, an’t shall please you; Iam Anthony 

Icing [reads]. ‘ For Jaquenetta,—so is the weaker 
vessel called which I apprehended with the afore- 
said swain,— I keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury ; 
and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her 
to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and 
heart-burning heat of duty. 

Don ADRIANO DE ARMADO.’ 

Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, but the 
best that ever I heard. 

King. Ay, the best for the worst. 
what say you to this? 

Cost. Sir, I confess the wench. 

I<ing. Did you hear the proclamation ? 

Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but 
little of the marking of it. 

King. It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment, 
to be taken with a wench. 

Cost. I was taken with none, sir: I was taken 
with a damsel. 

Icing. Well, it was proclaimed ‘ damsel.’ 

Cost. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a 
virgin. [‘ virgin.’ 


But, sirrah, 


king. It is so varied too; for it was proclaimed | 


Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity; I was taken | 


with a maid. 

Ising. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. 

Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir. 

King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you 
shall fast a week with bran and water. 

Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton and 
porridge. 

Jxing. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. 
My Lord Biron, see him deliver’d o’er: 
And go we, lords, to put in practice that 
Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. 

[Hxeunt King, Longaville, and Dumain. 

Biron. Ill lay my head to any good man’s hat, 
These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. 
Sirrah, come on. 

Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I 

114 


| 
t 


was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta isa true 
girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of pros- 
‘perity! Affliction may one day smile again; and 
till then, sit thee down, sorrow! [Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—7The same. 


Enter Armado and Moth. 


Arm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great 
spirit grows melancholy ? 

Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. 

Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, 
dear imp. 

Moth. No, no; O Lord, sir, no. 

Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melan- 
choly, my tender juvenal ? 

Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the work- 
ing, my tough senior. 

Arm. Why tough senior? why tough senior? 

Moth. Why tender juvenal ? why tender juvenal ? 

Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent 
epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which 
we may nominate tender. 

Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent 
title to your old time, which we may name tough. 

Arm. Pretty and apt. 

Moth. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my 
saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? 

Arm. Thou pretty, because little. [apt ? 

Moth. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore 

Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. 

Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ? 

Arm. In thy condign praise. ; 

Moth. I will praise an eel with the same praise. 

Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious ? 

Moth. That an eel is quick. . 

Arm. I do say thou art quick in answers: thou 
heatest my blood. 

Moth. I am answered, sir. 

Arm. I love not to be crossed. 

Moth. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary ; 
crosses love not him. 

Arm. I have promised to study three years witli 
the duke. 

Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. 

Arm. Impossible. 

Moth. How many is one thrice told ? 

Arm. Iam ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit 
of a tapster. 

Moth. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. 

Arm. I confess both: they are both the varnish 
of a complete man. 

Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the 
gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. 

Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. 

Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three. 

Arm. True. 

Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study ? 
Now here is three studied, ere ye’ll thrice wink: 
and how easy it is to put ‘years’ to the word 
‘three,’ and study three years in two words, the’ 
dancing horse will tell you. 

Arm. A most fine figure! 

Moth. To prove you a cipher. 

Arm. I will hereupon confess I am in love: and 
as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love 
with a base wench. If drawing my sword against 
the humour of affection would deliver me from the 
reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire pris- 
oner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a 
new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: me- 
thinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: 
what great men have been in love ? 

Moth. Hercules, master. 

Arm. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, 
dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let 
them be men of good repute and carriage. 


“ZOT Il. 


LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE I. 


Moth. Samson, master: he was a man of good 
carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town- 
gates on his back like a porter: and he was in love. 

Arm. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Sam- 
son! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou 
didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. 
Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth ? 

Moth. A woman, master. 

Arm. Of what complexion ? 

Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, 
or one of the four. 

Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion. 

Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. 

Arm. Is that one of the four complexions? [too. 

Moth. As I have read, sir; and the best of them 

Arm. Green indeed is the colour of lovers; but 
to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson 
had small reason for it. He surely affected her for 
her wit. 

Moth. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit. 

Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red. 

Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask- 
ed under such colours. 

Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. 

Moth. My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue, 
assist me! 

Arm. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty 
and pathetical ! 

Moth. If she be made of white and red, 

Her faults will ne’er be known, 
For blushing cheeks by faults are bred 
And fears by pale white shown: 
Then if she fear, or be to blame, 
By this you shall not know, 
For still her cheeks possess the same 
Which native she doth owe. 
A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of 
white and red. 

Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and 
the Beggar ? 

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a bal- 
lad some three ages since: but I think now ’tis 
not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither 
serve for the writing nor the tune. 


Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, 


that [ may example my digression by some mighty 
precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that 
I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: 
she deserves well. 

Moth. [Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better 
love than my master. 

Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. 

Moth. And that’s great marvel, loving a light 
wench. 

Arm. I say, sing. » 

Moth. Forbear till this company be past. 


Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta. 


Dull. Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep 
Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no 


delight nor no penance; but a’ must fast three days 
a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the 
fou she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you 
well. 

Arm. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid! 

Jaq. Man? 

Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge. 

Jaq. That’s hereby. 

Arm. I know where it is situate. 

Jaq. Lord, how wise you are! 

Arm. I will tell thee wonders. 

Jaq. With that face ? 

Arm. I love thee. 

Jaq. So I heard you say. 

Arm. And so, farewell. 

Jaq. Fair weather after you! 

Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away! 

[Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetia. 

Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere 
thou be pardoned. 

Cost. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it 
on a full stomach. 

Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished. 

Cost. Iam more bound to you than your fellows, 
for they are but lightly rewarded. 

Arm. Take away this villain; shut him up. 

Moth. Come, you transgressing slave; away! 

Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, 
being loose. 

Moth. No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou 
shalt to prison. 

Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of 
desolation that I have seen, some shall see. 

Moth. What shall some see ? 

Cost. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they 
look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent 
in their words; and therefore I will say nothing: I 
thank God I have as little patience as another man; 
and therefore I can be quiet. 

[Hxeunt Moth and Costard. 

Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base, 
where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, 
which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, 
which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. 
And how can that be true love which is falsely at- 
tempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: 
there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson 
so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet 
was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good 
wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ 
club; and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s 
rapier. The first and second cause will not serve 
my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he - 
regards not: his disgrace is to be called boy; but 
his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, 
rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; 
yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of 
rhyme, for Iam sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, 
wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes ib 
folio. [ Hacit. 


MACOS) 


SCENE I.— The same. 


Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, 

Katharine, Boyet, Lords, andother Attendants. 
Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest 
_ Spirits: 

Consider who the king your father sends, 

To whom he sends, and what ’s his embassy : 

Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, 

To parley with the sole inheritor 

Of all perfections that a man may owe, 


Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight 

Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. 

Be now as prodigal of all dear grace 

As Nature was in making graces dear 

When she did starve the general world beside 

And prodigally gave them all to you. [mean, 
Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but 

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise: 

Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, 

Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues: 

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth 


115 


ACT rit: 


Than you much willing to be counted wise 
In spending your wit in the praise of mine. 
But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, 
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame 
Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, 
Till painful study shall outwear three years, 
No woman may approach his silent court: 
Therefore to ’s seemeth it a needful course, 
Before we enter his forbidden gates, 
To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, 
Bold of your worthiness, we single you 
As our best-moving fair solicitor. 
Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, 
On serious business, craving quick dispatch, 
Importunes personal conference with his grace: 
Haste, signify so much; while we attend, 
Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will. 
Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go. 
Prin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. 
| Hxit Boyet. 
Who are the votaries, my loving lords, 
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke ? 
First Lord. Lord Longaville is one. 
Prin. Know you the man? 
Mar. I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast, 
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir 
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized 
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville: 
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d; 
Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms: 
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. 
The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss, 
If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil, 
Is a sharp wit match’d with too blunt a will; 
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills 
It should none spare that come within his power. 
Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is ’t so ? 
Mar. They say so most that most his humours 
now. [grow. 
Prin. Such short-lived wits do wither as they 
Who are the rest ? 
Kath. ih young Dumain, a well-accomplished 
youth 
Of all'that virtue love for virtue loved: 
Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill; 
For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, 
And shape to win grace though he had no wit. 
I saw him at the Duke Alengon’s once; 
And much too little of that good I saw 
Is my report to his great worthiness. 
ftos. Another of these students at that time 
Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. 
Biron they call him; but a merrier man, 
Within the limit of becoming mirth, 
I never spent an hour’s talk withal: 
His eye begets occasion for his wit; 
For every object that the one doth catch 
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, 
Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, 
Delivers in such apt and gracious words 
That aged ears play truant at his tales 
And younger hearings are quite ravished ; 
So sweet and voluble is his discourse. 
Prin. God bless my ladies! are they all in love, 
That every one her own hath garnished 
With such bedecking ornaments of praise ? 
Kirst Lord. Here comes Boyet. 


Re-enter Boyet. 


Prin. Now, what admittance, lord ? 
Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach ; 
And he and his competitors in oath 
Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady, 
Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt: 
He rather means to lodge you in the field, 
Like one that comes here to besiege his court, 
Than seek a dispensation for his oath, 


116 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE T. 


To let you enter his unpeopled house. 
Here comes Navarre. 


Enter King, Longaville, Dumain, Biron, aid 
Attendants. 


King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of 

avalrre. 

Prin. ‘ Fair’ I give you back again; and ‘ wel- 
come ’ I have not yet: the roof of this court is too 
high to be yours; and welcome to the wide fields 
too base to be mine. 

King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. 

Prin. I will be welcome, then: conduct me 

thither. 

King. Hear me, dear lady ; I have sworn an oath. 

Prin. Our Lady help my lord! he ’ll be forsworn. 

King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. 

sade Why, will shall break it; will and nothing 

else. 

King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. 

Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, 
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. 
I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping : 
’T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, 

And sin to break it. 

But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold: 

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. 
Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, 
And suddenly resolve me in my suit. 

King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. 

Prin. You will the sooner, that I were away ; 
For you ‘ll prove perjured if you make me stay. 

Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? 

fos. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once ? 

Biron. I know you did. [tion ! 

tos. How needless was it then to ask the ques- 

Biron. You must not be so quick. 

fos. ’Tis “long of you that spur me with such 

questions. [’t will tire. 

Biron. Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, 

Ros. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. 

Biron. What time 0’ day ? 

fos. The hour that fools should ask. 

Biron. Now fair befall your mask! 

fos. Fair fall the face it covers! 

Biron. And send you many lovers! 

ftos. Amen, so you be none. 

Biron. Nay, then will I be gone. 

King. Madam, your father here doth intimate 
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; 
Being but the one-half of an entire sum 
Disbursed by my father in his wars. 

But say that he or we, as neither have, 
Received that sum, yet there remains unpaid 

A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which, 
One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, 

Although not valued to the money’s worth. 

If then the king your father will restore 

But that one-half which is unsatisfied, 

We will give up our right in Aquitaine, 

And hold fair friendship with his majesty. 

But that, it seems, he little purposeth, 

For here he doth demand to have repaid 

A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, 
On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, 

To have his title live in Aquitaine ; 

Which we much rather had depart withal 

And have the money by our father lent 

Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. 

Dear princess, were not his requests so far 
From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make 
A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast 
And go well satisfied to France again. 

Prin. You do the king my father too much wrong 
And wrong the reputation of your name, 

In so unseeming to confess receipt 
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. 


mor Tit. 


LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 


SCENE T. 


King. I do protest I never heard of it; 
And if you prove it, 1’) repay it back 
Or yield up Aquitaine. 

Prin. We arrest your word. 
Boyet, you can produce acquittances 
For such a sum from special officers 
Of Charles his father. 

King. Satisfy me so. 

Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not come 
Where that and other specialties are bound: 
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. 

King. It shall suffice me: at which interview 
. All liberal reason I will yield unto. 

Meantime receive such welcome at my hand 

As honour without breach of honour may 

Make tender of to thy true worthiness: 

You may not come, fair princess, in my gates; 

But here without you shall be so received 

As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart, 

Though so denied fair harbour in my house. 

Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell: 

To-morrow shall we visit you again. [grace ! 
Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your 
King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every Mer 

A 

Biron. Lady, I will commend you to mine own 

heart. 

Ros. Pray you, do my commendations; I would 
be glad to see it. 

Biron. I would you heard it groan. 

Ros. Is the fool sick ? 

Biron. Sick at the heart. 

Ros. Alack, let it blood. 

Biron. Would that do it good? 

Ros. My physic says ‘ ay.’ 

Biron. Will you prick ’t with your eye? 

Ros. No point, with my knife. 

Biron. Now, God save thy life! 

fos. And yours from long living! 

Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [ Retiring. 

Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that 

same ? 

Boyet. The heir of Alencgon, Katharine her name. 

Dum. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. 


Exit. 
Long. I beseech you a word: what is she in the 
white ? 
Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in 
the light. 
Long. Perchance light in the light. I desire her 
name. 


Boyet. She hath but one for herself ; to desire that 
_ were a shame. 
Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter ? 
Boyet. Her mother’s, I have heard. 
Long. God’s blessing on your beard! 
Boyet. Good sir, be not offended. 
She is an heir of Falconbridge. 
Long. Nay, my choler is ended. 


Boyet. To her will, sir, or so. 

Biron. You are welcome, sir: adieu. 

Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. 
[ Hxit Biron. 

Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord: 

Not a word with him but a jest. 

Boyet. And every jest but a word. 

Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his 
word. [board.. 

Boyet. { was as willing to grapple as he was to 

Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry. 

Boyet. And wherefore not ships ? 

No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. 
Mar. You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish 
Boyet. So you grant pasture forme. [the jest ? 

[Offering to kiss her. 
Mar. Not so, gentle beast: 
My UPS are no common, though several they be. 
oyet. Belonging to whom ? 
Mar. To my fortunes and me. 
Prin. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, 
agree: 

This civil war of wits were much better used 

On Navarre and his book-men; for here ’t is abused. 
Boyet. If my observation, which very seldom lies, 

By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, 

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. 

Prin. With what ? 

Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle affected. 
Prin. Your reason ? [retire 
Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their 

To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire: 

His heart, like an agate, with your print impress’d, 

Proud with his form, in his eye pride express’d ‘ 

His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, 

Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; 

All senses to that sense did make their repair, 

To feel only looking on fairest of fair: 

Methought all his senses were lock’d in his eye, 

As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; 

Who, tendering their own worth from where they 

were glass’d, 

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d: 

His face’s own margent did quote such amazes 

That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. 

Ill give you Aquitaine and all that is his, 

An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. 
Prin. Come to our pavilion: Boyet is disposed. 
Boyet. But to speak that in words which his eye 

hath disclosed. 
I only have made a mouth of his eye, 
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. 
Ros. Thou art an old love-monger and speakest 
skilfully. : 

aoe is Cupid’s grandfather and learns news 
of him. 

Ros. Then was Venus like her mother, for her 
father is but grim. 

Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ? 


She is a most sweet lady. Mar. No.) 
Boyet. Not unlike, sir, that may be. [Exit Long. Boyet. What then, do you see ? 
Biron. What’s her name in the cap ? Ros. Ay, our way to be gone. 

Boyet. Rosaline, by good hap. Boyet. You are too hard for me. 
Biron. Is she wedded or no? [ Kxeunt. 
AiG dg Bole, 


SCENE I.— The same. 


Enter Armado and Moth. 
Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense 
of hearing. 
Moth. Concolinel. [ Singing. 
Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take 
this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him 


festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to 
my love. [brawl ? 
Moth. Master, will you win your love witha French 
Arm. How meanest thou ? brawling in French ? 
Moth. No, my complete master: but to jig off a 
tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, 
humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note 
and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if 


117 


ACT ITT. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE I. 


you swallowed love with singing love, sometime 
through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smell- 
ing love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop 
of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin- 
belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands 
in your pocket like a man after the old painting ; and 
keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. 

These are complements, these are humours; these 

betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed with- 

out these; and make them men of note—do you 
note me ?—that most are affected to these. 

Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience ? 

Moth. By my penny of observation. 

Arm. But O,—but O,— 

Moth. ‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’ 

Arm. Callest thou my love ‘ hobby-horse’ ? 

Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, 
and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you 
forgot your love? 

Arm. Almost I had. 

Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart. 

Arm. By heart and in heart, boy. 

Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three 
I will prove. 

Arm. What wilt thou prove ? 

Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by,in, and with- 
out, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because 
your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love 
her, because your heart is in love with her; and out 
of heart you love her, being out of heart that you 
cannot enjoy her. 

Arm. I am all these three. 

Moth. And three times as much more, and yet 
nothing at all. 

Arm. Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me 
a letter. 

Moth. A message well sympathized ; a horse to be 
ambassador for an ass. 

Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou ? 

Moth. Marry,sir, you must send the ass upon the 
horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. 

Arm. The way is but short: away! 

Moth. As swift as lead, sir. 

Arm. The meaning, pretty ingenious ? 

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow ? [no. 
Moth. Minimé, honest master; or rather, master, 
Arm. I say lead is slow. 

Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so: 
Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun ? 

Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! 

He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he: 

I shoot thee at the swain. 

Moth. Thump then and I flee. [Hvit. 

Arm. A-most acute juvenal; volable and free of 

grace! [face: 

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy 

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. 

My herald is return’d. 


Re-enter Moth with Costard. 


Moth. A wonder, master! here’s a costard broken 
in a shin. [voy; begin. 
Arm. Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l’en- 
Cost. No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy; no salve 
in the mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! 
no Venvoy, no envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain! 
Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly 
thought my spleen; the heaving of my lungs pro- 
vokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my 
stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l’en- 
voy, and the word l’envoy for a salve ? 
oth. Do the wise think them other ? is not ]’en- 
voy a Salve ? 
Arm. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse, to 
make plain 
Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. 
I will example it: 


118 


The fox, the ape and the humble-bee, 
Were still at odds, being but three. 
There’s the moral. Now the l’envoy. 
Moth, Lwilladd the envoy. Say the moral again. 
Arm. The fox, the ape, the humble-bee, 
Were still at odds, being but three. 
Moth. Until the goose came out of door, 
And stay’d the odds by adding four. 
Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow 
with my lVenvoy. 
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 
Were still at odds, being but three. 
Arm. Until the goose came out of door, 
Staying the odds by adding four. 

Moth. A good Venvoy, ending in the goose: would 
you desire more ? 

Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, 

that ’s flat. 
Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. 
To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose ; 
Let me see; a fat Venvoy; ay, that’s a fat goose. 

Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did this 

argument begin ? 

Moth. By saying that a costard was broken in a 
Then call’d you for the l’envoy. [shin. 

Cost. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your 

argument in; [bought; 
Then the boy’s fat Venvoy, the goose that you 
And he ended the market. 

Arm. But tell me; how was there a costard 
broken in a shin ? 

Moth. I will tell you sensibly. 

Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will 
speak that envoy: 

I Costard, running out, that was safely within, 

Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin. 

Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. 

Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin. 

Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee. 

Cost. O, marry me to one Frances: I smell some 
Venvoy, some goose, in this. 

Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at 
liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert im- 
mured, restrained, captivated, bound. 

Cost. True, true; and now you will be my purga- 
tion and let me loose. 

Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from dur- 
ance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing 
but this: bear this significant [giving a letter] to the 
country maid Jaquenetta: there is remuneration ; 
for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my 
dependents. Moth, follow. [ Hxit. 

Moth. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. 

Cost. My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my incony 

Jew ! [Exit Moth. 
Now will I look to his remuneration. Remunera- 
tion! O, that’s the Latin word for three farthings: 
three farthings—remuneration.— What’s the price 
of this inkle ?’—‘ One penny.’—‘ No, Ill give you 
a remuneration:’ why, it carries it. Remunera- 
tion! why, it is a fairer name than French crown. 
I will never buy and sell out of this word. 


Enter Biron. 


Biron. O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly 
well met. 
Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation 
may a man buy for a remuneration ? 
Biron. What is a remuneration ? 
Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. 
Biron. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. 
Cost. I thank your worship: God be wi’ you! 
Biron. Stay, slave; I must employ thee: 
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, 
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. 
Cost. When would you have it done, sir ? 
Biron. This afternoon. 


ribbon 


AGT IV. 


Cost. Well, I will do it, sir: fare you well. 
Biron. Thou knowest not what it is. 

Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. 
Biron. Why, villain, thou must know first. 

Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow morn- 


ing. 
Biron It must be done this afternoon. Hark, 
slave, it is but this: 
The princess comes to hunt here in the park, 
And in her train there is a gentle lady; [name, 
When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her 
And Rosaline they call her: ask for her; 
Anda to her white hand see thou do command 
This seal’d-up counsel. There’s thy guerdon; go. 
[Giving him a shilling. 
Cost. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than re- 
muneration, a ’leven-pence farthing better: most 
sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon! 
Remuneration ! [ Hxit. 
Biron. And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have 
been love’s whip; 
A very beadle to a humorous sigh; 
A critic, nay, a night-watch constable ; 
A domineering pedant o’er the boy; 
Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! 
This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy ; 


¥ LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE I. 


This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; 
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, 
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, 

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, 
Sole imperator and great general 

Of trotting ’paritors: —O my little heart !— 
And I to be a corporal of his field, 

And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop’! 
What, I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife! 

A woman, that is like a German clock, 

Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, 

And never going aright, being a watch, 

But being watch’d that it may still go right! 
Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all; 
And, among three, to love the worst of all; 

A wightly wanton with a velvet brow, 

With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes; 
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed 
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard: 
And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! 

To pray for her! Goto; it is a plague 

That Cupid will impose for my neglect 

Of his almighty dreadful little might. 

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue and groan: 
Some men must love my lady and some Joan. [vit 


Ta OV Rai Di Ve 


SCENE I. — The same. 


Enter the Princess, and her train, a Forester, 
Boyet, Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine. 


Prin. Was that the king, that spurred his horse 
Against the steep uprising of the hill ? [so hard 

Boyet. 1 know not; but I think it was not he. 

Prin. Whoe’er a’ was, a’ show’d a mounting mind. 
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch: 

On Saturday we will return to France. 
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush 
That we must stand and play the murderer in ? 

For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; 

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. 

Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, 
And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot. 

For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. 

Prin. What, what ? first praise me and again say 
O short-lived pride! Not fair? alack for woe! [no? 

For. Yes, madam, fair. 

Prin. Nay, never paint me now: 
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. 
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: 
Fair payment for foul words is more than due. 

For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 

Prin. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit! 
O heresy in fair, fit for these days! 

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. 
But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, 

And shooting well is then accounted ill. 

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: 

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t; 

If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. 
And out of question so it is sometimes, 

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, 

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part, 
We bend to that the working of the heart ; 

As I for praise alone now seek to spill 

The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill. 

Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty 
Only for praise sake, when they strive to be 
Lords o’er their lords ? 

Prin. Only for praise: and praise we may afford 
To any lady that subdues a lord. 


Boyet. Here comes a member of the common- 


ealth. 
‘id ; Enter Costard. 


Cost. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is 
the head lady ? 

Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest 
that have no heads. 

Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest ? 

Prin. The thickest and the tallest. [is truth. 

Cost. The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth 
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, 
One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should 

be fit. [here. 

Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest 

Prin. What’s your will, sir? what’s your will ? 

Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one 

Lady Rosaline. [of mine: 

Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter! he ’s a good friend 
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; 
Break up this capon. 

Boyet. I am bound to serve. 
This letter. is mistook, it importeth none here; 
It is writ to Jaquenetta. 

Prin. We will read it, I swear. 
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. 

Boyet [reads]. ‘ By heaven, that thou art fair, is 
most infallible; true. that thou art beauteous; truth 
itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, 
beautiful than beauteous, truer than trutl itself, 
have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The 
magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua 
set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar 
Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say, 
Veni, vidi, vici; which to annothanize in the vul- 
gar,—O base and obscure vulgar !—videlicet, He 
came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; 
overcame, three. Who came? the king: why did 
he come ? to see: why did he see? to overcome: to 
whom came he? to the beggar: what saw he? the 
beggar: who overcame he? the beggar. The con- 
clusion is victory: on whose side? the king’s. The 
captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar’s. 
The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the 
king’s: no, on both in one, or one in both. I am 
the king; for so stands the comparison: thou the 


119 


AOT IV, 


beggar; for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I 
command thy love ? I may: shall I enforce thy love ? 
I could: shall I entreat thy love? I will. What 
shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles ? 
titles; for thyself? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, 
I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy pic- 
ture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine, in 
the dearest design of industry, 
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.’ 
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 
*Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey. 
Submissive fall his princely feet before, 
And he from forage will incline to play: 
But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then ? 
Food for his rage, repasture for his den. 
Prin. What plume of feathers is he that indited 
this letter ? [better ? 
What vane? what weathercock ? did you ever hear 
Boyet. : am much deceived but I remember the 
style. 
Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o’er it 


LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST. 


[erewhile. | 


Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps 
here in court; 
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport 


To the prince and his bookmates. 


rin. Thou fellow, a word : 
Who gave thee this letter.? 

Cost. I told you; my lord. 

Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it ? 

Cost. From my lord to my lady. | 

Prin. From which lord to which lady ? 

Cost. From my lord Biron, a good master of mine, 
To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline. 
Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. 

lords, away. 

[To Ros.] Here, sweet, put up this: ’t will be thine 

another day. | Hxeunt Princess and train. 

Boyet. Who is the suitor ? who is the suitor ? 

ros. Shall I teach you to know ? 

Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. 

Ros. Why, she that bears the bow. 
Finely put off! 

Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou 

marry, 
Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. 
Finely put on! 

Ros. Well, then, I am the shooter. 

Boyet. And who is your deer ? 

Ros. If we choose by the horns, yourself come 

not near. 
Finely put on, indeed! 

Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she 

strikes at the brow. 

Boyet. shi she herself is hit lower: have I hit her 

now 

Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, 
that was a man when King Pepin of France was a 
little boy, as touching the hit it ? 

Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that 
was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was 
a little wench, as touching the hit it. 

Ros. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, 

Thou canst not hit it, my good man. 

Boyet.An I cannot, cannot, cannot, 

An I cannot, another can. 
[Hxeunt Ros. and Kath. 

SB heen troth, most pleasant: how both did 

i 


Come, 


Mar. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both 


did hit it. 
Boyet. Amark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, 
says my lady! [be 


Let the mark have a prick in ’t, to meet at, if it may 
Mar. Wide o’ the bow hand! i’ faith, your hand 
is out. 
Cost. Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he ll ne’er 
hit the clout. 


120 


SCENE If. 


Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your 


hand is in. 
Cost. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving 
the pin. [grow foul. 


Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips 
Cost. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: chal- 
lenge her to bowl. 
Boyet. l fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my 
good owl. [Hxeunt Boyet and Mariu. 
Cost. By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown! 
Lord, Lord, how the ladies and [have put him down! 
O’ my ean most sweet jests! most incony vulgar 
wit! 
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it 
were, so fit. 
Armado 0’ th’ one side,— O, a most dainty man! 
To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan ! 
To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’ 
will swear! 
And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of wit ! 
Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit ! 
Sola, sola! [Shout within.—Euxit Costard, running. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. 


Nath. Very reverend sport, truly; and done in 
the testimony of a good conscience. 

Hol. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood ; 
ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel 
in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven ; 
and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the 
soil, the land, the earth. 

Nath. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are 
sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, 
I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head. 

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. 

Dull. ’T was not a haud credo; *t was a pricket. 

Hol. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of 
insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explica- 
tion; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, os- 
tentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after 
his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, 
untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, un- 
confirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo 
for a deer. 

Dull. I said the deer was nota haud credo; ’t was 
a pricket. - 

Hol. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus! [look ! 
O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou 

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that 

are bred in a book; 

he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk 

ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an 

animal, only sensible in the duller parts: 

And such barren plants are set before us, that we 
thankful should be, 

Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts 
that do fructify in us more than he. 

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, 
or a fool, 

So were there a patch set on learning, to see him 
in a school: 

But omne bene, say I; being of an old father’s mind, - 

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. 

Dull. You two are book-men: can you tell me by 

your wit 

What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not 
five weeks old as yet ? [man Dull. 

Hol. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, good- 

Dull. What is Dictynna ? 

Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. 

Hol. The moon was a month old when Adam was 

no more, [score. 

And raught not to five weeks when he came to five- 
The allusion holds in the exchange. [exchange. 
Dull. ’T is true, indeed ; the collusion holds in the 


IWATA ADAMANT ERTT TATRA TTT TAR TTA HRT MTA Tc 
eT nas 


| | Wi i WO 
| iH} AN RT i ‘ ii 
SANNA AEH ARMITAGE i 
| iM { 


WY \ WTNH 
; WAT) Hi 

Wey HA ! 
i AAA | i 
i Wh I 

It WHAT 
i) 


a G i i 
} ie i 


i 


= 


SS 


| 


‘Ir eusdS “AI 1IOW—’LSOT S.UNOGVI SAAOT 


ihthanl 


ji? 
iH 
ih 
{i 
hi | 
Wh iy 


I | 
| 


} = | iD ‘ | 
ha i 


it 


| st \ 
SHY H TWINS 
| i N i , a * : i 
Wii 


42H) ( Wena 4 al ND eS WIM) \ 
hianZe! ANE t “ie Neary Avda Ni 


a iN, 7 
a, fly ‘ h 
\ yaaa In Why SENS r 


eo 
OxS 


* 


a 


oe 


ACT IV. a 


Hol. God comfort thy capacity! 
sion holds in the exchange. 

Dull. And I say, the pollusion holds in the ex- 
change; for the moon is never but a month old: 
and I say beside that, ’t was a pricket that the prin- 
cess killed. 

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal 
epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour 
the ignorant, call I the deer the princess killed a 
pricket. 

Nath. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so 
it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. 

Hol. ¥ will something affect the letter, for it 
argues facility. 

The preyful princess pierced and prick’d a pretty 
pleasing pricket; 

Some say a sore; but not a sore, till now made 

sore with shooting. 
The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps 
from thicket; [hooting. 

Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a- 
If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one 

sorel. [more L. 
Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one 

Nath. A rare talent! 

Dull. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he 
claws him with a talent. 

Hol. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a 
foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, 
shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revo- 
lutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, 
nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered 
upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is 

ood in those in whom it is acute, and I am thank- 
ul for it. 

Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you: and so may 
my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by 
you, and their daughters profit very greatly under 
you: you area good member of the commonwealth. 

Hol. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they 
shall want no instruction; if their daughters be 
eapable, I will put it to them: but vir sapit qui 
pauca loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us. 


I say, the allu- 


Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. 


Jay. God give you good morrow, master Parson. 

Hol. Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if one 
should be pierced, which is the one ? 

Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest 
to a hogshead. 

Hol. Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of con- 
ceit in a tuft of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl 
enough for a swine; ’t pretty; it is well, 

aot: Good master Parson, be so good as read me 
this letter; it was given me by Costard, and sent 
me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it. 

Hol. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne 
sub umbra Ruminat,—and so forth. Ah, good old 
Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller 
doth of Venice; 

Venetia, Venetia, 

Chi non ti vede non ti pretia. 
Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth 
thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. 
Under pardon, sir, what are the contents ? or rather, 
as Horace says in his— What, my soul, verses ? 

Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. [domine. 

Hol. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, 

Nath. [reads] 

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love ? 

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d! 
Though to myself forsworn, to thee Ill faithful 

prove; [bow’d. 

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers 
Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes, 

Where all those pleasures live that art would 

comprehend : 


LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE III. 


If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suf- 


fice ; 
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee 
commend, [der ; 


All ignorant that soul that sees thee without won- 
Which isto mesome praise that Ithyparts admire: 
Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dread- 
ful thunder, 
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. 
Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong, 
That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly 


J 


ongue. 

Hol. You find not the apostraphas, and so miss 
the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here 
are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, 
facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovid- 
ius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but 
for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, 
the jerks of invention? Imitariis nothing: so doth 
the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired 
horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this 
directed to you? 

Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of 
the strange queen’s lords. 

Hol. I will overglance the superscript: ‘To the 
snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosa- 
line.’ I will look again on the intellect of the letter, 
for the nomination of the party writing to the per- 
son written unto: ‘ Your ladyship’s in all desired 
employment, Brron.’ Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is 
one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath 
framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, 
which accidentally, or by the way of progression, 
hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver 
this paper into the royal hand of the king: it may 
concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive 
thy duty: adieu. [your life! 

Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save 

Cost. Have with thee, my girl. 

[| Exeunt Cost. and Jaq. 

Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, 
very religiously; and, as a certain father saith, — 

Hol. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear col- 
ourable colours. But to return to the verses: did 
they please you, Sir Nathaniel ? 

Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. 

Hol. I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain 
pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall 
please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, 
on my privilege I have with the parents of the fore- 
said child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; 
where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, 
neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention I 
beseech your society. 

Nath. And thank you too; for society, saith the 
text, is the happiness of life. 

Hol. And, certes, the text most infallibly con- 
cludes it. [Zo Dull] Sir, I do invite you too; you 
shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the 
gentles are at their game, and we will to our recre- 


ation. [ Hxeunt. 
SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter Biron, with a paper. 


Biron. The king he is hunting the deer; I am 
coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am 
toiling in a pitch,—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul 
word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say 
the fool said, and so say I,and I the fool: well proved, 
wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it 
kills sheep; it kills me, Ia sheep: well proved again 
o’ my side! I will not love: if I do, hang me; i’ 
faith, I will not. O, but her eye,—by this light, 
but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her . 
two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie. 
and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love: and it 
hath taught me to rhyme and to be melancholy ; and 


121 


ACT IV. 


here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. 
Well, she hath one 0’ my sonnets already: the clown 
bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet 
clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, 
I would not care a pin, if the other three were in. 
Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace 
to groan! [Stands aside. 


Enter the King, with a paper. 


King. Ay me! 

Biron. [Aside] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet 
Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt 
under the left pap. In faith, secrets! 

King [reads]. 

So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not 

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, 

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote 

The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows: 
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright 

Through the transparent bosom of the deep, 

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light: 

Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep: 

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; 

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. 
Do but behold the tears that swell in me, 

And they thy glory through my grief will show: 
But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep 
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. 

O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel, 
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. 
How shall she know my griefs ? Ill drop the paper! 
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here ? 
[Steps aside. 
What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear. 
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! 


Enter Longaville, with a paper. 


Long. Ay me, I am forsworn ! 
Biron. Why he comes in like a perjure, wearing 
papers. 
King. In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame! 
Birow. One drunkard loves another of the name. 
Long. Am [the first that have been perjured so ? 
Biron. I could put thee in comfort. Not by two 
that I know: [ety, 
Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of soci- 
The shape of Love’s Tyburn that hangs up sim- 
plicity. [move. 
Long. 1 fear these stubborn lines lack power to 
O sweet Maria, empress of my love! 
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. 
Biron. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s 
Disfigure not his slop. [hose : 
Long. This same shall go. [Reads. 
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 
’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument, 
Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? 
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 
A woman I forswore; but I will prove, 
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: 
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; 
Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me. 
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is: 
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, 
Exhalest this vapour vow; in thee it is: 
If broken then, it is no fault of mine: 
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise 
To lose an oath to win a paradise ? [a deity. 
Biron. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh 
A green goose a goddess: pure, pure idolatry. [way. 
God amend us, God amend! we are much out ’o the 
Long. By whom shall I send this ?—Company! 
stay. [Steps aside. 
Biron. All hid, all hid; an old infant play. 
Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, 
And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye. 
More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish! 
122 


LOVE'S LABOUR'S: LOST 


SCENE IIT. 


Enter Dumain, with a paper. 


Dumain transform’d! four woodcocks in a dish! 
Dum. O most divine Kate! 
Biron. O most profane coxcomb! 
Dum. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! 
Biron. By earth, she is not, corporal, there you lie. 
Dum. Her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted. 
Biron. An amber-colour’d raven was well noted. 
Dum. As upright as the cedar. 


Biron. Stoop, I say; 
Her shoulder is with child. 
Dum. As fair as day. [shine. 


Biron. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must 
Dum. O that I had my wish! 
Long. And I had mine! 
King. And I mine, too, good Lord! [word ? 
Biron. Amen, so 1 had mine: is not that a good 
Dum. I would forget her; but a fever she 
Reigns in my blood and will remember’d be. 
Biron. A fever in your blood !* why, then incision 
Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision ! 
Dum. Once more Ill read the ode that I have 
writ. [wit. 
Biron. Once more I’ll mark how love can vary 
Dum. {reads.] 
On a day —alack the day !— 
Love, whose month is ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air: 
Through the velvet leaves the wind, 
All unseen, can passage find ; 
That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish himself the heaven’s breath. 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; 
Air, would I might triumph so! 
But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn; 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! 
Do not call it sin in me, 
That I am forsworn for thee; 
Thou for whom Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were; 
And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love. 
This will I send and something else more plain, 
That shall express my true love’s fasting pain. 
O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville, 
Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, 
Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note: 
For none offend where all alike do dote. 
Long. [advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from 
charity, 
That in love’s grief desirest society: 
You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, 
To be o’erheard and taken napping so. 
King. [advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his 
your case is such; 
You chide at him, offending twice as much : 
You do not love Maria; Longaville 
Did never sonnet for her sake compile, 
Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart 
His loving bosom to keep down his heart. 
I have been closely shrouded in this bush 
And mark’d you both and for you both did blush: 
I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion, 
Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion: 
Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries; 
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes: 
[To Long.|] You would for paradise break faith and 
troth ; [an oath. 
[To Dum.] And Jove, for your love, would infringe 
What will Biron say when that he shall hear 
Faith so infringed, which such zeal did swear ? 
How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit! 
How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it! 


eAOCT I'v. 


For all the wealth that ever I did see, 
I would not have him know so much by me. 
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy. 
[Advancing. 
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me! 
Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reprove 
These worms for loving, that art most in love? 
Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears 
There is no certain princess that appears; 
You ll not be perjured, ’tis a hateful thing ; 
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting! 
But are you not ashamed ? nay, are you not, 
All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot ? 
You found his mote; the king your mote did see; 
But I a beam do find in each of three. 
O, what a scene of foolery have I seen, 
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen! 
O me, with what strict patience have I sat, 
To see a king transformed to a gnat! 
To see great Hercules whipping a gig, 
And profound Solomon to tune a jig, 
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, 
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys! 
Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain ? 
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain ? 
And where my liege’s? all about the breast: 
A caudle, ho! 
King. Too bitter is thy jest. 
Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view ? 
Biron. Not you to me, but I betray’d by you: 
I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin 
To break the vow I am engaged in; 
I am betray’d, by keeping company 
With men like men of inconstancy. 
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme ? 
Or groan for love? or spend a minute’s time 
In pruning me? When shall you hear that I 
Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, 
A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, 
A leg, a limb ? 
King. Soft! whither away so fast ? 
A true man or a thief that gallops so? 
Biron. I post from love: good lover, let me go. 


Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. 


Jaq. God bless the king! 
King. What present hast thou there ? 
Cost. Some certain treason. 
King. — What makes treason here ? 
Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. 
King. If it mar nothing neither, 
The treason and you go in peace away together. 
Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read : 
Our parson misdoubts it; ’t was treason, he said. 
King. Biron, read it over. [Giving him the paper. 
Where hadst thou it ? 
Jaq. Of Costard. 
King. Where hadst thou it ? 
Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. 
[ Biron tears the letter. 
King. How now! what is in you? why dost thou 
. tear it? 
Biron. A toy, my liege,a toy: your grace needs 
not fear it. 
rd It did move him to passion, and therefore 
et ’s hear it. 
Dum. It is Biron’s writing, and here is his name. 
Toamenia up the pieces. 
Biron. [To Costard] Ah, you whoreson logger- 
__ head! you were born to do me shame. 
Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess. 
King. What ? 
Biron. That you three fools lack’d me fool to 
make up the mess: 
He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I, 
re pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. 
O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE III. 


Dum. Now the number is even. 


Biron. True, true; we are four. 
Will these turtles be gone ? 
King. Hence, sirs; away! 


g i 
Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors 
stay. [Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta. 
Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let usembrace ! 
As true we are as flesh and blood can be: 
The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; 
Young blood doth not obey an old decree: 
We cannot cross the cause why we were born; 
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. 
King. What, did these rent lines show some love 
of thine? {ly Rosaline, 
Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heaven- 
That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, 
At the first opening of the gorgeous east, 
Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind 
Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ? 
What peremptory eagle-sighted eye 
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, 
That is not blinded by her majesty ? [now ? 
King. What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee 
My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; 
She an attending star, scarce seen a light. 
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron: 
O, but for my love, day would turn to night! 
Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty 
Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, 
Where several worthies make one dignity, 
Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. 
Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,— 
Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not: 
To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs, 
She passes praise ; then praise too short doth blot. 
A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn, 
Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye: 
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, 
And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy : 
O, ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine. 
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. 
Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! 
A wife of such wood were felicity. 
O, who can give an oath? where is a book ? 
That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, 
If that she learn not of her eye to look: 
No face is fair that is not full so black. 
King. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell, 
The hue of dungeons and the suit of night; 
And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. 
Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of 
O, if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d, __ {light. 
It mourns that painting and usurping hair 
Should ravish doters with a false aspect; 
And therefore is she born to make black fair. 
Her favour turns the fashion of the days, 
For native blood is counted painting now; 
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, 
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. 
Dum. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. 
Long. And since her time are colliers counted 
bright. [crack. 
King. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion 
ee Dark needs no candles now, for dark is 
ight. 
Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, 
For fear their colours should be wash’d away. 
King. ’T were good, yours did; for, sir, to tell you 
I'll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day. __[plain, 
Biron. I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday 
here. [she. 
King. No devil will fright thee then so much as 
Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. 
Long. Look, here’s thy love: my foot and her 
face see. 
Biron. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, 
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread! 


123 


ACT V. 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


\ 
a 
' 


SCENE I. 


Dum. O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies 
The street should see as she walk’d overhead. 
King. But what of this? are we not all in love ? 
Biron. Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn. 
King. Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, now 
prove 

Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. 

Dum. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil. 

Long. 0, some authority how to proceed; 

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. 

Dum. Some salve for perjury. 

Biron. ’T is more than need. 
Have at you, then, affections men at arms. 
Consider what you first did swear unto, 

To fast, to study, and to see no woman; 

Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth. 
Say, can you fast ? your stomachs are too young; 
And abstinence engenders maladies. 

And where that you have vow’d to study, lords, 
In that each of you have forsworn his book, 
Can you still dream and pore and thereon look ? 
For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, 
Have found the ground of study’s excellence 
Without the beauty of a woman’s face ? 
{From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive; 
They are the ground, the books, the academes 
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. ] 
Why, universal plodding poisons up 

The nimble spirits in the arteries, 

As motion and long-during action tires 

The sinewy vigour of the traveller. 

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face, 

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes 
And study too, the causer of your vow; 

For where is any author in the world 

Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye ? 
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself 

And where we are our learning likewise is: 
Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes, 

Do we not likewise see our learning there ? 

O, we have made a vow to study, lords, 

And in that vow we have forsworn our books. 
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, 
In leaden contemplation have found out 

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes 

Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with ? 
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain ; 

And therefore, finding barren practisers, 
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil: 
But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, 

Lives not alone immured in the brain ; 

But, with the motion of all elements, 

Courses as swift as thought in every power, 
And gives to every power a double power, 
Above their functions and their offices. 

It adds a precious seeing to the eye; 


A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind; 
A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound, 
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d: 
Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible 
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails; 
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste: 
For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ? 
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical 
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair: 
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. 
Never durst poet touch a pen to write 
Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs; 
O, then his lines would ravish savage ears 
And plant in tyrants mild humility. 
From women’s eyes this doctrine | derive: 
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; 
They are the books, the arts, the academes, 
That show, contain and nourish all the world: 
Else none at all in ought proves excellent. 
Then fools you were these women to forswear, 
Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. 
For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love, 
Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men, 
Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women, 
Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men, 
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, 
Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. 
It is religion to be thus forsworn, 
For charity itself fulfils the law, 
And who ean sever love from charity ? 
King. Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, tothe field! 
praia ee your standards, and upon them, 
ords; 
Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advised, 
In conflict that you get the sun of them. 
Long. Now to plain-dealing ; lay these glozes by : 
Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France? 
King. And win them too: therefore let us devise 
Some entertainment for them in their tents. 
Biron. First, from the park let us conduct them 
thither ; 
Then homeward every man attach the hand 
Of his fair mistress: In the afternoon 
We will with some strange pastime solace them, 
Such as the shortness of the time can shape; 
For revels, dances, masks and merry hours 
Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. 
King. Away, away! no time shall be omitted 
That will betime, and may by us be fitted. 
Biron. Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no 
corn ; 
And justice always whirls in equal measure: 
Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn ; 
Ifso, our copper buys no better treasure. [Hveunt. 


pA COmIVG. 


SCENE I.— The same. 


Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. 


Hol. Satis quod sufficit. 

Nath. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at 
dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant 
without securrility, witty without affection, auda- 
cious without impudency, learned without opinion, 
and strange without heresy. I did converse this 
quondam day with a companion of the king’s, who 
is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de 
Armado. 

Hol. Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is 
lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his 


124 


eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general 
behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is 
too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it 
were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. 
Nath. A most singular and choice epithet. 
Draws out his table-book. 
Hol. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity 
finer than the staple of hisargument. I abhorsuch 
fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point- 
devise companions; such rackers of orthography, 
as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt; 
det, when he should pronounce debt,—d, e, b, t, not 
d,e,t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour 
vocatur nebour; neigh abbreviated ne. This is ab- 
hominable,— which he would call abbominable: it 


oe el we LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE II. 


insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine ? 
to make frantic, lunatic. 

Nath. Laus Deo, bene intelligo. 

Hol. Bon, bon, fort bon, Priscian! 
scratched, ’t will serve. 

Nath. Videsne quis venit ? 

Hol. Video, et gaudeo. 


Enter Armado, Moth, and Costard. 


Arm, Chirrah! [To Moth. 

Hol. Quare chirrah, not sirrah ? 

Arm. Men of peace, well encountered. 

Hol. Most military sir, salutation. 

Moth. [Aside to Costard| They have been at a great 
feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. 

Cost. O, they have lived long on the alms-basket 
of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee 
for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as 
honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swal- 
lowed than a flap-dragon. 

Moth. Peace! the peal begins. 

Arm. [To Hol.] Monsieur, are you not lettered ? 

Moth. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the horn-book. 
What is a, b, spelt backward, with the horn on his 

Hol. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. [head ? 

Moth. Ba, most silly sheep with ahorn. You 
hear his learning. 

Hol. Quis, quis, thou consonant ? 

Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat 
them; or the fifth, if I. 

Hol. I will repeat them,—a, e, i,— [o, u. 

Moth. The sheep: the other two concludes it,— 

Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterra- 
neum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, 
snap, quick and home! it rejoiceth my intellect: 
true wit ! [wit-old. 

Moth. Offered by achild to an old man; which is 

Hol. What is the figure ? what is the figure ? 

Moth. Horns. gig. 

Hol. Thou disputest like an infant: go, whip thy 

Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will 
whip about your infamy circum circa,—a gig of a 
cuckold’s horn. 

Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, thou 
shouldst have it to buy gingerbread: hold, there is 
the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half- 
penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. 
O,an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but 
my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make 
me! Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers’ 
ends, as they say. 

Hol. O, I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem. 

Arm. Arts-man, preambulate, we will be singuled 
from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at 
the charge-house on the top of the mountain ? 

Hol. Or mons, the hill. 

Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. 

Hol. I do, sans question. 

Arm. Sir, it is the king’s most sweet pleasure and 

aifection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion 
in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multi- 
tude call the afternoon. 
_ Hol. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, 
is liable, congruent and measurable for the after- 
noon: the word is wellculled, chose, sweet and apt, 
I do assure you, sir, I do assure. 

Arm, Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my 
familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend: for what 
1s Inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, 
remember thy courtesy; I beseech thee, apparel thy 
head: and among other important and most serious 
designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let 
_ that pass: for I must tell thee, it will please his 
_ grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor 
_ shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally with 

my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet 


a little 


| heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no | 


fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his 
greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of 
travel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass. 
The very all of all is,—but, sweet heart, I do im- 
plore secrecy ,— that the king would have me present 
the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful 
ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antique, or fire- 
work. Now, understanding that the curate and 
your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sud- 
den breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have ac. 
quainted you withal, to the end to crave your 
assistance. 

Hol. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine 
Worthies. Sir, as concerning some entertainment 
of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to 
be rendered by our assistants, at the king’s com- 
mand, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned 
gentleman, before the princess; I say none so fit as 
to present the Nine Worthies. 

Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to 
present them ? 

Hol. Joshua, yourself; myself and this gallant 
gentleman, Judas Maccabeeus; this swain, because 
of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the 
Great; the page, Hercules,— 

‘Arm. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity 
enough for that Worthy’s thumb: he is not so big 
as the end of his club. 

Hol. Shall I have audience ? he shall present Her- 
cules in minority: his enter and exit shall be stran- 
gling a snake: and I will have an apology for that 
purpose. 

Moth. An excellent device! so, if any of the au- 
dience hiss, you may cry ‘ Well done, Hercules! 
now thou crushest the snake!’ that is the way to 
make an offence gracious, though few have the grace 
to do it. 

Arm. For the rest of the Worthies ? — 

Hol. I will play three myself. 

Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman ! 

Arm. Shall I tell you a thing? 

Hol. We attend. 

Arm. We will have, if this fadge not, an antique. 
I beseech you, follow. 

Hol. Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no 
word all this while. 

Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir. 

Hol. Allons! we will employ thee. [play 

Dull. 1711 make one in a dance, or so; or I will 
On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance 


the hay. 
Hol. Most dull, honest Dull! To our_ sport, 
away ! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and 
Maria. 


Prin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, 
If fairings come thus plentifully in: 
A lady wall’d about with diamonds! 
Look you what I have from the loving king. 
Ros. Madame, came nothing else along with that ? 
Prin. Nothing but this! yes, as much love in 
rhyme 
As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper, 
Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all, 
That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name. 
Ros. That was the way to make his godhead wax, 
For he hath been five thousand years a boy. 
Keath. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. 
Ros. You'll ne’er be friends with him; a’ kill’d 
your sister. 
Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; 
And so she died: had she been light, like you, 
Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, 
She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died : 
And so may you; for a light heart lives long. 
125 


ACT. V. 


Ros. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this 
light word ? 
Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark. 
Ros. We need more light to find your meaning out. 
Kath. You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff; 
Therefore I ’ll darkly end the argument. 
Ros. Look, what you do, you do it still i’ the dark. 
Kath. So do not you, for you are a light wench. 
Ros. Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light. 
Kath. You weigh me not? O, that’s you care 
not for me. 
Ros. Great reason ; for ‘ past cure is still past care.’ 
Prin. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well play’d. 
But, Rosaline, you have a favour too: 
Who sent it? and what is it? 
Ros. I would you knew: 
An if my face were but as fair as yours, 
My favour were as great; be witness this. 
Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron: 
The numbers true; and, were the numbering too, 
I were the fairest goddess on the ground: 
I am compared to twenty thousand fairs. 
O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter! 
Prin. Any thing like? 
Fos. Much in the letters; nothing in the praise. 
Prin. Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion. 
Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. 
Ros. >Ware pencils, ho! let me not die your debtor, 
My red dominical, my golden letter: 
O that your face were not so full of O’s! 
Kath. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all 
shrows. 
Prin. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from 
fair Dumain ? 
Kath. Madam, this glove. 
Prin. Did he not send you twain ? 
Kath. Yes, madam, and moreover 
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover, 
A huge translation of hypocrisy, 
Vilely compiled, profound simplicity. 
Mar. This and these pearls to me sent Longa- 
The letter is too long by half a mile. 
Prin. [think noless. Dost thou not wish in heart 
The chain were longer and the letter short ? 
Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. 
Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. 
Rios. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. 
That same Biron I 71] torture ere I go: 
O that L knew he were but in by the week! 
How I would make him fawn and beg and seek 
And wait the season and observe the times 
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes 
And shape his service wholly to my hests 
And make him proud to make me proud that jests! 
So perttaunt-like would I o’ersway his state 
That he should be my fool and I his fate. 
Prin. None are so surely caught, when they are 
catch’d, 
As wit turn’d fool: folly, in wisdom hatch’d, 
Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school 
And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. 

Ros. The blood of youth burns not with such ex- 
As gravity’s revolt to wantonness. [cess 
Mar. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note 

As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote; 
Since all the power thereof it doth apply 
To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. 
Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. 


Enter Boyet. 
soyet. O, Lam stabb’d with laughter! 
her grace ? 

Prin. Thy news, Boyet ? 

Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare! 
Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are 
Against your peace: Love doth approach disguised, 
Armed in arguments; you’ll be surprised : 

126 


Where’s 


LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST. 


SCENE II. 


Muster your wits; stand in your own defence; 

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. 
Prin. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they 

That charge their breath against us ? say, scout, say. 
Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore 

I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour; 

When, lo! to interrupt my purposed rest, 

Toward that shade I might behold addrest 

The king and his companions: warily 

I stole into a neighbour thicket by, 

And overheard what you shall overhear ; 

That, by and by, disguised they will be here. 

Their herald is a pretty knavish page, 

That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage: 

Action and accent did they teach him there; 

‘Thus must thou speak,’ and ‘thus thy body bear:* 

And ever and anon they made a doubt 

Presence majestical would put him out; 

‘For,’ quoth the king, ‘an angel shalt thou see; 

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.’ 

The boy replied, ‘An angel is not evil; 

I should have fear’d her had she been a devil.’ 

With that, all laugh’d and clapp’d him on the 

shoulder 


| Making the bold wag by their praises bolder: 


One rubb’d his elbow thus, and fleer’d and swore 
A better speech was never spoke before; 
Another, with his finger and his thumb, 
Cried ‘ Via! we will do ’t, come what will come ;’ 
The third he caper’d, and cried, ‘All goes well; 
The fourth turn’d on the toe, and down he fell. 
With that, they all did tumble on the ground, 
With such a zealous laughter, so profound, 
That in this spleen ridiculous appears, 
To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears. 
Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us ? 
Boyet. They do, they do; and are apparell’d thus, 
Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. 


| Their purpose is to parle, to court and dance: 
[ville: 


And every one his love-feat will advance 
Unto his several mistress, which they ll know 
By favours several which they did bestow. 

Prin. And will they so? The gallants shall be 
For, ladies, we will every one be mask’d; [task’d; 
And not a man of them shall have the grace, 
Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face. 

Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, 

And then the king will court thee for his dear: 
Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, 
So shall Biron take me for Rosaline. 

And change you favours too; so shall your loves 
Woo contrary, deceived by these removes.  [sight. 

Ros. Come on, then; wear the favours most in 

Kath. But in this changing what is your intent ? 

Prin. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs: 
They do it but in mocking merriment ; 

And mock for mock is only my intent. 
Their several counsels they unbosom shall 


_ To loves mistook, and so be mock’d withal 


Upon the next occasion that we meet, 


| With visages display’d, to talk and greet. 


Ros. But shall we dance, if they desire us tot ? 
Prin. No, to the death, we will not move a foot; 
Nor to their penn’d speech render we no Sees: 
But while ’t is spoke each turn away her face. 
Boyet. Why, that contempt will kill the speak- 
er’s heart, 
And quite divorce his memory from his part. 
Prin. Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt 
The rest will ne’er corhe in, if he be out. 
There ’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown, 
To make theirs ours and ours none but our own: 
So shall we stay, mocking intended game, 
And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame. 
[Trumpets sound within. 
Boyet. The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the 
maskers come. [The Ladies mask. 


Ta 
e 
a oo , 


ACT V. 


Enter Blackamoors with music; Moth; the King, Biron, 
Longaville, and Dumain, in Russian habits, and 
masked, 

Moth. All hail, the richest beauties on the 
earth 
Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. 
Moth. A holy parcel of the fairest dames. 
The Ladies turn their backs to him. 

That ever turn’d their — backs —to mortal views! 

Biron. [Aside to Moth] Their eyes, villain, their 
eyes. [views ! — 
Moth. That ever turned their eyes to mortal 

Out — 

Boyet. True; out indeed. [safe 
Moth. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits,vouch- 

Not to behold — 

Biron. [Aside to Moth] Once to behold, rogue. 
Moth. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes, 

— with your sun-beamed eyes — , . 
Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet ; 

You were best call it ‘ daughter-beamed eyes.’ 
Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me 

out. 
Biron. Is this your perfectness? be gone, you 
rogue! [ Hxit Moth. 
Ros. What would these strangers? know their 
minds, Boyet: 

If they do speak our language, ’t is our will 

That some plain man recount their purposes: 

Know what they would. 

Boyet. What would you with the princess ? 

Biron. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. 

Ros. What would they, say they ? 

Boyet. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. 

Ros. Why, that they have; and bid them so be 
one. 

Boiler: She says, you have it, and you may be gone. 

King. Say to her, we have measured many miles 

To tread a measure with her on this grass. [a mile 
Boyet. They say, that they have measured many 

To tread a measure with you on this grass. 

Ros. It is not so. Ask them how many inches 

Is in one mile: if they have measured many, 

The measure then of one is easily told. [miles, 
Boyet. If to come hither you have measured 

And many miles, the princess bids you tell 

How many inches doth fill up one mile. 

Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. 
Boyet. She hears herself. 
Fos. How many weary steps, 

Of many weary miles you have o’ergone, 

Are number’d in the travel of one mile ? [you: 
Biron. We number nothing that we spend for 

Our duty is so rich, so infinite, 

That we may do it still without accompt. 

Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, 

That we, like savages, may worship it. 
ios. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. 
King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds 

do! [shine, 

Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to 

Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne. 

_ fos. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; 

Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water. 
King. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe 

one change. 

Thou bid’st me beg: this begging is not strange. 
ios. Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it 

soon. [Music plays. 

Not yet! no dance! Thus change I like the moon. 
King. Will you not dance? How come you thus 

estranged ? [changed. 
Stos. You took the moon at full, but now she’s 
King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. 

The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it. 
ftos. Our ears vouchsafe it. 

King. But your legs should do it. 


ese 


BOVE S ae pOUR S LOS L. 


SCENE II. 


ios. Since you are strangers and come here by 
chance, 
We ’ll not be nice: take hands. We will not dance. 
cing. Why take we hands, then ? 
Ros. Only to part friends: 
Curtsy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends. 
King. More measure of this measure; be not nice. 
Fos. We can afford no more at such a price. 
King. Prize you yourselves: what buys your com- 
fos. Your absence only. [pany ? 
King. That can never be. 
tos. Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu! 
Twice to your visor, and half once to you. 
King. If you deny to dance, let ’s hold more chat. 
fos. In private, then. 
King. I am best pleased with that. 
| They converse apart. 
Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word 
with thee. 
Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. 
Biron. Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so 


nice, 
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice! 
There ’s half-a-dozen sweets. 
Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu: 
Since you can cog, Ill play no more with you. 
Biron. One word in secret. 


Prin. Let it not be sweet. 
Biron. Thou grievest my gall. 

Prin. Gall! bitter. 
Biron. Therefore meet. 


[They converse apart. 
Dum. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a 


Mar. Name it. [word ? 

Dum. Fair lady,— 

Mar. Say youso? Fair lord,— 
Take that for your fair lady. 

Dum. Please it you, 


As much in private, and Ill bid adieu. 
[They converse apart. 
Kath. What, was your vizard made without a 
tongue ? 
Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. 
Kath. O for your reason! quickly, sir; I long. 
Long. ep have a double tongue within your 
mask, 
And would afford my speechless vizard half. 
Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not ‘veal’ 
Pee A calf, fair lady! [a calf ? 
Kath. No, a fair lord calf. 
Long. Let’s part the word. 
Kath. No, Ill not be your half: 
Take all,and wean it; it may prove anox. [mocks! 
Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp 
Will you give horns, chaste lady ? do not so. 
Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. 
Long. One word in private with you, ere I die. 
Kath. Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you 
cry. [They converse apart. 
Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as 
As is the razor’s edge invisible, [keen 
Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, 
Above the sense of sense; so sensible 
Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings 
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter 
things. [break off. 
Fos. Not one word more, my maids; break off 
Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scott! 
King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple 
Prin. Twenty adieus,my frozen Muscovits. [wits. 
[Exeunt King, Lords, and Blackamoors. 
Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at? - 
Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths 
puff’d out. pat. 
Ros. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, 
Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! 
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night ¢ 
‘ 127 


ACT V. 


Or ever, but in vizards, show their faces ? 
This pert Biron was out of countenance quite. 
Ros. O, they were all in lamentable cases! 
The king was weeping-ripe for a good word. 
Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit. 
Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his sword: 
No point, quoth 1; my servant straight was mute. 
Kath. Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart ; 
And trow you what he called me? 


Prin. Qualm, perhaps. 
Kath. Yes, in good faith. : 
Prin. Go, sickness as thou art! | 


Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute- | 


caps. 

But will you hear? the king is my love sworn. 
Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me. 
Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. 
Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. 
Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: 

Immediately they will again be here 

In their own shapes; for it can never be 

They will digest this harsh indignity. 

Prin. Will they return ? 
Boyet. They will, they will, God knows, 

And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: 

Therefore change favours; and, when they repair, 

Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. [stood. 


Prin. How blow? how blow ? speak to be under- | 


Boyet. Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their bud; 
Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown, 
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. 

Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do, 
If they return in their own shapes to woo ? 

fos. Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised, 
Let ’s mock them still, as well known as disguised : 
Let us complain to them what fools were here, 
Disguised like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; 

And wonder what they were and to what end 
Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn’d 
And their rough carriage so ridiculous, 

Should be presented at our tent to us. 

Boyet. Ladies,withdraw: the gallants are at hand. 

Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er land. 

[Hxeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine,and Maria. 


Re-enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Du- 
main, in their proper habits. 
King. Fair sir, God save you! Where’s the 
princess ? . 
Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty 
Command me any service to her thither?  [word. 
King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one 
Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. 
[ Exit. 
Biron. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease, 
And utters it again when God doth please: 
He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares 
At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; 
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, 
Ifave not the grace to grace it with such show. 
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; 
Iiad he been Adam, he had tempted Eve; 
A’ can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he 
That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy ; 
This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, 
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice 
In honourable terms: nay, he can sing 
A mean most meanly; and in ushering 
Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet; 
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet: 
This is the flower that smiles on every one, 
To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone; 
And consciences, that will not die in debt, 
Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet. 
King. A blister on his sweet tongue,with my heart, 
That put Armado’s page out of his part! [thou 
Biron. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert 


128 


LOVE'S LABOURS LOST. 


SCENE II. . 


Till this madman show’d thee ? and what art thou 
now ? 


Re-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet; Rosaline, 
Maria, and Katharine. 


King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! 
Prin. ‘ Fair’ in ‘all hail’ is foul, as I conceive. 
| King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. 
Prin. Then wish me better ; I will give you leave. 
King. We came to visit you, and purpose now 
To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. 
Prin. This field shall hold me; and so hold your yow: 
Nor God, nor I, delights in perjured men. 
King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke: 
The virtue of your eye must break my oath. 
Prin. You nickname virtue; vice you should have 
spoke ; 
For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. 
Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure 
As the unsullied lily, I protest, 
A world of torments though I should endure, 
I would not yield to be your house’s guest ; 
So much I hate a breaking cause to be 
Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity. 
Iking. O, you have lived in desolation here, 
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. 
Prin. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; 
We have had pastimes here and pleasant game: 
| A mess of Russians left us but of late. 
| King. How, madam! Russians! 
} Ay, in truth, my lord; 


run. 
| Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. 


fos. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord: 
My lady, to the manner of the days, 
In courtesy gives undeserving praise. 


| We four indeed confronted were with four 


In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour, 
| And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord, 
| They did not bless us with one happy word. 
I dare not call them fools; but this I think, 
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. 
Biron. This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, 
Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet, 
With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, 
By light we lose light: your capacity 
Is of that nature that to your huge store 
Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. 
tos. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,— 
Biron. Iam a fool, and full of poverty. 
fos. But that you take what doth to you belong, 
It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. 
Biron. O, Iam yours, and all that I possess! 
Fos. All the fool mine ? 
Biron. I cannot give you less. 
Ros. Which of the vizards was it that you wore ? 
Biron. Where? when? what vizard? why de- 
mand you this ? [case 
fos. There, then, that vizard ; that superfluous 
That hid the worse and show’d the better face. 
King. We are descried; theyll mock us now 
downright. 
Dum. Let us confess and turn it toa jest. [sad ? 
Prin. Amazed, my lord ? why looks your highness 
ftos. Help, hold his brows! he’ll swoon! Why 
look you pale ? 
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. 
Biron. Thus pour the stars down plagues for per- 


jury. 
Can any face of brass hold longer out ? 
Here stand I: lady, dart thy skill at me; 
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout; 
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance; 
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ; 
And I will wish thee never more to dance, 
Nor never more in Russian habit wait. 
O, never will I trust to speeches penn’d, 
Nor to the motion of a schoolboy’s tongue, 


be 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 


SCENE II. 


Nor never come in vizard to my friend, 

Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s song! 

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, 

Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation, 

Figures pedantical; these summer-flies 

ave blown me full of maggot ostentation : 

I do forswear them; and I here protest, [knows ! — 
By this white glove,— how white the hand, God 

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d 
In russet yeas and honest kersey noes: 

And, to begin, wench,—so God help me, la! — 

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 

Ros. Sans sans, I pray you. 
Biron. Yet I have a trick 

Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick; 

Ill leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see: 

Write, ‘ Lord have mercy on us’ on those three; 

They are infected; in their hearts it lies; 

They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes; 

These lords are visited; you are not free, 

For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see. [us. 
Prin. No, they are free that gave these tokens to 
Biron. Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us. 
fos. It is not so; for how can this be true, 

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue ? 
Biron. Peace! for I will not have to do with you. 
Fos. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. 

Biron. Speak for yourselves ; my wit is at an end. 
King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude trans- 

Some fair excuse. [gression 
Prin. The fairest is confession. 

Were not you here but even now disguised ? 

King. Madam, I was. 


Prin. And were you well advised ? 
King. I was, fair madam. 
Prin. When you then were here, 


What did you whisper in your lady’s ear ? [her. 
King. That more than all the world I did respect 
Prin. When she shall challenge this, you will re- 
King. Upon mine honour, no. [ject her. 
Prin. Peace, peace! forbear: 

Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. 


King. Despise me, when I break this oath of mine. | 


Prin. I will: and therefore keep it. Rosaline, 
What did the Russian whisper in your ear ? 
ftos. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear 
As precious eyesight, and did value me 
Above this world; adding thereto moreover 
That he would wed me, or else die my lover. 
Prin. God give thee joy of him! the noble lord 
Most honourably doth uphold his word. 
King. What mean you, madam? by my life, my 
I never swore this lady such an oath. [troth, 
ios. By heaven, you did; and to confirm it plain, 
You gave me this: but take it, sir, again. 
King. My faith and this the princess I did give: 
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. 
Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; 
And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear. 
What, will you have me, or your pearl again ? 
Biron. Neither of either; I remit both twain. 
I see the trick on ’t: here was a consent, 
Knowing aforehand of our merriment, 
To dash it like a Christmas comedy: 
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, 
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some 


ick, 

That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick 
To make my lady laugh when she’s disposed, 
Told our intents before; which once disclosed, 
The ladies did change favours: and then we, 
Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she. 
Now, to our perjury to add more terror, 
We are again forsworn, in will and error. 
Much upon this it is: and might not you 

[To Boyet. 
Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue ? 


9 


Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squier, 
And laugh upon the apple of her eye ? 

And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, 
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily ? 

You put our page out: go, you are allow’d; 

Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. 

You leer upon me, do you? there’s an eye 

Wounds like a leaden sword. ; 
Boyet. Full merrily 

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. 
Biron. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! Ihave 


done. 
Enter Costard. 


Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray. 
Cost. O Lord, sir, they would know 

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no. 
Biron. What, are there but three ? 
Cost. No, sir; but it is vara fine, 


_ For every one pursents three. 


Biron. And three times thrice is nine. 
Cost. Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope 
it is not so. 
You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we 
know what we know: 
I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,— 

Biron. Is not nine. 

Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereunti] 

it doth amount. 

Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for 
nine. 

Cost. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your 
living by reckoning, sir. 

Biron. How much is it ? 

Cost. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the 
actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: 
for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect 
one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir. 

Biron. Art thou one of the Worthies ? 

Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pom- 
pion the Great: for mine own part, I know not the 
degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him. 

tron. Go, bid them prepare. 

Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take 

some care. wit. 

King. Biron, they will shame us: let them not 

approach. 

Biron. We are shame-proof, my lord: and ’tis 

some policy [pany. 
To have one show worse than the king’s and his com- 

King. I say they shall not come. 

Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now: 
That sport best pleases that doth least know how: 
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents 
Dies in the zeal of that which it presents: 

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, 
When great things labouring perish in their birth. 
Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord. 


Enter Armado. 


Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy 
royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. 
[Converses apart with the King, and 
delivers him a paper. 
Prin. Doth this man serve God ? 
Biron. Why ask you? 
Prin. He speaks not like a man of God’s making. 
Arm. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey mon- 
arch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding 
fantastical; too too vain, too too vain: but we will 
put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish 
you the peace of mind, most royal mu acy Ui , 
: LU. 
King. Here is like to be a good presence of Wor- 
thies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, 
Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander ; 
Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Mac- 
cabzeus : 
129 


ACT V. 


And if these four W orthies in their first show thrive, 
These four will change habits, and present the other 
Biron. There is five in the first show. [five. 
King. You are deceived; *t is not so. 
Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge- 
priest, the fool and the boy : — 
Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again 
Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. 
King. The ship is under sail, and here she comes 
amain. 


Enter Costard, for Pompey. 
Cost. I Pompey am,— 


Boyet. You lie, you are not he. 
Cost. I Pompey am,— 
Boyet. With libbard’s head on knee. 


Biron. Well said, old mocker: I must needs be 
friends with thee. ; 


Cost. I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big,— | 


Dum. The Great. 
Cost. It is, ‘Great,’ sir :— 
Pompey surnamed the Great ; 
That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make 
my foe to sweat: [by chance, 
And travelling along this coast, I here am come 
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass 
of France. {had done. 
If your ladyship would say,‘ Thanks, Pompey,’ I 
Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey. 
Oost. "Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was 
perfect: I made a little fault in ‘ Great.’ 
Biron. My hat toa halfpenny, Pompey proves the 
best Worthy. 


Enter Sir Nathaniel, for Alexander. 


Nath. When in the world I lived, I was the 
world’s commander ; 
By east, west, north, and south, I spread my con- 
quering might: 
My scutcheon plain declares that Iam Alisander,— 
Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it 
stands too right. 
Biron. Your nose smells ‘no’ in this, most ten- 
der-smelling knight. [ Alexander. 


LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST. 


SCENE Il. 


Dum. A Judas! 
Hol. Not Iscariot, sir. 
Judas I am, yeliped Maccabeeus. 
Dum. Judas Maccabeeus clipt is plain Judas. 
Biron. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved 


Hol. Judas I am,— [Judas ? 
‘Dum. The more shame for you, Judas. 

Hol. What mean you, sir? 

Boyet. To make Judas hang himself. 

Hol. Begin, sir; you are my elder. felder. 


Biron. Well followed: Judas was hanged on an 

Hol. I will not be put out of countenance. 

Biron. Because thou hast no face. 

Hol. What is this ? 

Boyet. A cittern-head. 

Dum. The head of a bodkin. 

Biron. A Death’s face in a ring. 

Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. 

Boyet. The pommel of Ceesar’s falchion. 

Dum. The carved-bone face on a flask. 

Biron. Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch. 

Dum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. 

Biron. Ay,and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. 

And now forward; for we have put thee in counte- 

nance. 

Hol. You have put me out of countenance. 

Biron. False; we have given thee faces. 

Hol. But you have out-faced them all. | 

Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. 

Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. 

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay ? 

Dum. For the latter end of his name. 

Biron. For the ass to the Jude; give it him :— 
Jud-as, away ! 

Hol. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. 

Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark, 
he may stumble. ol. retires. 

ie een poor Maccabzeus, how hath he been 

aited ! 


Enter Armado, for Hector. 


Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hee- 
tor in arms. 
Dum. Though my mocks come home by me, I 


Prin. The conqueror is dismay’d. Proceed, good | will now be merry. 


Nath. When in the world I lived, I was the 
world’s commander ,— [sander. 
Boyet. Most true, ’tis right; you were so, Ali- 
Biron. Pompey the Great,— 
Cost. Your servant, and Costard. [sander. 
Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away Ali- 
Cost. [To Sir Nath.] O, sir, you have overthrown 
Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out 
of the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds 
his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to 
Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, 
and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisan- 
der. [Nath. retires] There, an ’t shall please you; a 
foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and 
soon dashed. He isa marvellous good neighbour, 
faith, and a very good bowler: but, for Alisander,— 
alas, you see how ’tis,—a little o’erparted. But 
there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind 
in some other sort. 
Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey. 


Enter Holofernes, for Judas; and Moth, for 
Hercules. 


Hol. Great Hercules is presented by this imp, 
Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed 

And when he wasa babe, achild,ashrimp, [canis; 
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. 

Quoniam he seemeth in minority, 

Ergo I come with this apology. 

Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. 
[Moth retires. 

Judas Il am,— 


130 


| 


King. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. 

Boyet. But is this Hector ? 

king. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered. 

Long. His leg is too big for Hector’s. 

Dum. More calf, certain. 

Boyet. No; he is best indued in the small. 

Biron. This cannot be Hector. 

Dum. He’s a god or a painter; for he makes faces. 

Arm. The armipotent Mars, of lances the al- 
Gave Hector a gift,— [mighty, 

Dum. A gilt nutmeg. 

Biron. A lemon. 

Long. Stuck with cloves. 

Dum. No, cloven, 

Arm. Peace!— 

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, 

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; 

A man so breathed, that certain he would fight; yea 

From morn till night, out of his pavilion. 

I am that flower,— 

Dum. That mint. 

Long. That columbine. 

Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. 

Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs 
against Hector. 

Dum. Ay,and Hector’s a greyhound. 

Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; 
sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: 
when he breathed, he was a man. But I will for- 
ward with my device. [To the Princess] Sweet 
royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. [lighted. 

Prin. Speak, brave Hector: we are much de- 


ow 


ACT Ws 


Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace’s slipper. 

Boyet. [Aside to Dum.] Loves her by the foot. 

Dum. [Aside to Boyet.| He may not by the yard. 

Arm. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,— 

Cost. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is 
gone; she is two months on her way. 

Arm. What meanest thou ? 

Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, 
the poor wench is cast away: she’s quick: the child 
brags in her belly already: ’t is yours. 

Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among poten- 
tates ? thou shalt die. 

Oost. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaque- 
netta that is quick by him and hanged for Pompey 
that is dead by him. 

Dum. Most rare Pompey! 

Boyet. Renowned Pompey ! 

Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great 
Pompey! Pompey the Huge! 

Dum. Hector trembles. 

Biron. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! 
stir them on! stir them on! 

Dum. Hector will challenge him. 

Biron. Ay, if a’ have no.more man’s blood in’s 
belly than will sup a flea. 

rm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. 

Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern 
man: Ill slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray 
you, let me borrow my arms again. 

Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies ! 

Cost. 1711 do it in my shirt. 

Dum. Most resolute Pompey! 

Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole 
lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the 
combat? What mean you? You will lose your 
reputation. 

Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will 
not combat in my shirt. 

Dum. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made 
the challenge. 

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. 

Biron. What reason have you for ’t ? 

Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; 
I go woolward for penance. 

Boyet. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome 
for want of linen: since when, I’ll be sworn, he 
wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that 
a’ wears next his heart for a favour. 


Enter Mercade. 


Mer. God save you, madam! 
Prin. Welcome, Mercade ; 
But that thou interrupt’st our merriment. 
Mer. 1am sorry, madam; for the news I bring 
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father— 
Prin. Dead, for my life! 
Mer. Even so; my tale is told. 
Biron. Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud. 
Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. 
Ihave seen the day of wrong through the little hole 
of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. 
[| Hxeunt Worthies. 
King. How fares your majesty ? 
Prin. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. 
King. Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay. 
Prin. Prepare, say. I thank you, gracious lords, 
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat, 
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe 
In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide 
The liberal opposition of our spirits, 
If over-boldly we have borne ourselves 
In the converse of breath: your gentleness 
Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! 
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue: 
Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks 
For my great suit so easily obtain’d. 
King. The extreme parts of time extremely forms 


LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST 


SCENE II. 


All causes to the purpose of his speed, 
And often at his very loose decides 
That which long process could not arbitrate: 
And though the mourning brow of progeny 
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love 
The holy suit which fain it would convince, 
Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, 
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it , 
From what it purposed; since, to wail friends lost 
Is not by much so wholesome-profitable 
As to rejoice at friends but newly found. 
Prin. I understand you not: my griefs are double. 
Biron. Hones plain words best pierce the ear of 
grief ; 
And by these badges understand the king. 
For your fair sakes have we neglected time, 
Play’d foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies, 
Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours 
Even to the opposed end of our intents: 
And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous,— 
As love is full of unbefitting strains, 
All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, 
Form’d by the eye and therefore, like the eye, 
Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, 
Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll 
‘To every varied object in his glance: 
Which parti-coated presence of loose love 
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, 
Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities, 
Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults, 
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, 
Our love being yours, the error that love makes 
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false, 
By being once false for ever to be true 
To those that make us both,— fair ladies, you: 
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, 
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. 
Prin. We have received your letters full of love ; 
Your favours, the ambassadors of love; 
And, in our maiden council, rated them 
At courtship, pleasant jest and courtesy, 
As bombast and as lining to the time: 
But more devout than this in our respects 
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves 
In their own fashion, like a merriment. [jest. 
Dum. Our letters, madam,show’d much more than 
Long. So did our looks. 
fos. We did not quote them so. 
King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, 
Grant us your loves. 
Prin. ; A time, methinks, too short 
To make a world-without-end bargain in. 
No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much, 
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this: 
If for my love, as there is no such cause, 
You will do aught, this shall you do for me: 
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed 
To some forlorn and naked hermitage, 
Remote from all the pleasures of the world; 
There stay until the twelve celestial signs 
Have brought about the annual reckoning. 
If this austere insociable life 
Change not your offer made in heat of blood; 
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds 
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, 
But that it bear this trial and last love; 
Then, at the expiration of the year, 
Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, 
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, 
I will be thine; and till that instant shut 
My woeful self up in a mourning house, 
Raining the tears of lamentation 
For the remembrance of my father’s death. 
If this thou do deny, let our hands part, 
Neither intitled in the other’s heart. 
King. If this, or more than this, I would deny, 
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, 


131 


ap ee 


ACT V. 


The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! 
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. 

[ Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to 

me ? 

Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rack’d, 
You are attaint with faults and perjury: 
Therefore if you my favour mean to get, 

A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, 

But seek the weary beds of people sick. ] 

Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to me? 
A wife? 

Kath. A beard, fair health, and honesty ; 

With three-fold love I wish you all these three. 
Dum. O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife ? 
Kath. Not so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day 

Ill mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say : 

Come when the king doth to my lady come; 

Then, if I have much love, Ill give you some. 
Dum. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then. 
Kath. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. 
Long. What says Maria ? 

Mar. At the twelvemonth’s end 
Ill change my black gown for a faithful friend. 

ane Ill stay with patience; but the time is 

ong. 

Mar. The liker you; few taller are so young. 

Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on me; 
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, 

What humble suit attends thy answer there: 

Impose some service on me for thy love. 

Fos. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron, 
Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue 
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, 

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 

Which you on all estates will execute 

That lie within the mercy of your wit. 

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, 

And therewithal to win me, if you please, 

Without the which I am not to be won, 

You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day 

Visit the speechless sick and still converse 

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, 

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit 

To enforce the pained impotent to smile. 

Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of 

death ? 

It cannot be; it, is impossible: 

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. 
ftos. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit, 

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace 

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools: 

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear 

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue 

Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears, 

Deat’d with the clamours of their own dear groans, 

Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, 

And I will have you and that fault withal; 

But if they will not, throw away that spirit, 

And I shall find you empty of that fault, 

Right joyful of your reformation. 

Biron. A twelvemonth! well; befall what will 

befall, 

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. 

Prin. [To the King] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I 

take my leave. 

King. No, madam; we will bring you on your 

way. 

Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play ; 
Jack hath not Jill: these ladies’ courtesy 
Might well have made our sport a comedy. 


132 


LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST. 


ty $ 


er 


SCENE I} 


— 


King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth anda day, 
And then ’t will end. 


Biron. That ’s too long for a play. 


Re-enter Armado. 


Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,— 

Prin. Was not that Hector ? 

Dum. The worthy knight of Troy. 

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. 
I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold 
the plough for her sweet love three years. But, 
most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue 
that the two learned men have compiled in praise 
of the owl and the cuckoo? it should have followed 
in the end of our show. 

King. Call them forth quickly; we will do so. 

Arm. Holla! approach. 


Re-enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, 
and others. 

This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring; 

the one maintained by the owl, the other by the 

cuckoo. Ver, begin. 


THE SONG. 


SPRING. 
When daisies pied and violets blue 
And lady-smocks all silver-white 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 
Do paint the meadows with delight, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men; for thus sings he, 
Cuckoo; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear! 


When shepherds pipe on oaten straws 
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, 
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men; for thus sings he, 
Cuckoo; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear! 


WINTER. 
When icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail 
And Tom bears logs into the hall 
And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
Tu-whit; 
Tu-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 


When all aloud the wind doth blow 

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw 
And birds sit brooding in the snow 

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly ae the staring owl, 

u-whit; 

Tu-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 


Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the 
songs of Apollo. You that way: we this way. 
eunt. 


“" 


SOR) GEX 
a y YY 4 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Theseus, Duke of Athens. 

Egeus, father to Hermia. 

Lysander, 

Demetrius, 

Philostrate, master of the revels to Theseus. 

Quince, a carpenter. 

Snug, a joiner. 

Bottom, a weaver. 

Flute, a bellows-mender. 

Snout, a tinker. 

Starveling, a tailor. 

Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, betrothed to 
Theseus. 


in love with Hermia. 


Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander. 
Helena, in love with Demetrius, 

Oberon, king of the fairies. 

Titania, queen of the fairies. 

Puck, or Robin Goodfellow. 

Peasebiossom, 
Cobweb, 
Moth, 
Mustardseed, 


fairies. 


Other fairies attending their King and Queen. At- 
tendants on Theseus and Hippolyta, 


SCENE — Athens, and a wood near tt, 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLVil.] 


PENCE rcs 


SCENE I.— Athens. 


Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and 
Attendants. 


The. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour 
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in 
Another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow 
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, 
Like to a step-dame or a dowager 
Long withering out a young man’s revenue. [night; 

Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves in 
Four nights will quickly dream away the time; 
And then the moon, like to a silver bow 
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night 
Of our solemnities. 

The. Go, Philostrate, 

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; 
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth: 
Turn melancholy forth to funerals; 
The pale companion is not for our pomp. 
[ Hxit Philostrate. 
Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, 
And won thy love, doing thee injuries; 
But I will wed thee in another key, 
With pomp, with triumph and with revelling. 


The palace of Theseus. 


Enier Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and De- 
metrius. 


Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke! 
The. Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news 
with thee ? 
Fige. Full of vexation come I, with complaint 
Against my child, my daughter Hermia. 
Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, 
This man hath my consent to marry her. 
Stand forth, Lysander: and, my gracious duke, 
This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child: 
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes 
And interchanged love-tokens with my child: 
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung 
With feigning voice verses of feigning love, 
And stolen the impression of her fantasy 
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, 
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers 
Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth: 


With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, 
Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me, 
To stubborn harshness: and, my gracious duke, 
Be it so she will not here before your grace 
Consent to marry with Demetrius, 
I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, 
| As she is mine, I may dispose of her: 
Which shall be either to this gentleman 
Or to her death, according to our law 
Immediately provided in that case. 
The. What say you, Hermia? be advised, fair maid: 
To you your father should be as a god; 
One that composed your beauties, yea, and one 
To whom you are but as a form in wax 
By him imprinted and within his power 
To leave the figure or disfigure it. 
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. 
Her. So is Lysander. 
T he. In himself he is; 
But in this kind, wanting your father’s voice, 
The other must be held the worthier. 
Her. I would my father look’d but with my eyes. 
The. Rather your eyes must with his judgment 
Her. I doentreat your grace to pardon me. [look. 
I know not by what power I am made bold, 
Nor how it may concern my modesty, 
In such a presence here to plead my thoughts; 
But I beseech your grace that I may know 
The worst that may befall me in this case, 
If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 
The. Either to die the death or to abjure 
For ever the society of men. 
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires; 
Know of your youth, examine well your blood, 
Whether, if you yield not to your father’s choice, 
You can endure the livery of a nun, 
For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d, 
To live a barren sister all your life, 
Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. 
Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, 
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage 5 
But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, 
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn 
Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness. 
Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 


133 


AUT ‘Is 


Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 
Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 

The. Take time to pause; and, by the next new 
The sealing-day betwixt my loveand me, [moon— 
For everlasting bond of fellowship — 

Upon that day either prepare to die 
For disobedience to your father’s will, 
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would; 
Or on Diana’s altar to protest 

For aye austerity and single life. 

Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield 
Thy crazed title to my certain right. 

Lys. You have her father’s love, Demetrius ; 
Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him. 

Ege. Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love, 
And what is mine my love shall render him. 

And she is mine, and all my right of her 
I do estate unto Demetrius. 

Lys. 1am, my lord, as well derived as he, 
As well possess’d; my love is more than his; 
My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d, 

If not with vantage, as Demetrius’ ; 

And, which is more than all these boasts can be, 
I am beloved of beauteous Hermia: 

Why should not I then prosecute my right ? 
Demetrius, Ill avouch it to his head, 

Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena, 

And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, 
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, 

Upon this spotted and inconstant man. 

The. I must confess that I have heard so much 
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof ; 
But, being over-full of self-affairs, 

My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come; 

And come, Egeus; you shall go with me, 

1 have some private schooling for you both. 

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself 

To fit your fancies to your father’s will ; 

Or else the law of Athens yields you up— 

Which by no means we may extenuate — 

To death, or to a vow of single life. 

Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love ? 

Demetrius and Egeus, go along: 

I must employ you in some business 

Against our nuptial and confer with you 

Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. 
Ege. With duty and desire we follow you. 

[Hxeunt all but Lysander and Hermia. 

Lys. Hownow, my love! why is your cheek so pale ? 
How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? 

Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well 
Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. 

Lys. Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, 
Could ever hear by tale or history, 

The course of true love never did run smooth; 
But, either it was different in blood,— 

Her. O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low. 

Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years.— 

Her. O spite! too old to be engaged to young. 

Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,— 

Her. O hell! to choose love by another’s eyes. 

Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, 
Making it momentany as a sound, 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; 

Brief as the lightning in the collied night, 

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, 
And ere a man hath power to say ‘ Behold! ’ 

The jaws of darkness do devour it up: 

So quick bright things come to confusion. 

Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross’d, 

It stands as an edict in destiny: 

Then let us teach our trial patience, 

Because it is a customary cross, 

As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, 
Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers. 


134 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


Lys. A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, 
I have a widow aunt, a dowager Hermia. 
Of great revenue, and she hath no child: 
From Athens is her house remote seven leagues; 
And she respects me as her only son. 
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee; 
And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then, 
Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night; 
And in the wood, a league without the town, 
Where I did meet thee once with Helena, 
To do observance to a morn of May, 
There will I stay for thee. 

er. My good Lysander ! 

I swear to thee, by Cupid’s strongest bow, 
By his best arrow with the golden head, 
By the simplicity of Venus’ doves, 
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, 
And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen, 
When the false Troyan under sail was seen, 
By all the vows that ever men have broke, 
In number more than ever women spoke, 
In that same place thou hast appointed me, 
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. [ena. 

Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Hel- 


Enter Helena. 


Her. God speed fair Helena! whither away ? 
Hel. Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. 
Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! [air 
Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet 
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, 
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, 
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; 
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, 
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. 
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, 
The rest I ‘Id give to be to you translated. 
O, teach me how you look, and with what art 
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart. 
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. 
Hel. O that your frowns would teach my smiles 
such skill! 
Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. 
Hel. Othat my prayers could such affection move ! 
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me. 
Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me. 
Her. His folly, Helena, isno fault of mine. [mine! 
Hel. None, but your beauty: would that fault were 
Her. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; 
Lysander and myself will fly this place. 
Before the time I did Lysander see, 
Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me: 
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell 
That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell! 
Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: 
To-morrow night, when Phcebe doth behold 
Her silver visage in the watery glass, 
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, 
A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal, 
Through Athens’ gates have we devised to steal. 
Her. And in the wood, where often you and I 
Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie, — 
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 
There my Lysander and myself shall meet; 
And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, 
To seek new friends and stranger companies. 
Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us; 
And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! 
Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight 
From lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight. 
Lys. I will, my Hermia. [ Hart Herm. 
Helena, adieu: 
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [ Hxit. 
Hel. How happy some o’er other some can be! 
Through Athens Lam thought as fair as she. 


A 


But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; 
He will not know what all but he do know: 
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes, 

So I, admiring of his qualities: 

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, 

Love can transpose to form and dignity: 

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; 
And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind : 
Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste; 
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: 

And therefore is Love said to be a child, 
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled. 

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, 
So the boy Love is perjured every where: 

For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne, 

He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine; 
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, 
So he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt. 

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight: 
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night 
Pursue her; and for this intelligence 

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense: 
But herein mean I to enrich my pain, 

To have his sight thither and back again. 


SCENE II.— Athens. 


Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and 
Starveling. 


Quin. Is all our company here ? 

Bot. You were best to call them generally, man 
by man, according to the scrip. 

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man’s name, 
which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in 
our interlude before the duke and the duchess, on 
his wedding-day at night. 

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play 
treats on, then read the names of the actors, and so 
grow to a point. 

Quin. Marry, our play is, The most lamentable 
comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and 
Thisby. 

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, 
and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth 
your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread your- 
selves. 

Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the 
weaver. 

ee Ready. Name what part I am for, and pro- 
ceed. 

Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyr- 
amus. 

Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant ? 
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallant for 
ove. 

Bot. That will ask some tears in the true perform- 
ing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their 
eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some 
measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for 
a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to 
tear a cat in, to make all split. 

The raging rocks 
And shivering shocks 
Shall break the locks 
Of prison gates; 

And Phibbus’ car 
Shall shine from far 
And make and mar 

The foolish: Fates. 

This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players. 


ACT I. 


[ Bait. 


Quince’s house. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE II. 


This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more 
condoling. 

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 

Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 

uin. Flute, you must take Thisby on you. 

Eu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ? 

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 

Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; ‘I have 
a beard coming. . 

Quin. That ’s all one: you shall play it in a mask, 
and you may speak as small as you will. 

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby 
too, Ill speak in a monstrous little voice, ‘ Thisne, 
Thisne;’ ‘Ah Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisby 
dear, and lady dear!’ 

Quin. No, no; you must play Pyramus: and, 
Flute, you Thisby. 

Bot. Well, proceed. 

uin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
tar. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby’s 
mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. 

Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You, Pyramus’ father: myself, Thisby’s 
father. Snug, the joiner; you, the lion’s part: and, 
I hope, here is a play fitted. 

Snug. Have you the lion’s part written? pray 
you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. 

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing 
but roaring. 

Bot. Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I 
will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I willroar, 
that I will make the duke say ‘ Let him roar again, 
let him roar again.’ 

Quin. An you should do it too terribly, you would 
fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would 
shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. 

All. That would hang us, every mother’s son. 

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright 
the ladies out of their wits, they would have no 
more discretion but to hang us: but I will aggra- 
vate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as 
any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’t were any 
nightingale. 

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus; for 
Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as 
one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely 
gentleman-like man: therefore you must needs play 
Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were 
I best to play it in? 

uin. Why, what you will. 

ot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour 
beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in- 
grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, 
your perfect yellow. 

Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair 
at all, and then you will play barefaced. But, mas- 
ters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, 
request you and desire you, to con them by to-mor- 
row night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile 
without the town, by moonlight; there will we re- 
hearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged 
with company, and our devices known. In the 
meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as 
our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 

Bot. We will meet; and there we may rehearse 
most obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be 
perfect: adieu. 

Quin. At the duke’s oak we meet. 

Bot. Enough; hold or cut bow-strings. [Hxeunt. 


135 


ACT II. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


Nea LT. 


SCENE I.—A wood near Athens. 


Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and Puck. 


Puck. How now, spirit! whither wander you? 
Fai. Over hill, over dale, 
Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
Over park, over pale, 
Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
I do wander every where, 
Swifter than the moon’s sphere; 
And I serve the fairy queen, 
To dew her orbs upon the green. 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be: 
In their gold coats spots you see; 
Those be rubies, fairy favours, 
In those freckles live their savours: 
I must go seek some dewdrops here 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. 
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone: 
Our queen and all her elves come here anon. 
Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to-night : 
Take heed the queen come not within his sight ; 
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 
Because that she as her attendant hath 
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king; 
She never had so sweet a changeling ; 
And jealous Oberon would have the child 
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; 
But she perforce withholds the loved boy, 
Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy: 
And now they never meet in grove or green, 
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, 
But they do square, that all their elves for fear 
Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there. 
Fai. ia ag I mistake your shape and making 
quite, 
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite 
Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are not you he 
That frights the maidens of the villagery ; 
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern 
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ; 
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm; 
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ? 
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck, 
You do their work, and they shall have good luck: 
Are not you he? 
Puck. Thou speak’st aright; 
I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
I jest to Oberon and make him smile 
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, 
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal: 
And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bow], 
In very likeness of a roasted crab, 
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob 
And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale. 
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, 
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; 
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, 
And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; 
And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, 
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear 
A merrier hour was never wasted there. 
But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon. [gone! 
Fai. And here my mistress. Would that he were 


Enter, from one side, Oberon, with his train; from 
the other, Titania, with hers. 


Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 

Tita. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence: 
I have forsworn his bed and company. 

Obe. Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord? 

Tita. Then I must be thy lady: but I know 
When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, 
And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 


136 


Playing on pipes of corn and versing love 

To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, 
Come from the farthest steppe of India ? 

But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, 
Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, 
To Theseus must be wedded, and you come 
To give their bed joy and prosperity. 

Obe. How canst thou thus for shame, Titania, 
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? [night 
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering 
From Perigenia, whom he ravished ? 

And make him with fair gle break his faith, 
With Ariadne and Antiopa 
Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy: 
And never, since the middle summer’s spring, 
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead, 
By paved fountain or by rushy brook, 
Or in the beached margent of the sea, 
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport. 
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea 
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land 
Have every pelting river made so proud 
That they have overborne their continents: 
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain, 
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn 
Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard; 
The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock ; 
The nine men’s morris is fill’?d up with mud, 
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green 
For lack of tread are undistinguishable: 
The human mortals want their winter here; 
No night is now with hymn or carol blest: 
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, 
Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 
That rheumatic diseases do abound: 
And thorough this distemperature we see 
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts 
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, 
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown 
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer, 
The childing autumn, angry winter, change 
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, 
By their increase, now knows not which is which: 
And this same progeny of evils comes 
From our debate, from our dissension ; 
We are their parents and original. 
Obe. Do you amend it then; it lies in you: 
Why should Titania cross her Oberon ? 
I do but beg a little changeling boy, 
To be my henchman. 
Tita. Set your heart at rest: 
The fairy land buys not the child of me. 
His mother was a votaress of my order: 
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 
Full often hath she gossip’d by my side, 
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, 
Marking the embarked traders on the flood, 
When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive 
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind ; 
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait 
Following,— her womb then rich with my young 
Would imitate, and sail upon the land, [squire,— 
To fetch me trifles, and return again, 
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. 
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; 
And for her sake do I rear up her boy 
And for her sake I will not part with him. 
Obe. How long within this wood intend you stay ? 
Tita. Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day- 


ACT II. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE II. 


If you will patiently dance in our round 

And see our moonlight revels, go with us; 

If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. 
Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee. 
Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away! 

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay. 

[| Hait Titania with her train. 
Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this 

Till I torment thee for this injury. [grove 

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest 

Since once I sat upon a promontory, 

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back 

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath 

That the rude sea grew civil at her song 

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 

To hear the sea-maid’s music. 

uck. I remember. 
Obe. That very time I saw, but thou couldst 
not, 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 

Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took 

At a fair vestal throned by the west, 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; 

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 

Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon, 

And the imperial votaress passed on, 

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 

-Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: 

It fell upon a little western flower, 

Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, 

And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 

Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew’d thee once: 

The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid 

Will make or man or woman madly dote 

Upon the next live creature that it sees. 

Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again 

Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 

Puck. Ill put a girdle round about the earth 

In forty minutes. [ Hexit. 
Obe. Having once this juice, 

Ill watch Titania when she is asleep, 

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes. 

The next thing then she waking looks upon, 

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape, 

She shall pursue it with the soul of love. 

And ere I take this charm from off her sight, 

As I can take it with another herb, 

Ill make her render up her page to me. 

But who comes here? Iam invisible; 

And I will overhear their conference. 


Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. 


Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. 
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ? 
The one I’l) slay, the other slayeth me. 
Thou told’st me they were stolen unto this wood ; 
And here am I, and wode within this wood, 
Because I cannot meet my Hermia. 
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. 
Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant ; 
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 
Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, 
And I shall have no power to follow you. 
Dem. Do I entice you? do I speak you fair ? 
- Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 
Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you? _ 
Hel. And even for that do I love you the more. 
I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, 
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you: 
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, 
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, 
Unworthy as I am, to follow you. 
What worser place can I beg in your love,— 
And yet a place of high respect with me,— 
Than to be used as you use your dog ? 


Dem. eee not too much the hatred of my 
spirit, 
For I am sick when I do look on thee. 

Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you. 

Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much, 
To leave the city and commit yourself 
Into the hands of one that loves you not; 

To trust the opportunity of night 
And the ill counsel of a desert place 
With the rich worth of your virginity. 

Hel. Your virtue is my privilege: for that 

It is not night when I do see your face, 
Therefore I think I am not in the night; 
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, 
For you in my respect are all the world: 
Then how can it be said I am alone, 

When all the world is here to look on me ? 

Dem. 1711 run from thee and hide me in the 

brakes, 
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 

Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. 
Run when you will, the story shall be changed: 
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; 

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind 
Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed, 
When cowardice pursues and valour flies. 

Dem. I will not stay thy questions; let me go: 
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 

Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, 
Youdo me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! 

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex: 

We cannot fight for love, as men may do; 

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo. 
[Exit Dem. 

Ill follow thee and make a heaven of hell, 

To die upon the hand I love so well. [ Hatt. 

Obe. Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this 
Thou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love. [grove, 


Re-enter Puck. 


Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. 
Puck. Ay, there it is. 
Obe. I pray thee, give it me. 

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, 

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, 

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine: 

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, 

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; 

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, 

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: 

And with the juice of this I ’1] streak her eyes, 

And make her full of hateful fantasies. 

Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: 

A. sweet Athenian lady is in love 

With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes; 

But do it when the next thing he espies 

May be the lady: thou shalt know the man 

By the Athenian garments he hath on. 

Effect it with some care that he may prove 

More fond on her than she upon her love: 

And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. 
Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do 

SO. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Another part of the wood. 


Enter Titania, with her train. 


Tita. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; 
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence; 
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, 
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, 
To make my small elves coats, and some keep back 
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders 
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; 
Then to your offices and let me rest. 

187 


ACT II. 


The Fairies sing. 
You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
Come not near our fairy queen. 
Philomel, with melody 
Sing in our sweet lullaby ; 
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby : 
Never harm, 
Nor spell nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh, 
So, good night, with lullaby. 
Weaving spiders, come not here; 


Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence! 
Beetles black, approach not near; 
Worm nor snail, do no offence. 
Philomel, with melody, &c. 


A Fairy. Hence, away! now all is well: 
One aloof stand sentinel. 
[Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps. 
Enter Oberon, and squeezes the flower on Titania’s 
eyelids. 
Obe. What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true-love take, 
Love and languish for his sake: 
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, 
Pard, or boar with bristled hair, 
In thy eye that shall appear 
When thou wakest, it is thy dear: 


Wake when some vile thing is near. [Evit. 


Enter Lysander and Hermia. 


Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the 
And to speak troth, I have forgot our way: [wood; 
We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, 
And tarry for the comfort of the day. 
Her. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed; 
For I upon this bank will rest my head. 
Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; 
One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth. 
Her. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, 
Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. 
Lys. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! 
Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. 
I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit 
So that but one heart we can make of it; 
Two bosoms interchained with an oath; 
So then two bosoms and a single troth. 
Then by your side no bed-room me deny; 
For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 
Her. Lysander riddles very prettily: 
Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, 
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied. 
But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 
Lie further off; in human modesty, 
Such separation as may well be said 
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, 
So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend: 
Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! 
Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I; 
And then end life when I end loyalty! 
Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest! 
Her. With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be 
press’d! [They sleep. 


Enter Puck. 


Puck. Through the forest have I gone, 
But Athenian found I none, 
On whose eyes I might approve 
This flower’s force in stirring love. 
Night and silence.—Who is here ? 
Weeds of Athens he doth wear: 
This is he, my master said, 

138 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE ILI. 


Despised the Athenian maid; 

And here the maiden, sleeping sound, 
On the dank and dirty ground. 
Pretty soul! she durst not lie 

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. 
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 

All the power this charm doth owe. 
When thou wakest, let love forbid 
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid: 

So awake when I am gone; 


For I must now to Oberon. [ Exit. 


Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. 


Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. 
Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me 
thus. 
Hel. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so. 
Dem. Stay, on thy peril: Ialone will go. [zit. 
Hel. O, 1am out of breath in this fond chase! 
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies; 
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears: 
If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. 
No, no, lam as ugly as a bear; 
For beasts that meet me run away for fear: 
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius 
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. 
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine 
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne ? 
But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! 
Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. 
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. 
Lys. [Awaking] And run through fire I will for 
thy sweet sake. 
Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, 
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. 
Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word 
Is that vile name to perish on my sword! 
Hel. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. 
What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what 
though ? 
Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content. 
Lys. Content with Hermia! No; I do repent 
The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 
Not Hermia but Helena I love: 
Who will not change a raven for a dove ? 
The will of man is by his reason sway’d; 
And reason says you are the worthier maid. 
Things growing are not ripe until their season: 
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; 
And touching now the point of human skill, 
Reason becomes the marshal to my will 
And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook 
Love’s stories written in love’s richest book. 
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery 
born ? 
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ? 
Ist not enough, is ’t not enough, young man, 
That I did never, no, nor never can, 
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, 
But you must flout my insufficiency ? 
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, 
In such disdainful manner me to woo. 
But fare you well: perforce I must confess 
I thought you lord of more true gentleness. 
O, that a lady, of one man refused, 
Should of another therefore be abused! 
Lys. She sees not Hermia. 
there: 
And never mayst thou come Lysander near! 
For as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, 
Or as the heresies that men do leave 
Are hated most of those they did deceive, 
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, 
Of all be hated, but the most of me! 


| [ Eeit. 
Hermia, sleep thou 


Pacer TIT... 


And, all my powers, address your love and might 
To honour Helen and to be her knight! | Hevit. 
Her. [Awaking] Help me, Lysander, help me! 
do thy best 
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! 
Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here! 
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear: 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


Methought a serpent eat my heart away, 

And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. 

Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord! 
What, out of hearing ? gone? no sound, no word ? 
Alack, where are you? speak, an if you hear; 
Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear. 
No? then I well perceive you are not nigh: 
Either death or you I'll find immediately. [Evit. 


JeX, OPN MRS Eel El if 


SCENE I.— The wood. Titania lying asleep. 


Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and 
Starveling. 


Bot. Are we all met ? 

Quin. Pat, pat; and here ’s a marvellous conven- 
ient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall 
be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house; 
and we will do it in action as we will do it before the 

Bot. Peter Quince,— [duke. 

Quin. What sayest thou, bully Bottom ? 

Bot. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus 
and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus 
must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies 
cannot abide. How answer you that ? 

Snout. By ’r lakin, a parlous fear. 

Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, 
when all is done. 

Bot. Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. 
Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to 
say, we will do no harm with our swords and that 
Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more 
better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not 
Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put 
them out of fear. 

Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue; and 
it shall be written in eight and six. 

Bot. No, make it two more; let it be written in 
eight and eight. 

Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ? 

Star. I fear it, I promise you. 

Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with your- 
selves: to bring in—God shield us! —a lion among 
ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a 
more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and 


_ we ought to look to ’t. 


Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he 
is not a lion. 

Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half his 
face must be seen through the lion’s neck: and he 
himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the 

_ Same defect,— Ladies,’— or ‘ Fair ladies,— I would 
wish you,’— or ‘I would request you,’— or ‘I would 
_ entreat you,—not to fear, not to tremble: my life 
_for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it 
were pity of my life: no, I am no such thing; I 
am aman as other men are;’ and there indeed let 
him name his name, and tell them plainly he is 
Snug the joiner. 
Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard 
things; that is, to bring the moonlight into a cham- 
ber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by 
moonlight. [our play ? 

Snout. Doth the moon shine that night we play 

Bot. A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac; 
find out moonshine, find out moonshine. 

a. Yes, it doth shine that night. 

ot. Why, then may you leave a casement of the 

great chamber-window, where we play, open, and 
the moon may shine in at the casement. 

uin. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush 


_ of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to dis- 


_figure,or to present, the person of Moonshine. Then, 
there is another thing: we must have a wall in the 


| 
| 
; 


great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the 
story, did talk through the chink of a wall. 

Snout. You can never bring ina wall. What say 
you, Bottom ? 

Bot. Some man or other must present Wall: and 
let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some 
rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him 
hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall 
Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 

Quin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit 
down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts. 
Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your 
speech, enter into that brake: and so every one 
according to his cue. 


Enter Puck behind. 


Puck. What hempen home-spuns have we swagger- 
So near the cradle of the fairy queen? _[ing here, 
What, a play toward! I7ll be an auditor; 

An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. 

Quin. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. 

bot. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet — 

Quin. Odours, odours. 

bot. —— odours savours sweet: 

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. 

But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile, 

And by and by I will to thee appear. [ Exit. 

Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e’er played 

here. [ Exit. 

Flu. Must I speak now ? 

Quin. Ay, marry, must you; for you must under- 
stand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and 
is to come again. 

Flu. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, 

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, 
Most brisky juvenal and eke most lovely Jew, 

As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, 
Ill meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb. 

Quin. ‘ Ninus’ tomb,’ man: why, you must not 
speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus: you 
speak all your part'‘at once, cuesandall. Pyramus 
enter: your cue is past; it is, ‘ never tire.’ 

Flu. O,—As true as truest horse, that yet would 

never tire. 


Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass’s head. 


Bot. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. 
Quin. O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. 
Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help! 
[Hxeunt Quince, Snug, Flute, Snout,and Starveling. 
Puck. Ill follow you, I’ll lead you about a round, 
Through bog, through bush, through brake, 
through brier: 
Sometime a horse I ll be, sometime a hound, 
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; 
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, 
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every ars 
Leit. 
Bot. Why do they run away? this is a knavery 
of them to make me afeard. 


Re-enter Snout. 
Snout. O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I 
see on thee ? 
139 


ACT III. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


§ 


SCENE II. 


Bot. What do you see? you see an ass-head of 
your own, do you? [Exit Snout. 


Re-enter Quince. 


Quin. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art 
translated. [ Heit. 
Bot. I see their knavery: this is to make an ass 
of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not 
stir from this place, do what they can: I will walk 
up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall 
hear I am not afraid. [| Sings. 
The ousel cock so black of hue, 
With orange-tawny bill, 
The throstle with his note so true, 
The wren with little quill,— 
Tita. [Awaking| What angel wakes me from my 


Bot. [Sings] 
The finch, the sparrow and the lark, 
The plain-song cuckoo gray, 
Whose note full many a man doth mark, 
And dares not answer nay ;— 
for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a 
bird ? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry 
*“cuckoo’ never so ? 

Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again: 

Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note; 

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; 

And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me 
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee. 

Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little 
reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason 
and love keep little company together now-a-days; 
the more the pity that some honest neighbours will 
not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon 
occasion. 

Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 

Bot. Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough 
to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve 
mine own turn. 

Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go: 
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. 
I am a spirit of no common rate: 

The summer still doth tend upon my state; 

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me; 

I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee, 

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep: 
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so 

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 
Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! 


Enter Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and 


Mustardseed. 
Peas. Ready. 
Cob. And I. 
Moth And I. 
Mus And I. 
All Where shall we go? 


Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; 
Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; 
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, 
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; 
The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs 
And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, 
To have my love to bed and to arise: 
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies 
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes: 
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 

Peas. Hail, mortal! 

Cob. Hail! 

Moth. Hail! 

Mus. Hail! 

Bot. I ery your worship’s mercy, heartily: I be- 
seech your worship’s name. 

Cob. Cobweb. 


140 


Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, 
good Master Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall 
make bold with you. Your name, honest gentle- 

Peas. Peaseblossom. man ? 

Bot. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, 
your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. 
Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of 
more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech 
you, sir? 

Mus. Mustardseed. 

Bot. Good Master Mustardseed,I know your 
patience well: that same cowardly, giant-like ox- 
beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your 
house: I promise you your kindred hath made my 
eyes water ere now. I desire your more acquaint- 
ance, good Master Mustardseed. 

Tita. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower, 

The moon methinks looks with a watery eye; 
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, 

Lamenting some enforced chastity. 

Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Another part of the wood. 


Enter Oberon. 


Obe. I wonder if Titania be awaked ; 
Then, what it was that next came in her eye, 
Which she must dote on in extremity. 


Enter Puck. 


Here comes my messenger. 
How now, mad spirit! 
What night-rule now about this haunted grove ? 

Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love. 

Near to her close and consecrated bower, 

While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 

A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, 

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, 

Were met together to rehearse a play 

Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial-day. 

The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort, 
Who Pyramus presented, in their sport 

Forsook his scene and enter’d in a brake: 

When I did him at this advantage take, 

An ass’s nole I fixed on his head: 

Anon his Thisbe must be answered, 

And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, 
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 

Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, 

Rising and cawing at the gun’s report, 

Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, 

So, at his sight, away his fellows fly; 

And, at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls; 
Hemurder cries and helpfrom Athens calls. [strong, 
Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus 
Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; 
For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; 
Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things 
I led them on in this distracted fear, [catch. 
And left sweet Pyramus translated there: 

When in that moment, so it came to pass, 

Titania waked and straightway loved an ass. 

Obe. This falls out better than I could devise. 
But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes 
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ? 

Puck. I took him sleeping,—that is finish’d too,— 
And the Athenian woman by his side; 
That, when he waked, of force she must be eyed. 


Enter Hermia and Demetrius. 


Obe. Stand close: this is the same Athenian. 
Puck. This is the woman, but not this the man. 
Dem. O, why rebuke you him that loves you so? 
Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. . 
Her. NowI but chide; but Ishould use thee worse, 


For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. M4 


& 


ACT II. 


If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, 
Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, 
And kill me too. 

The sun was not so true unto the day 

As he to me: would he have stolen away 
From sleeping Hermia? Ill believe as soon 
This whole earth may be bored and that the moon 
May through the centre creep and so displease 
Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes. 

It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him; 

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. 

Dem. So should the murder’d look, and so should I, 
Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty: 
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, 

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. 

Her. Whats this to my Lysander ? where is he? 
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? 

Dem, I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. 

Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past 

the bounds 
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then ? 
Henceforth be never number’d among men! 
O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake! 
Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake, 
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping ? O brave touch! 
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? 
An adder did it; for with doubler tongue 
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. 

Dem. You spend your passion ona misprised mood: 
Tam not guilty of Lysander’s blood; 

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. 

Her. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. 

Dem. An if I could, what should I get therefore? 

Her. A privilege never to see me more. 

And from thy hated presence part I so: 
See me no more, whether he be dead or no. [Fvit. 

Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein: 
Here therefore for a while I will remain. 

So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow 
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; 
Which now in some slight measure it will pay, 
If for his tender here I make some stay. 
[Lies down and sleeps. 
Obe. What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken 
quite 
And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight : 
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue ~ 
Some true love turn’d and not a false turn’d true. 
ted Aen fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding 
roth, 
A million fail, confounding oath on oath. 

Obe. About the wood go swifter than the wind, 

And Helena of Athens look thou find: 
All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, 
With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear: 
_ By some illusion see thou bring her here: 
J’ll charm his eyes against she do appear. 
__ Puck. I go, I go; look how I go, 
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. 
Obe. Flower of this purple dye, 

Hit with Cupid’s archery, 

Sink in apple of his eye. 

When his love he doth espy, 

Let her shine as gloriously 

As the Venus of the sky. 

When thou wakest, if she be by, 

Beg of her for remedy. 


Re-enter Puck. 


Captain of our fairy band, 

Helena is here at hand; 

And the youth, mistook by me, 
Pleading for a lover’s fee. 

Shall we their fond pageant see ? 
Lord, what fools these mortals be! 
| Stand aside: the noise they make 
. Will cause Demetrius to awake. 


[ Exit. 


Puck. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGAT’S DREAM. 


~ 


SCENE II. 


Puck. Then will two at once woo one; 
That must needs be sport alone; 
And those things do best please me 
That befal preposterously. 


Enter Lysander and Helena. 


Lys. Why should you think that I should woo in 

Scorn and derision never come in tears: [scorn ? 
Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, 

In their nativity all truth appears. 

How can these things in me seem scorn to you, 
Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true ? 
Hel. You do advance your cunning more and more. 

When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! 
These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er? 

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: 
Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, 

Will even weigh, and both as light as tales. 

Lys. I had no judgment when to her I swore. 

Hel. Nor none,in my mind, now you give her o’er. 

Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. 

Dem. [Aiakeng| O Helen, goddess, nymph, per- 

fect, divine! 
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne ? 
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show 
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! 
That pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow, 
Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow 
When thou hold’st up thy hand: O, let me kiss 
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! 

Hel. O spite! O hell! Isee you all are bent 

To set against me for your merriment: 

If you were civil and knew courtesy, 

You would not do me thus much injury. 

Can you not hate me, as I know you do, 

But you must join in souls to mock me too ? 
If you were men, as men you are in show, 
You would not use a gentle lady so; 

To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, 
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. 
You both are rivals, and love Hermia; 

And now both rivals, to mock Helena: 

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, 

To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes 
With your derision! none of noble sort 
Would so offend a virgin and extort 

A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport. 

Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; 
For you love Hermia; this you know I know: 
And here, with all good will, with all my heart, 

In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; 
And yours of Helena to me bequeath, 
Whom I do love and will do till my death. 

Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. 

Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none: 
If e’er I loved her, all that love is gone. 

My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d, 
And now to Helen is it home return’d, 
There to remain. 

Lys. Helen, it is not so. 

Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, 
Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. 

Look, where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. 


Re-enter Hermia. 


Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function 
takes, 
The ear more quick of apprehension makes; 
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, 
It pays the hearing double recompense. 
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found ; 
Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. 
But why unkindly didst thou leave me so ? [to go? 
Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth press 
Her. What love could press Lysander from my 
side t 
Lys. Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide, 
141 


ACT Til. 


Fair Helena, who more engilds the night 

Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. 

Why seek’st thou me? could not this make thee 

know 

The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so ? 

Her. You speak not as you think: it cannot be. 

Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! 

Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three 

To fashion this false sport, in spite of me. 

Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid! 

Have you conspired, have you with these contrived 

To bait me with this foul derision ? 

Is all the counsel that we two have shared, 

The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 

For parting us,—O, is it all forgot ? 

All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence ? 

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 

Have with our needles created both one flower, 

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 

Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 

As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds, 

Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 

But yet an union in partition; 

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; 

Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 

Due but to one and crowned with one crest. 

And will you rent our ancient love asunder, 

To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 

It is not friendly, ’t is not maidenly: 

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for ‘it, 

Though I alone do feel the injury. 

Her. 1 am amazed at your passionate words. 

I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me. 

Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, 
To follow me and praise my eyes and face ? 

And made your other love, Demetrius, 

Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, 

To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, 

Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this 

To her he hates ? and wherefore doth Lysander 

Deny your love, so rich within his soul, 

And tender me, forsooth, affection, 

But by your setting on, by your consent ? 

What though I be not so in grace as you, 

So hung upon with love, so fortunate, 

But miserable most, to love unloved ? 

This you should pity rather than despise. 

Her. I understand not what you mean by this. 

Hel. Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks, 
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back; 
Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up: 

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 

If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 

You would not make me such an argument. 

But fare ye well: ’tis partly my own fault; 

Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 

. Lys. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse: 

My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! 

Hel. O excellent! 

Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. 

Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. 

Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat : 
Thy threats have no more strength than her weak 
Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do: [prayers. 
[ swear by that which I will lose for thee, 

To prove him false that says I love thee not. 
Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do. 
Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. 
Dem. Quick, come! 

Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ? 

Lys. Away, you Ethiope! 

Dem. No, nosshe ll’ a3 
Seem to break loose: take on as you would follow, 
But yet come not: you are a tame man, go! 


142 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE II.- 


Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, 
let loose, 
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent! 
Her. Why are you grown so rude? what change 
Sweet love,— [is this ? 
Lys. Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out! 
Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence! 
Her. Do you not jest ? 
Hel. Yes, sooth; and so do you. 
Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. 
Dem. I would I had your bond, for I perceive 
A weak bond holds you: I7ll not trust your word. 
Lys. bee pve should I hurt her, strike her, kill her 


Although I hate her, I ll not harm her so. 

Her. What, can you do me greater harm than hate ? 
Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love! 
Am not I Hermia? are not you Lysander ? 

I am as fair now as I was erewhile. [me: 

Since night you loved me; yet since night you left 

Why, then you left me—O, the gods forbid ! — 

In earnest, shall I say ? 

Lys. Ay, by my life; 

And never did desire to see thee more. 

Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; 

Be certain, nothing truer; *tis no jest 

That I do hate thee and love Helena. 

Her. Ome! you juggler! you canker-blossom ! 
You thief of love! what, have you come by night 
And stolen my love’s heart from him ? 

Hel. Fine, i’ faith! 
Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, 

No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear 

Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? 

Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you! 

Her. Puppet ? why so ? ay, that way goes the game. 
Now I perceive that she hath made compare 
Between our statures; she hath urged her height; 
And with her personage, her tall personage, 

Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him. 

And are you grown so high in his esteem, 

Because I am so dwarfish and so low ? . 

How low am J, thou painted maypole? speak; 

How low am I? Iam not yet so low 

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. 

Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, 
Let her not hurt me: I was never curst; 

I have no gift at all in shrewishness; 

Tam aright maid for my cowardice: 

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, 

Because she is something lower than myself, 

That I can match her. 

Her. Lower! hark, again. 

Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. 
I evermore did love you, Hermia, 

Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you; 

Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 

I told him of your stealth unto this wood. 

He follow’d you; for love I follow’d him; 

But he hath chid me hence and threaten’d me 

To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: 

And now, so you will let me quiet go, 

To Athens will I bear my folly back 

And follow you no further: let me go: 

You see how simple and how fond I am. [you ? 
Her. Why, get you gone: who is’t that hinders 
Hel. A foolish heart, that I leave here behind, 
Her. What, with Lysander ? 

Hel. With Demetrius. 

Lys. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, 

Helena. art. 


Dem. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her 
Hel. O, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd! 
She was a vixen when she went to school; 
And though she be but little, she is fierce. ? 
Bier : Little >again! nothing but ‘low’ and ‘lit 
e€ ‘ 
a 


. 3 


ACT III. 


Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? 
Let me come to her. 

Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ; 
You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ; 
You bead, you acorn. 

Dem. You are too officious 
In her behalf that scorns your services. 

Let her alone: speak not of Helena; 
Take not her part; for, if thou dost intend 
Never so little show of love to her, 
Thou shalt aby it. 

ys. Now she holds me not ; 
Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right, 
Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. 


Dem. Follow! nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by 


jole. [Hxeeunt Lysander and Demetrius. 
Her. You, mistress, all this coil is “long of you: 
Nay, go not back. 
Hel. I will not trust you, I, 
Nor longer stay in your curst company. 
Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, 
My legs are longer though, to run away. [ Hatt. 
Her. I am amazed, and know not what to an 
vit. 
Obe. This is thy negligence: still thou mistakest, 
Or else committ’st thy knaveries wilfully. 
Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. 
Did not you tell me I should know the man 
By the Athenian garments he had on ? 
And so far blameless proves my enterprise, 
That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes; 
And so far am I glad it so did sort 
As this their jangling I esteem a sport. 
Obe. Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to fight : 
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; 
The starry welkin cover thou anon 
With drooping fog as black as Acheron, 
And lead these testy rivals so astray 
As one come not within another’s way. 
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ; 
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius; 
And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep: 
Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye; 
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
To take from thence all error with his might, 
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. 
When they next wake, all this derision 
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision, 
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 
With league whose date till death shall never end. 
Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, 
I?ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy ; 
And then I will her charmed eye release 
From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace. 
Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, 
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, 
And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger; [there, 
At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and 
Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all, 
That in crossways and floods have burial, 
Already to their wormy beds are gone; 
For fear lest day should look their shames upon, 
They wilfully themselves exile from light 
- And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night. 
Obe. But we are spirits of another sort: 
I with the morning’s love have oft made sport, 
And, like a forester, the groves may tread, 
_ Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red, 
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. 
But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay : 
e may effect this business yet ere day. [ Hixit. 
Puck. Up and down, up and down, 
I will lead them up and down: 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE Il. 


I am fear’d in field and town: 
Goblin, lead them up and down. 
Here comes one. 
Re-enter Lysander. 
Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak 


thou now. 

Puck. Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where 
art thou? 

Lys. I will be with thee straight. 

Puck. Follow me, then, 


To plainer ground. 
[Exit Lysander, as following the voice. 


Re-enter Demetrius. 


Dem. Lysander! speak again: 
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ? 
srkivict ees bush? Where dost thou hide thy 
ead ¢ 
Puck. Thou coward,art thou bragging to the stars, 
Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars, 
And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou 
Ill whip thee with a rod: he is defiled [child ; 
That draws a sword on thee. 
Dem. Yea, art thou there ? 
Puck. Follow my voice: we’ll try no manhood 
here. [ Kxeunt. 
Re-enter Lysander. 
Lys. He goes before me and still dares me on: 
When I come where he calls, then he is gone. 
The villain is much lighter-heel’d than L: 
I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly; 
That fallen am I in dark uneven way, 
And here will rest me. [Lies down.] Come, thou gen- 
tle day! 
For if but once thou show me thy grey light, 
Ill find Demetrius and revenge this spite. [Sleeps. 


Re-enter Puck and Demetrius. 


Puck. Ho,ho, ho! Coward, why comest thou not ? 
Dem.. Abide me, if thou darest ; for well I wot 
Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place, 
And darest not stand, nor look me in the face. 
Where art thou now? 
Puck. Come hither: I am here. 
Dem. Nay,then, thou mock’st me. Thoushalt buy 
this dear, 
If ever I thy face by daylight see: 
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me 
To measure out my length on this cold bed. 
By day’s approach look to be visited. 
[Lies down and sleeps. 


Re-enter Helena. 


Hel. O weary night, O long and tedious night, 
Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east, 
That I may back to Athens by daylight, 
From these that my poor company detest : 
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye, - 
Steal me awhile from mine own company. 
[ Lies down and sleeps. 
Puck. Yet but three? Come one more; 
Two of both kinds makes up four. 
Here she comes, curst and sad: 
Cupid is a knavish lad, 
Thus to make poor females mad. 


Re-enter Hermia. 


Hev. Never so weary, never so in woe, 

Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers, 
I can no further crawl, no further go; 

My legs can keep no pace with my desires. 
Here will I rest me till the break of day. 
Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! 

[Lies down and sleeps. 
Puck. On the ground 
Sleep sound: 


148 


ACT IV. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


I ll apply 
To your eye, 
Gentle lover, remedy. 
[Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eyes. 
When thou wakest, 


Of thy former lady’s eye: 

And the country proverb known, 

That every man should take his own, 

In your waking shall be shown: 
Jack shall have Jill; 


Thou takest Nought shall go ill; 

True delight The man shall have his mare again, and all shall 

In the sight be well. [ Hxcit. 
A OMe 


SCENE I.— The same. Lysander, Demetrius, Hel- 
ena, and Hermia lying asleep. 


Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, 
Moth, Mustardseed, and other Fairies attending; 
Oberon behind unseen. 


Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 

Bot. Where ’s Peaseblossom ? 

Peas. Ready. 

Bot. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where’s 
Mounsieur Cobweb ? 

Cob. Ready. 

Bot. Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get 
you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red- 
hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, 
good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not 
fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; 
and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag 
break not; I would be loath to have you overflown 
with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Mounsieur 
‘Mustardseed ? 

Mus. Ready. 

Bot. Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. 
Pray you, leave your courtesy, good mounsieur. 

Mus. What’s your will? 

Bot. Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Caval- 
ery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, 
mounsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy 
about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my 
hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. 

Tua: What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet 
lovet 

Bot. [have a reasonable good ear in music. Let’s 
have the tongs and the bones. 

mie Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to 
eat. 

Bot. Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch 
your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great de- 
sire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath 
no fellow. 

Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 

Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried 
peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir 
me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. 

Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. 
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. 

[Hxeunt fairies. 
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 
Gently entwist; the female ivy so 
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. 
O, how Llove thee! how I dote on thee! 


Enter Puck. 
Obe. [Advancing] Welcome, good Robin. See’st 
thou this sweet sight ? 
Her dotage now I do begin to pity: 
For, meeting her of late behind the wood, 
Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, 
I did upbraid her and fall out with her; 


144 


[ They sleep. 


For she his hairy temples then had rounded 
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; 
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds 
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 
Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes 
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 
When I had at my pleasure taunted her 
And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, 
I then did ask of her her changeling child; 
Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent 
To bear him to my bower in fairy land. 
And now I have the boy, I will undo 
This hateful imperfection of her eyes: 
And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp 
From off the head of this Athenian swain; 
That, he awaking when the other do, 
May all to Athens back again repair 
And think no more of this night’s accidents 
But as the fierce vexation of a dream. 
But first I will release the fairy queen. 
Be as thou wast wont to be; 
See as thou wast wont to see: 
Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower 
Hath such force and blessed power. 
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen. 
Tita. My Oberon! what visions have I seen! 
Methought I was enamour’d of an ass. 
Obe. There lies your love. 
Tita. How came these things to pass? 
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! 
Obe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. 
Titania, music call; and strike more dead 
Than common sleep of all these five the sense. 
Tita. Music, ho! music, such as charmeth sleep! 
Music, still. 
Puck. Now, when thou wakest, with thine own 
fool’s eyes peep. [with me, 
Obe. Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands 
And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. 
Now thou and I are new in amity 
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly 
Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly 
And bless it to all fair prosperity : 
There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be 
Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. 
Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark: 
I do hear the morning lark. 
Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad, 
Trip we after the night’s shade: 
We the globe can compass soon, 
Swifter than the wandering moon. 
Come, my lord, and in our flight 
Tell me how it came this night 
That I sleeping here was found 
With these mortals on the ground. 


Tita. 


unt, 
[Horns winded within. 


Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train. 


The. Go, one of you, find out the forester ; 
For now our observation is perform’d ; 
And since we have the vaward of the day, 
My love shall hear the music of my hounds. 


SS 


| 


{1 


Ml 
| 


| 
| 


é 
| 


Die) 
Diy 
h fii i 


i 


{ 


sini 


St 


5 : = ae : ae es = Z Senge oe ‘ 


eg > i 


SS 


a ee ee 
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.—Act INS Scene lis 


a . 
| ’ 
or, - 


Aaa © 
0 a * 
1G aan ' 

a: * uae es © Zig 


n 
* vi 


ey 


— ——<— 


ACT IV. 


Uncouple in the western valley; let them go: 
Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. 

[| Hxit an Attendant. 
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top 
And mark the musical confusion 
Of hounds and echo in conjunction. 

Hip. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, 
When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear 
With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear 
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, 

The skies, the fountains, every region near 
Seem’d all one mutual cry: I never heard 
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 

The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
So flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung 
With ears that sweep away the morning dew; 
Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian bulls ; 
Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, 
Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, 

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : [these ? 
Judge when youhear. But,soft! what nymphs are 
Eye. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; 
And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is; 

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: 
I wonder of their being here together. 
The. No doubt they rose up early to observe 
The rite of May, and, hearing our intent, 
Came here in grace of our solemnity. 
But speak, Egeus; is not this the day 
That Hermia should give answer of her choice ? 
Ege. It is, my lord. 
The. Go, bid the huntsman wake them with their 
horns. [Horns and shout within. Lys., Dem., 
Hel., and Her., wake and start up. 
Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past: 
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? 
ys. Pardon, my lord. 

The. I pray you all, stand up. 
I know you two are rival enemies: 

How comes this gentle concord in the world, 
That hatred is so far from jealousy, 
To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ? 

Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly. 

Half sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear, 

I cannot truly say how I came here; 

But, as I think,—for truly would I speak, 
And now I do bethink me, so it is,— 

I came with Hermia hither: our intent 

Was to be gone from Athens, where we might, 
Without the peril of the Athenian law. 

Ege. Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough: 
I beg the law, the law, upon his head. [trius, 
They would have stolen away; they would, Deme- 
Thereby to have defeated you and me, 

You of your wife and me of my consent, 

Of my consent that she should be your wife. 
Dem. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, 
Of this their purpose hither to this wood; 

And I in fury hither follow’d them, 

Fair Helena in fancy following me. 

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,— 
But by some power it is,— my love to Hermia, 

Melted as the snow, seems to me now 

As the remembrance of an idle gaud 

Which in my childhood I did dote upon; 

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, 

The object and the pleasure of mine eye, 

Is only Helena. To her, my lord, 

Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia: 

But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food ; 
But, as in health, come to my natural taste, 
Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, 

And will for evermore be true to it. 

The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met: 
Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 
Egeus, I will overbear your will; 

10 


———= 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE II. 


For in the temple, by and by, with us 
These couples shall eternally be knit: 
And, for the morning now is something worn, 
Our purposed hunting shall be set aside. 
Away with us to Athens; three and three, 
We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity. 
Come, Hippolyta. 
[| Hxeunt The., Hip., Hge., and train. 
Dem. These things seem small and undistinguish- 
Like far-off mountains turned into clouds. — [able, 
Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, 
When every thing seems double. 
Fel. So methinks : 
And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, 
Mine own, and not mine own. 
Dem. Are you sure 
That we are awake? It seems to me 
That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think 
The duke was here, and bid us follow him ? 
Her. Yea; and my father. 
Fel. And Hippolyta. 
Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple. 
Dem. Why, then, we are awake: let’s follow him; 
And by the way let us recount our dreams. [Haxeunt. 
Bot. [Awaking] When my cue comes, call me, 
and I will answer: my next is, ‘Most fair Pyra- 
mus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows- 
mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God ’s my 
life, stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a 
most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit 
of man to say what dream it was: man is but an ass, 
if he go about to expound this dream. Methought 
I was —there is no man can tell what. Methought 
I was,—and methought I had,—but man is but a 
patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought 
Thad. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of 
man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, 
his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what 
my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a 
ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom’s 
Dream, because it hath no bottom: and I will sing 
it in the latter end of a play, before the duke: perad- 
venture, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing 
it at her death. [ Hxit. 


SCENE II.— Athens. 


Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. 


Quin. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? is he 
come home yet ? [transported. 

Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is 

Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred: it 
goes not forward, doth it ? 

Quin. It is not possible: you have not a man in 
all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. 

Flu. No, he hath simply the best wit of any hand- 
icraft man in Athens. 

Quin. Yea, and the best person too; andheisa 
very paramour for a sweet voice. 

Flu. You must say ‘ paragon:’ a paramour is, God 
bless us, a thing of naught. 


Quince’s house. 


Enter Snug. 


Snug. Masters, the duke is coming from the 
temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies 
more married: if our sport had gone forward, we 
had all been made men. 

Flu. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost 
sixpence a day during his life; he could not have 
*scaped sixpence a day: an the duke had not given 
him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I ’ll be 
hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a day 
in Pyramus, or nothing. 


Enter Bottom. 


Bot. Where are these lads? where are these 
hearts ? 


145 


ACT V. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


Quin. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most 
happy hour! , 

Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask 
me not what; for if I tell you, lam no true Athe- 
nian. I will tell youevery thing, right as it fell out. 

ih Let us hear, sweet Bottom. 

ot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you 
is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel 
together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons 


to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every 
man look o’er his part; for the short and the long 
is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby 
have clean linen; and let not him that plays the 
lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the 
lion’s claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions 
nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I 
do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet com- 
edy. No more words: away! go,away! [Haewnt. 


As @ LIV, 


SCENE I.— Athens. The palace of Theseus. 


Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords, 
and Attendants. 


Hip. ’T is strange, my Theseus, that these lovers 
speak of. 
The. More strange than true: I never may believe 
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, 
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
The lunatic, the lover and the poet 
Are of imagination all compact: 
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, 
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt: 
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 
And as imagination bodies forth [heaven ; 
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen 
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name. 
Such tricks hath strong imagination, 
That, if it would but apprehend some joy, 
It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; 
Or in the night, imagining some fear, 
How easy is a bush supposed a bear! 
Hip. But all the story of the night told over, 
And all their minds transfigured so together, 
More witnesseth than fancy’s images 
And grows to something of great constancy ; 
But, howsoever, strange and admirable. 
The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. 


Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and 
Helena. 


Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love 
Accompany your hearts! 
Lys. More than to us 
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! 
The. Come now; what masques, what dances 
shall we have, 
To wear away this long age of three hours 
Between our after-supper and bed-time ? 
Where is our usual manager of mirth ? 
What revels are in hand? Is there no play, 
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour ? 
Call Philostrate. 
Phil. Here, mighty Theseus. 
The. Say, what abridgment have you for this 
evening ? 
What masque? what music ? How shall we beguile 
The lazy time, if not with some delight ? 
Phil. There is a brief how many sports are ripe: 
Make choice of which your highness will see first. 
[Giving a paper. 
The. |Reads|‘ The battle with the Centaurs, to 
be sung 
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’ 
We'll none of that: that have I told my love, 
In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 
(Iteads]| ‘ The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 
146 


Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.’ 

That is an old device; and it was play’d  — 

When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 

[ Reads] ‘ The thrice three Muses mourning for the 
Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.’ [death 
That is some satire, keen and critical, 

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 

| Reads] ‘ A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus 
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’ 

Merry and tragical! tedious and brief! 

That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow. 

How shall we find the concord of this discord ? 

Phil. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long. 
Which is as brief as I have known a play; 

But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, 
Which makes it tedious; for in all the play 
There is not one word apt, one player fitted: 
And tragical, my noble lord, it is; 

For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. 
Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess, 
Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears 
The passion of loud laughter never shed. 

The. What are they that do play it? 

Phil. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, 
Which never labour’d in their minds till now, 
And now have toil’d their unbreathed memories 
With this same play, against your nuptial. 

The. And we will hear it. 

Phil. No, my noble lord, 
It is not for you: I have heard it over, 

And it is nothing, nothing in the world; 
Unless you can find sport in their intents, 
Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain, 
To do you service. 

Lhe. I will hear that play; 
For never anything can be amiss, 
When simpleness and duty tender it. 
Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies. 

[ Hxit Philostrate. 

Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged 
And duty in his service perishing. 

Wee og gentle sweet, you shall see no such 

ling. 

Tip. Helwan they can do nothing in this kind. 

The. The kinder we, to give them thanks fo 

nothing. 
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: 
And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect 
Takes it in might, not merit. 
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed 
To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; 
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, 
Make periods in the midst of sentences, 
Throttle their practised accent in their fears 
And in conclusion dumbly have broke off, 
Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, 
Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; 
And in the modesty of fearful duty 
I read as much as from the rattling tongue 
Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity 
In least speak most, to my capacity. 


mor Vv. 


Re-enter Philostrate. 


Phil. Soplease yourgrace,the Prologueisaddress’d. 
The. Let him approach. [flourish of trumpets. 


Enter Quince: for the Prologue. 


Pro. If we offend, it is with our good will. 
That you should think, we come not to offend, 
But with good will. To show our simple skill, 
~ That is the true beginning of our end. 
Consider then we come but in despite. 
We do not come as minding to content you, 
Our true intent is. All for your delight 
Wearenot here. That you should here repent you, 
The actors are at hand and by their show 
You shall know all that you are like to know. 
The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. 
Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt ; 
he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it 
is not enough to speak, but to speak true. 
Hip. Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a 
child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in government. 
The. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing 
impaired, but all disordered. Who is next ? 


Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, 
and Lion. 


Pro. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; 
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. 
This man is Pyramus, if you would know; 
This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. 
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present 
Waili, that vile Wall which did these lovers sun- 
der ; [content 
And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are 
To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. 
This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, 
Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know, 
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn 
To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. 
This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, 
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, 
Did scare away, or rather did affright ; 
And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall, 
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. 
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, 

And finds his trusty Thisby’s mantle slain: 
Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 
He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast ; 

And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, 
His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, 
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain 
At large discourse, while here they do remain. 
| Hxeunt Prologue, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine. 
The. 1 wonder if the lion be to speak. 
Dem. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when 
many asses do. 
Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall 
That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; 
And such a wall, as I would have you think, 
That had in it a crannied hole or chink, 
Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, 
Did whisper often very secretly. 
This loam, this rough-cast and this stone doth show 
That Iam that same wall; the truth is so: 
And this the cranny is, right and sinister, 
Lhrough which the fearful lovers are to whisper. 
The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak 
better ? 
Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard 
discourse, my lord. 


Enter Pyramus. 


The. Pyramus draws near the wall: silence! 

Pyr. O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so 

O night, which ever art when day isnot! [black! 
O night, 6) night! alack, alack, alack, 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I, 


I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot! 

And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, [mine! 

That stand’st between her father’s ground and 
Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, 

Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine 

eyne! [| Wall holds up his fingers. 
Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for 

But what see Il? No Thisby dol see. |- [this! 
O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss! 

Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me! 

The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should 
curse again. 

Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he shouldnot. ‘ Deceiving 
me’ is Thisby’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am 
to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will 
fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. 


Enter Thisbe. 


This. O wall, full often hast thou heard my 
For parting my fair Pyramus and me! _[moans, 
My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones, 
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. 
Pyr. 1 see a voice: now will I to the chink, 
To spy an 1 can hear my Thisby’s face. 
Thisby! 
This. My love thou art, my love I think. 

Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s 
And, like Limander, am I trusty still. [grace ; 
This. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. 

Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. 

This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. — [wall! 

Pyr. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile 

This. I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all. 

Pyr. ye thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straight- 

way! 
This. ’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay. 
[Hxeunt Pyramus and Thisbe. 

Wall. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; 
And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [ Evzit. 

The. Now is the mural down between the two 
neighbours. 

Den. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so 
wilful to hear without warning. 

Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. 

The. The best in this kind are but shadows; 
and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend 
them. 

Hip. It must be your imagination then, and 
not theirs. 

The. If we imagine no worse of them than they 
of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. 
Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. 


Enter Lion and Moonshine. 


Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do 
fear [floor, 
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on 
May now perchance both quake and tremble here, 
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. 
Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 
A lion-fell, nor else no lion’s dam ; 
For, if I should as lion come in strife 
Into this place, ’t were pity on my life. [science. 
The. A very gentle beast, and of a good con- 
Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that 
e’er I saw. 
Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 
The. True; and a goose for his discretion. 
Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot 
carry his discretion; and the fox carries the goose. 
The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his 
valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is 
well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to 
the moon. [sent ; — 
Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon pre- 
Dem. He should have worn the horns on his 
head. 
147 


ACT V. 


The. He is no erescent, and his horns are invisi- 
ble within the circumference. [sent; 

Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon pre- 
Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be. 

The. This is the greatest error of all the rest: the 
man should be put into the lanthorn. Howis it else 
the man i’ the moon ? 

Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; 
for, you see, it is already in snuff. (change! 

Hip. Lam aweary of this moon: would he would 

The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, 
that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all 
reason, we must stay the time. 

Lys. Proceed, Moon. 

Moon. All that I have to say, is, to tell you that 
the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; 
this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my 
dog. 

Dem. Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; 
for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here 


comes Thisbe. 
Enter Thisbe. 


aaa Pe is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my 
Ove t 

Lion. [Roaring] Oh-— [Thisbe runs off. 

Dem. Well roared, Lion. 

The. Well run, Thisbe. 

Hip. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines 
with a good grace. 

[The Lion shakes Thisbe’s mantle, and extt. 

The. Well moused, Lion. 

Lys. And so the lion vanished. 

Dem. And then came Pyramus. 


Enter Pyramus. 


Pyr. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny 
beams ; 
I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; 
For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, 
I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. 
But stay, O spite! 
But mark, poor knight, 
What dreadful dole is here! 
Eyes, do you see ? 
How can it be? 
O dainty duck! O dear! 
Thy mantle good, 
What, stain’d with blood! 
Approach, ye Furies fell! 
O Fates, come, come, 
Cut thread and thrum; 
Quail, crush, conclude, and quell! 
The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, 
would go near to make a man look sad. 
Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. 
Pyr. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions 
frame ? 
Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear: 
Which is—no, no— which was the fairest dame 
That lived, that loved, that liked, that look’d 
with cheer. 
Come, tears, confound; 
Out, sword, and wound 
The pap of Pyramus; 
Ay, that left pap, 
Where heart doth hop: 
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. 
Now am I dead, 
Now am I fled; 
My soul is in the sky: 
Tongue, lose thy light; 
Moon, take thy flight: [Exit Moonshine. 
Now die, die, die, die, die. Dies. 
Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but 
one. 
_ Lys. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he 
iS nothing. 


[Stabs himself. 


148 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


The. With the help of a surgeon he might yet re- 
cover, and prove an ass. 

Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe 
comes back and finds her lover ? 

The. She will find him by starlight. 
comes; and her passion ends the play. 


Re-enter Thisbe. 


Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for 
such a Pyramus: I hope she will be brief. 

Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyra- 
mus, which Thisbe, is the better; he foraman, God 
warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us. [eyes. 

Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet 

Dem. And thus she means, videlicet :— 

This. Asleep, my love ? 

What, dead, my dove ? 

O Pyramus, arise! 
Speak, speak. Quite dumb ? 
Dead, dead? A tomb 

Must cover thy sweet eyes. 
These lily lips, 
This cherry nose, 

These yellow cowslip cheeks, 
Are gone, are gone: 
Lovers, make moan: 

His eyes were green as leeks. 
O Sisters Three, 
Come, come to me, 

With hands as pale as milk; 
Lay them in gore, 
Since you have shore 

With shears his thread of silk. 
Tongue, not a word: 
Come, trusty sword ; 

Come, blade, my breast imbrue: [Stabs herself. 
And farewell, friends; 
Thus Thisby ends: 

Adieu, adieu, adieu. [ Dies. 

The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. 

Dem. Ay, and Wail too. 

Bot. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is 
down that parted their fathers. Will it please you 
to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance 
between two of our company ? ' 

The. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs 
no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are 
all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if 
he that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged 
himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine 
tragedy; and so it is, truly; and very notably dis- 
charged. But, come, your Bergomask: let your 
epilogue alone. [A dance. 
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: 
Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. 

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn 

As much as we this night have overwatch’d. 

This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled 

The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. 

A fortnight hold we this solemnity, 

In nightly revels and new jollity. [ Hxeunt. 


Enter Puck. 


Puck. Now the hungry lion roars, 
And the wolf behowls the moon; 
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 

All with weary task fordone. 
Now the wasted brands do glow, 

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, 
Puts the wretch that lies in woe 

In remembrance of a shroud. 
Now it is the time of night 

That the graves all gaping wide, 
Every one lets forth his sprite, ~ 

In the church-way paths to glide: 
And we fairies, that do run 

By the triple Hecate’s team, 


Here she 


mor Vv. 


A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 


SCENE I. 


From the presence of the sun, 
Following darkness like a dream, 

Now are frolic: not a mouse 

Shall disturb this hallow’d house: 

I am sent with broom before, 

To sweep the dust behind the door. 


Enter Oberon and Titania with their train, 


Obe. Through the house give glimmering light, 
By the dead and drowsy fire: 
Every elf and fairy sprite 
Hop as light as bird from brier; 
And this ditty, after me, 
Sing, and dance it trippingly. 

Tita. First, rehearse your song by rote, 
To each word a warbling note: 
Hand in hand, with fairy grace, 
Will we sing, and bless this place. 

[Song and dance. 

Obe. Now, until the break of day, 
Through this house each fairy stray. 
To the best bride-bed will we, 
Which by us shall blessed be; 

And the issue there create 
Ever shall be fortunate. 

So shall all the couples three 
Ever true in loving be; 

And the blots of Nature’s hand 
Shall not in their issue stand ; 


Never mole, hare lip, nor scar, 

Nor mark prodigious, such as are 

Despised in nativity, 

Shall upon their children be. 

With this field-dew consecrate, 

Every fairy take his gait ; 

And each several chamber bless, 

Through this palace, with sweet peace ; 

And the owner of it blest 

Ever shall in safety rest. 

Trip away; make no stay; 

Meet me all by break of day. 

[Hxeunt Oberon, Titania, and tras. 

Puck. If we shadows have offended, 

Think but this, and all is mended, 

That you have but slumber’d here 

While these visions did appear. 

And this weak and idle theme, 

No more yielding but a dream, 

Gentles, do not reprehend : 

If you pardon, we will mend: 

And, as I am an honest Puck, 

If we have unearned luck 

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue, 

We will make amends ere long; 

Else the Puck a liar call: 

So, good night unto you all. 

Give me your hands, if we be friends, 


And Robin shall restore amends. [ Exit. 


Hermia.—Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds 
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then? 
Henceforth be never numbered among men! 

O! once tell true, tell true, e’en for my sake; 

Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake, 
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch! 
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? 

An adder did it; for with doubler tongue 

Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. 

Demetrius.—You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood: 
I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood, 

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.—Acr III., Scene ii 


149 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


The Duke of Venice. 
The Prince of Morocco, 
The Prince of Arragon, 
Antonio, a merchant of Venice. 

Bassanio, his friend, suitor likewise to Portia. 
Salanio, | 

Salarino, 
Gratiano, 
Salerio, 
Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. 

Shylock, a rich Jew. 

Tubal, a Jew, his friend. 

Launcelot Gobbo, the clown, servant to Shylock. 


suitors to Portia, 


| 
[ friends to Antonio and Bassanio. 


Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot. 
Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 
Balthasar, 
Stephano, 
Portia, a rich heiress. 
Nerissa, her waiting maid. 
Jessica, daughter to Shylock. 


servants to Portia. 


Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Jus- 
tice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other At- 
tendants. 


SCENE — Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the 
seat of Portia, on the Continent. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLViI.] 


vets GES Bia ts 


SCENE I.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. 


Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: 
It wearies me; you say it wearies you; 

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, 
I am to learn; 

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, 
That I have much ado to know myself. 

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 

There, where your argosies with portly sail, 
Like signiors and rich burghers on the fiood, 
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, 

Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 
That curtsy to them, do them reverence, 
As they fly by them with their woven wings. 

Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, 
The better part of my affections would 
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still 
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind, 
Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads; 
And every object that might make me fear 
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt 
Would make me sad. 

Salar. My wind cooling my broth 
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great at sea might do. 
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, 
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, 
Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side, 
Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, 
And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought 
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
That such a thing bechanced would make me sad ? 
But tell not me; I know, Antonio 
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, 


150 


| My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 


Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate 

Upon the fortune of this present year: 

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
Salar. Why, then you are in love. 


Ant. Fie, fie! 
Salar. Not in love neither? Then let us say 
you are sad, 


| Because you are not merry: and ’*t were as easy 


For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, 
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, 
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time: 
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes 
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 

And other of such vinegar aspect 

That they ’l1 not show their teeth in way of smile, 
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 


Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. 


Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble 
Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well: [kinsman, 
We leave you now with better company.  [merry, 

Salar. 1 would have stay’d till I had made you 
If worthier friends had not prevented me. 

Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard. 

I take it, your own business calls on you 
And you embrace the occasion to depart. 
Salar. Good morrow, my good lords. 
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh ? 
say, when ? 
You grow exceeding strange: must it be so? 

Salar. We’ 11 make our leisures to attend on yours. 

[EKxeunt Salarino and Salanio. 

Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found 

Antonio, 
We two will leave you: but at dinner-time, 
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. 

Bass. I will not fail you. 

Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio; 

You have too much respect upon the world: 
They lose it that do buy it with much care: 
Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 

Ant. [hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; 
A stage where every man must play a part, 

And mine a sad one. 


Arr ‘i. 


Gra. Let me play the fool: 

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 
And let my liver rather heat with wine 

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 

Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice 
By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio— 

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks — 

There are a sort of men whose visages 

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, 

And do a wilful stillness entertain, 

With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion 

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, 

As who should say ‘I am Sir Oracle, 

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!’ 

O my Antonio, I do know of these 

That therefore only are reputed wise 

For saying nothing, when, I am very sure, 

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears 
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers 
J ‘ll tell thee more of this another time: [fools. 
But fish not, with this melancholy bait, 

For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. 

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile: 

I?ll end my exhortation after dinner. 

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time : 
I must be one of these same dumb wise men, 

For Gratiano never lets me speak. 

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years moe, 
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. 
Ant. Farewell: Ill grow a talker for this gear. 

Gra. Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only com- 

mendable 
In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible. 
[Hxeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. 

Ant. Is that any thing now ? 

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, 
~more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are 
as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff : 
you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when 
you have them, they are not worth the search. 

Ant. Well, tell me now what lady is the same 
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 

That you to-day promised to tell me of ? 

Bass. ’T is not unknown to you, Antonio, 
How much I have disabled mine estate, 

By something showing a more swelling port 
Than my faint means would grant continuance: 
Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 
From such a noble rate; but my chief care 
is to come fairly off from the great debts 
Wherein my time something too prodigal 
Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, 

I owe the most, in money and in love, 

And from your love I have a warranty 

To unburden all my plots and purposes 
How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; 
And if it stand, as you yourself still do, 

Within the eye of honour, be assured, 
My purse, my person, my extremest means, 
Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. 

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one 
_ I shot his fellow of the self-same flight [shaft, 
The self-same way with more advised watch, 

To find the other forth, and by adventuring both 

I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof, 

Because what follows is pure innocence. 

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, 

That which I owe is lost; but if you please 

To shoot another arrow that self way 

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 

As I will watch the aim, or to find both 

Or bring your latter hazard back again 

And thankfully rest debtor for the first. [time 
Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE II. 


To wind about my love with circumstance ; 
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong 
In making question of my uttermost 
Than if you had made waste of all I have: 
Then do but say to me what I should do 
That in your knowledge may by me be done, 
And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak. 

Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left; 
And she is fair and, fairer than that word, 
Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes 
I did receive fair speechless messages : 
Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued 
To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia: 
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 
For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strand, 
And many Jasons come in quest of her. 
O my Antonio, had I but the means 
To hold a rival place with one of them, 
I have a mind presages me such thrift, 
That I should questionless be fortunate! 

Ant. Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea ; 


| Neither have I money nor commodity 


To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; 
Try what my credit can in Venice do: 
That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost, 
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 
Where money is, and I no question make 
To have it of my trust or for my sake. 


SCENE II. — Belmont. 


Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is 
aweary of this great world. ryt 2 

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries 
were in the same abundance as your good fortunes 
are: and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that 
surfeit with too much as they that starve with 
nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to 
be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner 
by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 

Por. Good sentences and well pronounced. 

Ner. They would be better, if well followed. 

Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were 
good to do, chapels had been churches and poor 
men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It isa good divine 
that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach 
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of 
the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain 
may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper 
leaps o’er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the 
youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the 
cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to 
choose me a husband. O me, the word ‘choose!’ 
I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse 
whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter 
curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, 
Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none ¢ 

Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy 
men at their death have good inspirations: there- 
fore the lottery, that he hath devised in these three 
chests of gold, silver and lead, whereof who chooses 
his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be 
chosen by any rightly but one who shall rightly love. 
But what warmth is there in your affection towards 
any of these princely suitors that are already come ? 

Por. I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou 
namest them, I will describe them; and, according 
to my description, level at my affection. 

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Por. Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing 
but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great ap- 
propriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe 

151 


[ Hxeunt. 


A room in Portia’s house. 


ACT, Ts 


him himself. Iam much afeard my lady his mother 
played false with a smith. 

Ner. Then there is the County Palatine. 

Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who should 
say ‘If you will not have me, choose:’ he hears 
merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the 
weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so 
full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had 
rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in 
his mouth than to either of these. God defend me 
from these two! 

Nerv. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur 
Le Bon ? 

Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass 
for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to bea 
mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse better than 
the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning 
than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no 
man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering : 
he will fence with his own shadow: if I should 
marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he 
would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he 
love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 

Ner. What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the 
young baron of England ? 

Por. You know I say nothing to him, for he un- 
derstands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, 
French, nor Italian, and you will come into the 
court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in 
the English. He is a proper man’s picture, but, 
alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How 
oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet 
in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in 
Germany and his behaviour every where. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his 
neighbour ? 

Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, 
for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman 
and swore he would pay him again when he was 
able: I think the Frenchman became his surety and 
sealed under for another. 

Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke 
of Saxony’s nephew ? 

Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, 
and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: 
when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and 
when he is worst, he is little better than a beast: 
an the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make 
shift to go without him. 

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the 
right casket, you should refuse to perform your 
father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him. 

Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, 
set a deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary 
casket, for if the devil be within and that tempta- 
tion without, I know he will choose it. I will do 
any thing, Nerissa, ere I ’l] be married to a sponge. 

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of 
these lords; they have acquainted me with their 
determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their 
home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless 
you may be won by some other sort than your 
father’s imposition depending on the caskets. 

Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as 
chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner 
of my father’s will. Iam glad this parcel of wooers 
are so reasonable, for there is not one among them 
but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant 
them a fair departure. 

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s 
time,a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came 
hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat ? 

Por. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was 
so called. 

Ner. True, madam: he, of all the men that ever 
my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving 
a fair lady. 

152 


SCENE IIf. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


Por. I remember him well, and I remember him 
worthy of thy praise. 


Enter a Serving-man. 
How now! what news? 

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to 
take their leave: and there is a forerunner come 
from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings 
word the prince his master will be here to-night. 

Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good 
a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should 
be glad of his approach: if he have the condition of 
a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather ~ 
he should shrive me than wive me. 

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. 
Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another 


knocks at the door. [ Exeunt. 
SCENE III.— Venice. A public place. 
Enter Bassanio and Shylock. 
Shy. Three thousand ducats; well. 
Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. 
Shy. For three months; well. [be bound. 


Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound; well. 

Bass. May you stead me? will you pleasure me ? 
shall I know your answer ? 

Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months 
and Antonio bound. 

Bass. Your answer to that. 

Shy. Antonio is a good man. [trary ? 

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the con- 

Shy. Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying 
he is a good man is to have you understand me 
that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposi- 
tion: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another 
to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the 
Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for 
England, and other ventures he hath, squandered 
abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but 
men: there be land-rats and water-rats, water- 
thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then 
there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks. The 
man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thou- 
sand ducats; I think I may take his bond. 

Bass. Be assured you may. . 

Shy. I will be assured I may; and, that I may be 
assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with An- 

Bass. If it please you to dine with us. _—_— [tonio? 

Shy. Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation 
which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil 
into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with 
you, walk with you, and so following, but I will not 
eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. 
What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here ? 


Enter Antonio. 


Bass. This is Signior Antonio. [looks! 
Shy. [Aside] How like a fawning publican he 
I hate him for he is a Christian, 
But more for that in low simplicity 
He lends out money gratis and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him! 
Bass. Shylock, do you hear ? 
Shy. Iam debating of my present store, 
And, by the near guess of my memory, 
I cannot instantly raise up the gross ; 
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? 
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 


| 


i 


ACT TT. 


Will furnish me. But soft! how many months 
Do you desire? [To Ant.] Rest you fair, good signior; 
Your worship was the last man in our mouths. 

Ant. Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow 
By taking nor by giving of excess, 

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
I°ll break a custom. Is he yet possess’d 
How much ye would ? 

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats 

Ant. And for three months. 

Shy. Lhad forgot; three months; you told me so. 
Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you; 
Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow 
Upon advantage. 

Ant. I do never use it. 

Shy. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban’s sheep— 
This Jacob from our holy Abram was, 

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, 
The third possessor; ay, he was the third — 

Ant. And what of him? did he take interest ? 

Shy. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, 
Directly interest: mark what Jacob did. 

When Laban and himself were compromised 

That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied 
Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank, 
In the end of autumn turned to the rams, 

And, when the work of generation was 

Between these woolly breeders in the act, 

The skilful shepherd peel’d me certain wands 
And, in the doing of the deed of kind, 

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, 

Who then conceiving did in eaning time 

Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s. 
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest: 

And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. [for ; 

Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served 
A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 

But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven. 
Was this inserted to make interest good ? 

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? 

_ Shy. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast : 
But note me, signior. 

Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, 

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 

An evil soul producing holy witness 

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, 

A goodly apple rotten at the heart: 

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! [sum. 

Shy. Three thousand ducats; ’tis a good round 
Three ‘hal from twelve; then, let me see; the 

rate — 

Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you ? 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances: 

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, 

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 

And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well then, it now appears you need my help: 
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say 
‘Shylock, we would have moneys:?’ you say 80; 
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard 
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 


Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I, 


What should I say to you? Should I not say 
‘Hath a dog money ? is it possible 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ Or 
Shall I bend low and in a bondman’s key, 
With bated breath and whispering humbleness, 
Say this; 
‘ Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; 
You spurn’d me such a day; another time 
You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies 
Ill lend you thus much moneys’? 

Ant. Iam as like to call thee so again, 
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends; for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ? 
But lend it rather to thine enemy, 
Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm! 
I would be friends with you and have your love, 
Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, 
Supply your present wants and take no doit 
Of usance for my moneys, and you ’ll not hear me: 
This is kind I offer. 

Bass. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show. 
Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport, 

If you repay me not on such a day, 

In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant. Content, i’ faith: Ill seal to such a bond 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me: 
Ill rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it: 
Within these two months, that ’s a month before 
This bond expires, I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shy. O father Abram, what these Christians are, 
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this; 
If he should break his day, what should I gain 
By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 

A pound of man’s flesh taken from a man 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship: 
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; 

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 

Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s; 
Give him direction for this merry bond, 

And I will go and purse the ducats straight, 
See to my house, left in the fearful guard 
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 

I will be with you. 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. [Hzait Shylock. 
The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind. 

Bass. J like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. 

Ant. Come on: in this there can be no dismay ; 
My ships come home a month before the day. 

[ Haeunt. 


Joh OR. cd SA ee 


SCENE I.— Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. 
Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco and 
his train; Portia, Nerissa, and others attending. 


_,_ Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion, 
The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun, 


To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. 
Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 
Where Phebus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles, 
And let us make incision for your love, | 

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. 
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 


153 


ACT, 7k 


Hath fear’d the valiant: by my love, I swear 
The best-regarded virgins of our clime 
Have loved it too: I would not change this hue, 
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 
Por. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes; 
Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing : 
But if my father had not scanted me 
And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself 
His wife who wins me by that means I told you, 
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 
As any comer I have look’d on yet 
For my affection. 
Mor. Even for that I thank you: 
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets 
To try my fortune. By this scimitar 
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince 
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, 
I would outstare the sternest eyes that look, 
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, 
’ Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! 
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice 
Which is the better man, the greater throw 
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: 
So is Aleides beaten by his page; 
And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 
Miss that which one unworthier may attain, 
And die with grieving. 
Por. You must take your chance, 
And either not attempt to choose at all 
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong 
Never to speak to lady afterward 
In way of marriage: therefore be advised. 
Mor. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my 
chance. 
Por. First, forward to the temple: after dinner 
Your hazard shall be made. 
or. Good fortune then! 
To make me blest or cursed’st among men. 
[Cornets, and exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Launcelot. 


Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to 
run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at 
mine elbow and tempts me saying to me ‘ Gobbo, 
Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,’ or ‘good Gob- 
bo,’ or ‘good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take 
the start, run away.’ My conscience says ‘No; 
take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest 
Gobbo,’ or, as aforesaid, * honest Launcelot Gobbo ; 
do not run; scorn running with thy heels.’ Well, 
the most courageous fiend bids me pack: ‘ Via!’ 
says the fiend; ‘away!’ says the fiend; ‘for the 
heavens, rouse up a brave mind,’ says the fiend, 
‘and run.’ Well, my conscience, hanging about 
the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me ‘ My 
honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s 
son,’ or rather an honest woman’s son; for, indeed, 
my father did something smack, something grow 
to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience 
says, ‘Launcelot, budge not.’ ‘Budge,’ says the 
fiend. ‘Budge not,’ says my conscience. ‘ Con- 
science,’ say I, ‘ you counsel well;’ ‘ Fiend,’ say I, 
‘you counsel well:’ to be ruled by my conscience, 
I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God 
bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away 
from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, 
Saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Cer- 
tainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in 
my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard 
conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the 


Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: LI | 


1o4 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE II. 


will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I 
will run. ' 
Enter old Gobbo, with a basket. 

Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, which 
is the way to master Jew’s ? 

Laun. |Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten 
father! who, being more than sand-blind, high- 
gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions 
with him. . 

Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which 
is the way to master Jew’s ? 

Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next 
turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your 
left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no 
hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house. 

Gob. By God’s sonties, ’t will be a hard way to 
hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that 
dwells with him, dwell with him or no ? 

Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? 
[ Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. 
Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? 

Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his 
father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor 
man and, God be thanked, well to live. 

Laun. Well, let his father be what a’ will, we talk 
of young Master Launcelot. 

Gob. Your worship’s friend and Launcelot, sir. 

Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I be- 
seech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot ? 

Gob. Of Launcelot, an ’t please your mastership. 

Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Mas- 
ter Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, 
according to Fates and Destinies and such odd 
sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of 
learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say 
in plain terms, gone to heaven. 

Gob. Marry, Good forbid! the boy was the very 
staff of my age, my very prop. | 

Laun. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a 
staff or a prop? Do you know me, father ? 

Gob. Alack the day, I know you not, young gen- 
tleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God 
rest his soul, alive or dead ? 

Laun. Do you not know me, father ? 

nee Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you 
not. 

Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you 
might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father 
that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will 
tell you news of your son: give me your blessing: 
truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid 
long ; a man’s son may, but at the length truth will 
out. 

Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are 
not Launcelot, my boy. 

Laun. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about 
it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, 
your boy that was, your son that is, your child that 
shall be. 

Gob. I cannot think you are my son. 

Laun. I know not what I shall think of that: 
but I am Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and I am sure 
Margery your wife is my mother. 

Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed: I’ll be 
sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own 
flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! 
what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more 
hae uo thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on 

1is tail. 

Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail 
grows backward: I am sure he had more hair of 
his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him. 

Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! 
thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a 
present. How ’gree you now? 

Laun. Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I 


How dost. 


have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest — 


: 


eye. 


ACT II. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE IV. 


till I have run some ground. My master’s a very 
Jew: give him a present! give him a halter: Iam 
famished in his service; you may tell every finger 
I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are 
come: give me your present to one Master Bassa- 
nio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries: if I serve 
not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. 
Orare fortune! here comes the man: to him, father ; 
for Iam a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. 


Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo and other fol- 
lowers. 


Bass. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that 
supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. 
See these letters delivered; put the liveries to 
making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my 
lodging. [Exit a Servant. 

aun. To him, father. 

Gob. God bless your worship! 

Bass. Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me? 

Gob. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy,— 

Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s 
man; that would, sir, as my father shall specify — 

Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would 
Say, to serve,— 

Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the 
Jew,and have a desire, as my father shall specify — 

Gob. His master and he, saving your worship’s 
reverence, are scarce cater-cousins — 

Laun. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, 
having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, 
being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you — 

Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would be- 
stow upon your worship, and my suit is— 

Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to my- 
self, as your worship shall know by this honest old 
man; and,though I say it, though old man, yet poor 
man, my father. 

Bass. One speak for both. What would you? 

Laun. Serve you, sir. 

Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. 

Bass. I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy 
Shylock thy master spoke with me thisday, [suit: 
And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment 
To leave a rich Jew’s service, to become 
The follower of so poor a gentleman. 

Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between 
my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace 
of God, sir, and he hath enough. [son. 

Bass. Thouspeak’st it well. Go, father, with thy 
Take leave of thy old master and inquire 
My lodging out. Give him a livery 
More guarded than his fellows’: see it done. 

Laun. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I 
have ne’er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man 
in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear 
upon abook, I shall have good fortune. Go to, here’s 
a simple line of life: here’s a small trifle of wives: 
alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven widows and 
nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man: and 
then to ’scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of 
my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are 
.Simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s 
a good wench for this gear. Father, come; Ill 
take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an 
[EHxewnt Launcelot and old Gobbo. 

Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this: 
These things being bought and orderly bestow’d, 
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night 

My best-esteem’d acquaintance: hie thee, go. 
Leon. My best endeavours shall be done herein. 


Enter Gratiano. 


Gra. Where is your master ? 

Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. 
Gra. Signior Bassanio! 

Bass. Gratiano! 


[Ewit. 


Gra. I have a suit to you. 
Bass. You have obtain’d it. 
Gra. You must not deny me: I must go with you 
to Belmont. [tiano ; 
Bass. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gra- 
Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice; 
Parts that become thee happily enough 
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; [show 
But where thou art not known, why, where they 
Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 
To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour 
I be misconstrued in the place I go to 
And lose my hopes. 
rd. Signior Bassanio, hear me; 
If I do not put on a sober habit, 
Taik with respect and swear but now and then, 
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, 
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
Thus with my hat, and sigh and say ‘amen,’ 
Use all the observance of civility, 
Like one well studied in a sad ostent 
To please his grandam, never trust me more. 
Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. [me 
Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge 
By what we do to-night. 
Bass. No, that were pity: 
I would entreat you rather to put on 
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
That purpose merriment. But fare you well: 
I have some business. 
Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest: 
But we will visit you at supper-time. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE ITI.— Thesame. A roomin Shylock’s house. 


Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 


Jes. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so: 
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 

Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 

But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee: 
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest: 
Give him this letter; do it secretly; 

And so farewell: I would not have my father 
See me in talk with thee. 

Laun. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beau: 
tiful pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not 
play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. 
But, adieu: these foolish drops do something drown 
my manly spirit: adieu. 

Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. 
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 
To be ashamed to be my father’s child ! 
But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
Iam not to his manners. O Lorenzo, 

If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 
Become a Christian and thy loving wife. 


SCENE IV.— The same. A street. 


Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and 
Salanio. 

Lov. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, 
Disguise us at my lodging and return, 
All in an hour. 

Gra. We have not made good preparation. 

Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. 

Salan. ’T is vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d, 
And better in my mind not undertook. {hours 

Lor. ’Tis now but four o’clock: we have two 
To furnish us. 


Enter Launcelot, with a letter. 
Friend Launcelot, what ’s the news ? 
Laun. An it shall please you to break up this, it 
shall seem to signify. 


[Exit Launcelot. 


[ Hatt. 


155 


ACT II. 


Lor. I know the hand: in faith *tis a fair hand ; 
And whiter than the paper it writ on 
Is the fair hand that writ. 
Gra. 
Laun. By your leave, sir. 
Lor. Whither goest thou ? 
Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew 
to sup to-night with my new master the Christian. 
Lor. Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica 
I will not fail her; speak it privately. 
Go, gentlemen, [ Hxit Launcelot. 
Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? 
I am provided of a torch-bearer. 
Salar. Ay, marry, Ill be gone about it straight. 
Salan. And so will 1. 
or. Meet me and Gratiano 
At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence. 
Salar. "Tis good we do so. 
[Exeunt Salar. and Salan. 
Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ? 


Love-news, in faith. 


Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed | 


How I shall take her from her father’s house, 
What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with, 

What page’s suit she hath in readiness. 

If ere the Jew her father come to heaven, 

It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake: 

And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 

Unless she do it under this excuse, 

That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 

Come, go with me; peruse this as thou goest: 
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— The same. 


Enter Shylock and Launcelot. 


Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy 
judge, 

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio : — 
What, Jessica! —thou shalt not gormandize, 
As thou hast done with me :— What, Jessica ! — 
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out ;— 
Why, Jessica, I say! 

Laun. Why, Jessica! 

Shy. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. 

Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me that I 
could do nothing without bidding. 


Before Shylock’s house. 


Enter Jessica. 

Jes. Call you ? what is your will ? 

Shy. Iam bid forth to supper, Jessica: 

There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? 
I am not bid for love; they flatter me: 

But yet Ill go in hate, to feed upon 

The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, 

Look to my house. I am right loath to go: 
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, 
For I did dream of money-bags to-night. 

Laun. I beseech you, sir, go: my young master 
doth expect your reproach. ' 

Shy. So do I his. 

Laun. An they have conspired together, I will 
not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then 
it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding 
on Black-Monday last at six o’clock i’ the morning, 
falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four 
year in the afternoon. 

Shy. What, are there masques? Hear you me, 

Jessica: 
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum 
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife, 
Clamber not you up to the casements then, 
Nor thrust your head into the public street 
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces, 
But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements: 
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
My sober house. By Jacob’s staff, I swear, 
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night: 


156 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE VI. 


—— 


But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; 
Syd I will come. 
aun. I will go before, sir. 
window, for all this; 
There will come a Christian by, 
Will be worth a Jewess’ eye. [ Hatt. 
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, 
ha ? [else. 
Jes. His words were ‘ Farewell mistress; ’ nothing 
Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder: 
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day 
More than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me; 
Therefore I part with him, and part with him 
To one that I would have him help to waste 
His borrow’d purse. Well, Jessica, go in: 
Perhaps I will return immediately: 
Do as I bid you; shut doors after you: 
Fast bind, fast find ; 
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [ Hatt. 
Jes. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, 
I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [ Hevit. 


SCENE VI.— The same. 


Mistress, look out at 


Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued. 


Gra. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo 
Desired us to make stand. 

Salar. His hour is almost past. 

Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, 
For lovers ever run before the clock. 

- Salar. O, ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly 
To seal love’s bonds new-made, than they are wont 
To keep obliged faith unforfeited ! | 

Gra. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast 

With that keen appetite that he sits down? 
Where is the horse that doth untread again 
His tedious measures with the unbated fire 
That he did pace them first ? All things that are, — 
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. 
How like a younker or a prodigal 

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, 
Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! 
How like the prodigal doth she return, 
With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, 
Lean, rent and beggar’d by the strumpet wind ! 
Salar. Here comes Lorenzo: more of this here- 
after. 
Enter Lorenzo. 

Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long 
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait: [abode; 
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, — 
I ll watch as long for you then. Approach; 
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within? 


Enter Jessica, above, in boy’s clothes. 


Jes. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, 
Albeit Ill swear that I do know your tongue. 

Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. 

Jes. Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed, 
For who love Iso mnch? And now who knows 
But you, Lorenzo, whether Iam yours? [thou art. 

Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that 

Jes. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the 
Lam glad ’t is night, you do not look on me, [pains. 
For I am much ashamed of my exchange: : 
But love is blind and lovers cannot see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit; 
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
To see me thus transformed to a boy. 

Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. — 

Jes. What, must I hold a candle to my shames? — 
They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. 
Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love; ix 
And I should be obscured. 

or. ° So are you, sweet, 

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
But come at once; 


ee 
Vi ili 
: il iy | My 


Witt. 
Ah) 
WI ini 
AAI y \ 
| i MN Will 
\ \"i) 1) 
\ \ \ | 


| 
| 
| 


| 


ie Od =? 
SS SSS SS 
—S- —— —— 
————— = 


NR 6 eae Se 


” 
———— 
— 


aX 2 Wd we — ieee : 
Z eS) i 


‘ 4 i i Dee ‘ie Pied eee ee 
svat, sp eta At gaa aie ee 


“tA eue0S “Tl IOV—ADINAA AO LNVHOYEM 


i 


HTITTNCAMT eR ANS 


hee 12. 2 of = SLEW Wii 
Wess Serre a 
| i Wy = SSS SS 2 Z ANS 


a 
$ 


\ 
/ 


VAI 


= lh 


\\ 


ZS AS Suit) 


Nh H 
| | = S 
Wnt >> = S \ = 
1 | A= eS SSaqqa \ \ i 
f H i E 
MT ) 1 OFS SN x an WG a: FS 
PNT) p AY SF . Bi = N S { 
y Y \ SAIS SS GZ} Ss SON 
i 4) \ SSY XG = x : = !| 
I Wy , SSSI < \\ — Ses! 
f y au Lh SESE = SSS 
{ { (ff Vity é SE SSH = - = NI 
, f ka Z = = SSS SS 
at | f MK WZ SSS SN = 
\ , y } / SSS 
ff = ; = uy 
i DI “LEE 
f 
; fl : 
tii f/ if a = 
Xl ff SN 
j fT he fi ~ \ | 
i J : — | 
| } fi 4 ee 
il / = } 
NR | : it 
} y] Wh, aS = | x =| 
1 H LY LS . Gas == 
phy yy = - 
f 
| i I \ fs f WY — f= 2 z = 
j 7 > = wy : 
j j WI Bi lf Tea 
WY], f : 3 EB Wiese f = 
; > TA oO ; 
1 


es  vuid¢muu Fy 
4A, = ge 


———— 


. SSS 

ty YT ian = 

; Sa Za 

ae. Filia WS “5 : \ 

: Saat tS < LZ AV ISSS 


oe Le EO 
Bo oe “ae ee ZED * 


j LL — YUL o£TS 
Zo Lae ve SSS 
oe 


IE 


3 [ CSS — hu! — Nae ZI or G wl x | Ul l 
pe XS wi Staen eo a ee aS 

jy : _ CSB ——— = =e —— 

7 : y yD 7 MMMM 


Yj 
a 25 Vin YY YWIMEZCBCEZEZ OF 
IK 


\\\ 


Z 
—— at ee -- > 
az = 
= SSS SS 
——— SSS SS 
oS jae ae cer ee oe = 


nl 


LLL 


bo 


es 


Ss te 
Lae 


se 


1 de ee 


ae 


an 


. ee . 


¢ 


ACT II. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE VIII. 


For the close night doth play the runaway, 

And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. 
Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 

With some more ducats, and be with you straight. 

[ Hatt above. 

Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew. 
Lor. Beshrew me but I love her heartily ; 

For she is wise, if I can judge of her, 

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, 


And true she is, as she hath proved herself, 


And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true, 
Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 


Enter Jessica, below. 


What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away! 
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. 
[Exit with Jessica and Salarino. 


Enter Antonio. 


Ant. Who’s there ? 

Gra. Signior Antonio! - 

Ant. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest ? 
*T is nine o’clock: our friends all stay for you. 
No masque to-night: the wind is come about ; 
Bassanio presently will go aboard: 
I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 

Gra. Iam glad on ’t: I desire no more delight 
Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [Hveunt. 


SCENE VII.— Belmont. 


Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince 
of Morocco, and their trains. 


Por. Go draw aside the curtains and discover 
The several caskets to this noble prince. 
Now make your choice. 
Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, 
‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men de- 
sire; ’ 
The second, silver, which this promise carries, 


A room in Portia’s house. 


_ * Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves ;’ 


This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, 
‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’ 
How shall I know if I do choose the right ? 
Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince: 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.  [see; 
Mor. Some god direct my judgment! Let me 
I will survey the inscriptions back again. 
What says this leaden casket ? [hath.’ 
‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he 


Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead ? 


a 


This casket threatens. Men that hazard all 

Do it in hope of fair advantages : 

A a mind stoops not to shows of dross; 

T’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 

What says the silver with her virgin hue ? 

‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ 

As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, 

And weigh thy value with an even hand : 

If thou be’st rated by thy estimation, 

Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough 

May not extend so far as to the lady: 

And yet to be afeard of my deserving 

Were but a weak disabling of myself. 

As much asI deserve! Why, that’s the lady: 

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 

In graces and in qualities of breeding ; 

But more than these, in love I do deserve. 

What if I stray’d no further, but chose here ? 

Let ’s see once more this saying graved in gold; 

*Who chooseth me shall gain what many men 
desire.’ 

Why, that’s the lady; all the world desires her ; 

From the four corners of the earth they come, 

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint: 

The Hyreanian deserts and the vasty wilds 

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now 


| For princes to come view fair Portia: 


The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 
To stop the foreign spirits, but they come, 
As o’er a brook, to see fair Portia. 
One of these three contains her heavenly picture. 
Is ’t like that lead contains her? ’I’ were damnation 
To think so base a thought: it were too gross: 
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 
Or shall I think in silver she’s immured, 
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold ? 
O sinful thought! Neverso rich a gem 
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England 
A coin that bears the figure of an angel 
Stamped in gold, but that’s insculp’d upon; 
But here an angel in a golden bed 
Lies all within. Deliver me the key: 
Here do I choose, and thrive LasI may!  [there, 
Por. There, take it, prince; and if my form lie 
Then I am yours. | He unlocks the golden casket. 
Mor. O hell! what have we here ? 
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll! Ill read the writing. 
[Reads] All that glisters is not gold; 
Often have you heard that told: 
Many a man his life hath sold 
But my outside to behold: 
Gilded tombs do worms infold. 
Had you been as wise as bold, 
Young in limbs, in judgment old, 
Your answer had not been inscroll’d: 
Fare you well; your suit is cold. 
Cold, indeed; and labour lost: 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost! 
Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part. 
[Hait with his train. Flourish y cornets. 
Por. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. 
Let all of his complexion choose me so.  [Exewnt. 


SCENE VIII.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Salarino and Salanio. 


Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail: 
With him is Gratiano gone along ; 
And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. 

Salan. The villain Jew with outcries raised the 


uke, 

Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship. 
Salar. He came too late, the ship was under sail: 

But there the duke was given to understand 

That in a gondola were seen together 

Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica: 

Besides, Antonio certified the duke 

They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 
Salan. I never heard a passion so confused, 

So strange, outrageous, and so variable, 


As the dog Jew did utter in the streets: 


‘My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! 
Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats ! 
Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter! 
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter: 
And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, 
Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl; 
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.’ 
Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, 
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 
Salan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, 
Or he shall pay for this. 
Salar. Marry, well remember’d. 
I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday, 
Who told me, in the narrow seas that part 
The French and English, there miscarried 
A vessel of our country richly fraught: 
I thought upon Antonio when he told me; 


| And wish’d in silence that it were not his. 


157 


ACT Il. 


Salan. You were best to tell Antonio what you 


ear 5 

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 
Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. 

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: 

Bassanio told him he would make some speed 

Of his return: he answer’d, *‘ Do not so; _ 

Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, 

But stay the very riping of the time; 

And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, 

Let it not enter in your mind of love: 

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts 

To courtship and such fair ostents of love 

As shall conveniently become you there:’ 

And even there, his eye being big with tears, 

Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 

And with affection wondrous sensible 

He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted. 
Salan. I think he only loves the world for him. 

I pray thee, let us go and find him out 

And quicken his embraced heaviness 

With some delight or other. 
Salar. 


SCENE IX.— Belmont. 


Enter Nerissa with a Servitor. 
Ner. Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain 
straight : 
The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, 
And comes to his election presently. 


Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, 
Portia, and their trains. 


Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince: 
Tf you choose that wherein I am contain’d, 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized : 

But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
You must be gone from hence immediately. 

Ar. Lam enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket ’t was I chose; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage: 

Lastly, 
If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
Immediately to leave you and be gone. 

Por. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Ar. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now 
To my heart’s hope! Gold; silver; and base lead. 
‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’ 
You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard. 

What says the golden chest > ha! let me see: 

* Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’ 

What many men desire! that‘ many’ may be meant 

By the fool multitude, that choose by show, 

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; 

Which pries not to the interior, but, like the 
martlet, 

Builds in the weather on the outward wall, 

Even in the force and road of casualty. 

L will not choose what many men desire, ' 

Because [I will not jump with common spirits 

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear: 

‘ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves :’ 

.And well said too; for who shall go about 

To cozen fortune and be honourable 

Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume 

To wear an undeserved dignity. 


158 


Do we so. [Evzeunt. 


A roomin Portia’s house. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE IX. 


I 


O, that estates, degrees and offices 
Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover that stand bare! 
How many be commanded that command! 
How much low peasantry would then be glean’d 
From the true seed of honour! and how much 
honour 
Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times 
To be new-varnish’d! Well, but to my choice: 
‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’ 
I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 
[He opens the silver casket. 
Por. Too long a pause for that which you find 


there. 
Ar. What’s here ? the portrait of a blinking idiot, 
Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. 
How much unlike art thou to Portia! 
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! 
‘Who chooseth me shall: have as much as he de- 
serves.’ 
Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head ? 
Is that my prize? are my deserts no better ? 
Por. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices 
And of opposed natures. 
fe What is here? 
{ Reads] The fire seven times tried this: 
Seven times tried that judgment is, 
That did never choose amiss. 
Some there be that shadows kiss; 
Such have but a shadow’s bliss: 
There be fools alive, I wis, 
Silver’d o’er; and so was this. 
Take what wife you will to bed, 
I will ever be your head: 
So be gone: you are sped. 


Still more fool I shall appear 
By the time I linger here: 
With one fool’s head I came to woo, 
But I go away with two. 
Sweet, adieu. I’ll keep my oath, 
Patiently to bear my wroth. 
[Hxeunt Arragon and train. 
Por. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose, 
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 
Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy, 
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. 
Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 


Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Where is my lady ? 

Por. Here: what would my lord? 

Serv. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
A young Venetian, one that comes before 
To signify the approaching of his lord; 
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets, 
To wit, besides commends and courteous breath, 
Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen 
So likely an ambassador of love: 
A day in April never came so sweet, 
To show how costly summer was at hand, 
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 

Por. No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard 
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 
Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him. 
Come, come, Nerissa: for I long to see 
Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly. 

Ner. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be! 

[ Excewnt. 


ACT III. THE 


MERCHANT OF 


VENICE. 


SCENE II. 


ev CA ON BN Be 


SCENE I.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Salanio and Salarino. 

Salan. Now, what news on the Rialto ? 

Salar. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that 
Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrecked on the 
narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the 
place; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the 
carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, 
it my gossip Report be an honest woman of her 
word. 

Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in that 
as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours be- 
lieve she wept for the death of a third husband. 
But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or 
crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good 
Antonio, the honest Antonio.—O that I had a 
title good enough to keep his name company ! — 

Salar. Come, the full stop. 

Salan. Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, 
he hath lost a ship. 

Salar. I would it might prove the end of his 
losses. 

Salan. Let me say ‘amen’ betimes, lest the devil 
cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness 


of a Jew. 

Enter Shylock. 
ilow now, Shylock! what news among the mer- 
chants ? 

Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as 
you, of my daughter’s flight. 

Salar. That’s certain: I, for my part, knew the 
tailor that made the wings she flew withal. 

Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the 
bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of 
them all to leave the dam. 

Shy. She is damned for it. 

Salar. That’s certain, if the devil may be her 


Shy. sa own flesh and blood to rebel! —[judge. 
Salan. Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these 
years ? 


Shy. I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood. 

Salar. There is more difference between thy flesh 
and hers than between jet and ivory; more between 
your bloods than there is between red wine and 
rhenish. But tell us,do you hear whether Antonio 
have had any loss at sea or no ? 

Shy. There I have another bad match: a bank- 
rupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on 
the Rialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug 
upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was 
wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: 
he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy ; 
let him look to his bond. 

Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt 
not take his flesh: what’s that good for ? 

Shy. To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing 
else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced 
me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my 
losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 
thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated 
mine enemies; and what ’s his reason? I am a Jew. 
Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, or- 


- gans, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed 


with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, 
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same 
means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and 
summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we 
not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if 
you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, 
shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the 
rest, we will resemble you in that. Ifa Jew wrong 
a Christian, what is his humility ? Revenge. Ifa 
Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance 


a ee a a ee 


be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The 
villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shali 
go hard but I will better the instruction. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his 
house and desires to speak with you both. 
Salar. We have been up and down to seek him. 


Enter Tubal. 


Salan. Here comes another of the tribe: a third 
cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn 
Jew. [Eeeunt Salan., Salar., and Servant. 

Shy. How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa ? 
hast thou found my daughter ? 

Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but 
cannot find her. 

Shy. Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond 
gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! 
The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I 
never felt it till now: two thousand ducats in that : 
and other precious, precious jewels. I would my 
daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels ii 
her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and 
the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, 
so: and I know not what’s spent in the search: 
why, thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so 
much, and so much to find the thief; and no satis- 
faction, no revenge: nor no ill luck stirring but 
what lights on my shoulders; no sighs but of my 
breathing; no tears but of my shedding. 

Tub. Yes, other men have 111 luck too: Antonio, 
as I heard in Genoa,— 

Shy. What, what, what ? ill luck, ill luck ? 

Tub. Hath an argosy cast away, coming from 
Tripolis. 

Shy. 1thank God, I thank God. Is ’t true, is ’t true? 

Tub. 1 spoke with some of the sailors that es- 
caped the wreck. 

Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good 
news! ha, ha! where? in Genoa? 

Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, 
in one night fourscore ducats. 

Shy. Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never 
see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! 
fourscore ducats! 

Tub. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors 
in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot 
choose but break. 

Shy. Iam very glad of it: Ill plague him; I’ll 
torture him: I am glad of it. 

Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had 
of your daughter for a monkey. 

Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: 
it was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was 
a bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilder- 
ness of monkeys. 

Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 

Shy. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, 
Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight 
before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; 
for, were he out of Venice, I can make what mer- 
chandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at 
our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, 
Tubal. [ Kveunt. 


SCENE II.— Belmont. 


Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and 
Attendants. 
Por. I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two 
Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile. 
There ’s something tells me, but it is not love, 
159 


A room in Portia’s house. 


ACT III. 


I would not lose you; and you know yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality. 
But lest you should not understand me well,— 
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,— 
J would detain you here some month or two 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right, but 1 am then forsworn ; 
So will I never be: so may you miss me; 
But if you do, you ’ll make me wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
They have o’erlook’d me and divided me; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, 
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, 
And so all yours. O, these naughty times 
Put bars between the owners and their rights! 
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, 
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. 
I speak too long; but ’tis to peize the time, 
To eke it and to draw it out in length, 
To stay you from election. 
Bass. Let me choose ; 
For as I am, I live upon the rack. 
Por. Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess 
What treason there is mingled with your love. 
Bass. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love: 
There may as well be amity and life 
Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 
Por. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, 
Where men enforced do speak anything. 
Bass. Promise me life,and I ’ll confess the truth. 
Por. Well then, confess and live, 
Bass. ‘Confess’ and ‘love’ 
Had been the very sum of my confession: 
O happy torment, when my torturer 
Doth teach me answers for deliverance! 
But let me to my fortune and the caskets. 
Pov. Away, then! I am lock’d in one of them: 
If you do love me, you will find me out. 
Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. 
Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; 
Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 
Fading in music: that the comparison 
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 
And watery death-bed for him. He may win; 
And what is music then? Then music is 
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow 
Toa new-crowned monarch: such it is 
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day 
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear 
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 
With no less presence, but with much more love, 
Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice ; 
The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, 
With bleared visages, come forth to view 
The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! 
Live thou, I live: with much much more dismay 
J view the fight than thou that makest the fray. 


Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to 
himself. 
SONG. 
Tell me where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 
It is engender’d in the eyes, 
With gazing fed; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 
Let us all ring fancy’s knell: 
Ill begin it,—Ding, dong, bell. 
All. Ding, dong, bell. [selves : 
Bass. So may the outward shows be least them- 
The world is still deceived with ornament. 
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt 


160 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE iii. 


— 


ae 


But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, 

Obscures the show of evil? In religion, 

What damned error, but some sober brow 

Will bless it and approve it with a text, 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 

There is no vice so simple but assumes 

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts: 

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, _ 

Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk; 

And these assume but valour’s excrement 

To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, 

And you shall see ’tis purchased by the weight ; 

Which therein works a miracle in nature, 

Making them lightest that wear most of it: 

So are those crisped snaky golden locks ; 

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, 

Upon supposed fairness, often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, 

The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore 

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on - 

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 

*T ween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, 

Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, 

Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence ; 

And here choose I: joy be the consequence! 
Por. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air, 

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 

And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy ! 

O love, 

Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy ; 

In measure rein thy joy: scant this excess. 

I feel too much thy blessing: make it less, 


For fear I surfeit. 
Bass. What find I here? 
[ Opening the leaden casket. — 
Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god 
Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 
Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, 
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 
The painter plays the spider and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes,— 
How could he see to do them? having made one, 
Methinks it should have power to steal both his 
And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look, how far 
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 
In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the seroll, 
The continent and summary of my fortune. 
[Reads] You that choose not by the view, 
Chance as fair and choose as true! 
Since this fortune falls to you, 
Be content and seek no new. 
If you be well pleased with this 
And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
Turn you where your lady is 
And claim her with a loving kiss. 
A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; 
Il come by note, to give and to receive. 
Like one of two contending in a prize, 
That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes, 
Hearing applause and universal shout, : 
Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 
Whether those peals of praise be his or no; | 
So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so: : 
As doubtful whether what I see be true, q 
Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. | 
Por. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 


_— SS OS 


ACT Iil. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE II. 


Such as Lam: though for myself alone 

I would not be ambitious in my wish, 

To wish myself much better; yet, for you 

I would be trebled twenty times myself; 

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
~ More rich; 

That only to stand high in your account, 

1 might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 

Exceed account; but the full sum of me 

Is sum of something, which, to term in gross, 

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractised ; 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 

But she may learn; happier than this, 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 

Commnits itself to yours to be directed, 

As from her lord, her governor, her king. 

Myself and what is mine to you and yours 

Is now converted: but now I was the lord 

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 

Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, 

This house, these servants and this same myself 

Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring; 

Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 

Let it presage the ruin of your love 

And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 

Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, 

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; 

And there is such confusion in my powers, 

As, after some oration fairly spoke 

By a beloved prince, there doth appear 

Among the buzzing pleased multitude; 

Where every something, being blent together, 
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring 
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: 
O, then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead! 

Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time, 
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
To cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady! 

Gra. My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady, 

I wish you all the joy that you can wish; 
For I am sure you can wish none from me: 
And when your honours mean to solemnize 
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, 
Even at that time I may be married too. 


Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. 
Gra. [thank your lordship, you have got me one. 


My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: 
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; 
You loved, I loved for intermission. 
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
Your fortune stood upon the casket there, 
And so did mine too, as the matter falls; 
For wooing here until I sweat again, 
And swearing till my very roof was dry 
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, 
I got a promise of this fair one here 
To have her love, provided that your fortune 
Achieved her mistress. 
Pe: Is this true, Nerissa ? 
Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal. 
Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith ? 
Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. 
Sass. Our feast shall be much honour’d in your 
_ marriage. 
. Gra. We'll play with them the first boy for a 
thousand ducats. 
Ner. What, and stake down ? [stake down. 
Gra. No; we shall ne’er win at that sport, and 
_ But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel ? 
_ What, and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? 


_ Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salerio, a Messenger 
i trom Venice, 
| _ Bass. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither ; 
| If that the youth of my new interest here 
11 


Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, 
I bid my very friends and countrymen, 
Sweet Portia, welcome. 
Por. So do I, my lord: 
They are entirely welcome. 
Lor. thank your honour. For my part, my lord, 
My purpose was not to have seen you here; 
But meeting with Salerio by the way, 
He did intreat me, past all saying nay, 
To come witb him along. 
Saler. 
And I have reason for it. 
Commends him to you. [Gives Bassanio a letter, 
Bass. Ere I ope his letter, 
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. 
Saler. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; 
Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there 
Will show you his estate. [come. 
Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her wel- 
Your hand, Salerio: what ’s the news from Venice ? 
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? 
I know he will be glad of our success; 
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 
Saler. I would you had won the fleece that he 
hath lost. [paper, 
Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon same 
That steals the colour from Bassanio’s cheek: 
Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the world 
Could turn so much the constitution 
Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! 
With leave, Bassanio; I am half yourself, 
And I must freely have the half of anything 
That this same paper brings you. 
Bass. O sweet Portia, 
Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words 
That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady, 
When I did first impart my love to you, 
I freely told you, all the wealth I had 
Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman; 
And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady, 
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
How much I was a braggart. When I told you 
My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, 
I have engaged myself to a dear friend, 
Engaged my friend to his mere enemy, 
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; 
The paper as the body of my friend, 
And every word in it a gaping wound, 
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? 
Have all his ventures fail’d ? What, not one hit ? 
From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, 
From Lisbon, Barbary and India? 
«\nd not one vessel ’scape the dreadful touch 
Of merchant-marring rocks ? 
Saler. Not one, my lord. 
Besides, it should appear, that if he had 
The present money to discharge the Jew, 
He would not take it. Never did I know 
A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 
So keen and greedy to confound a man: 
He plies the duke at morning and at night, 
And doth impeach the freedom of the state, 
If they deny him justice: twenty merchants, 
The duke himself, and the magnificoes 
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; 
But none can drive him from the envious plea 
Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond. 
Jes. When I was with him I have heard him swear 
To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, 
That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh 
Than twenty times the value of the sum 
That he did owe him: and I know, my lord, 
If law, authority and power deny not, 
It will go hard with poor Antonio. \ 
Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble ? 
Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 


161 


I did, my lord; 
Signor Antonio 


ACT III. 


The best-condition’d and unwearied spirit 

In doing courtesies, and one in whom 

The ancient Roman honour more appears 

Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
Por. What sum owes he the Jew ? 
Bass. For me three thousand ducats. 
Por. 

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; 

Double six thousand, and then treble that, 

Before a friend of this description 

Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault. 

First go with me to church and call me wife, 

And then away to Venice to your friend; 

For never shall you lie by Portia’s side 

With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 

- To pay the petty debt twenty times over: 

When it is paid, bring your true friend along. 

My maid Nerissa and myself meantime 

Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! 

For you shall hence upon your wedding-day : 

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer: 

Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. 

But let me hear the letter of your friend. 
Bass. [Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all 


miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is | 


very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since 
in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts 
are cleared between you and I, if I might but see 
you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your 
pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, 
let not my letter. 
Por. O love, dispatch all business, and be gone! 
Bass. Since I have your good leave to go away, 
I will make haste: but, till I come again, 
No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay, 
No rest be interposer ’twixtustwain. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. 


Shy. Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy ; 
This is the fool that lent out money gratis: 
Gaoler, look to him. 

Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 

Shy. I Ilhave my bond; speak not against my bond; 
I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. 
Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause; 
But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs: 

The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, 
Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 
To come abroad with him at his request. 

Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. 

Shy. Ill have my bond; I will not hear thee speak: 
I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. 
Ill not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, 

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not: 


I’ll have no speaking: I will have my bond. [Evit. | 


Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur 
That ever kept with men. 

Ant. Let him alone: 
I ll follow him no more with bootless prayers. 
He seeks my life; his reason well I know: 
I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures 
Many that have at times made moan to me; 
Therefore he hates me. . 

Salar. I am sure the duke 
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 

Ant. The duke cannot deny the course of law; 
For the commodity that strangers have 
With us in Venice, if it be denied, 
Will much impeach the justice of his state; 
Since that the trade and profit of the city 
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go: 
These griefs and losses have so bated me, 
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 


162 


What, no more? | 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE IV. 


Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come 
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! [ Exewnt. 


SCENE IV.— Belmont. 


Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and 
Balthasar. 


Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, 

You have a noble and a true conceit 

Of god-like amity; which appears most strongly 

In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 

But if you knew to whom you show this honour, 

How true a gentleman you send relief, 

How dear a lover of my lord your husband, 

I know you would be prouder of the work 

Than customary bounty can enforce you. 

Por. I never did repent for doing good, 

Nor shall not now: for in companions 

That do converse and waste the time together, 

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 

There must be needs a like proportion 

Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit; 

Which makes me think that this Antonio, 

Being the bosom lover of my lord, 

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, 

How little is the cost I have bestow’d 

In purchasing the semblance of my soul 

From out the state of hellish misery! 

This comes too near the praising of myself; 

Therefore no more of it: hear other things. 

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 

The husbandry and manage of my house 

Until my lord’s return: for mine own part, 

I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow 

To live in prayer and contemplation, 

Only attended by Nerissa here, 

Until her husband and my lord’s return: 

There is a monastery two miles off; 

And there will we abide. I do desire you 

Not to deny this imposition ; 

The which my love and some necessity 

Now lays upon you. 
Lor. Madam, with all my heart; 

I shall obey you in all fair commands. 

Por. My people do already know my mind, 

And will acknowledge you and Jessica 

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 

And so farewell, till we shall meet again. . 
Lor. Fair thoughtsand happy hours attend on you! 
Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart’s content. 
Por. Ithank you for your wish, and am well pleased 

To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica. 


A room in Portia’s house. 


Now, Balthasar, 
As I have ever found thee honest-true, 

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, 
And use thou all the endeavour of a man 

In speed to Padua: see thou render this 

Into my cousin’s hand, Doctor Bellario; 


[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenz. 


Ee = —— eae a 


eS 


And,look,what notes and garments hedoth give thee, — 


Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed 
Unto the tranect, to the common ferry 
Which trades to Venice. 
But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee. 
Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient Pe, F 
wit. 
Por. Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand 
That you yet know not of: we ’ll see our husbands 
Before they think of us. 
er. Shall they see us ? 
Por. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit, 
That they shall think we are accomplished 
With that we lack. Ill hold thee any wager, 
When we are both accoutred like young men, 
Ill prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
And wear my dagger with the braver grace, 
And speak between the change of man and boy 


Waste no time in words, ~ 


i‘ 


ACT IV. 


With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps 
Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 
Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies, 
How honourable ladies sought my love, 
Which I denying, they fell sick and died; 
I could not do withal; then I ll repent, 
And wish, for all that, that I had not kill’d them; 
And twenty of these puny lies I ’1l tell, 
That men shall swear I have discontinued school 
Above atwelvemonth. I have within my mind 
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, 
Which I will practise. | 
er. Why, shall we turn to men ? 
Por. Fie, what a question ’s that, 
If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! 
But come, I ’ll tell thee all my whole device 
When I am in my coach, which stays for us 
At the park gate; and therefore haste away, 
For we must measure twenty milesto-day. [Hveunt. 


SCENE V.— The same. 
Enter Launcelot and Jessica. 


A garden. 


Laun. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the 


father are to be laid upon the children: therefore, 
I promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with 
you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter: 


therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are 


damned. There is but one hope in it that can do 
you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard 
hope neither. 
' Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ? 
Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your father 
got you not, that you are not the Jew’s daughter. 
Jes. That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so 
the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. 
Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both by 
father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your 
father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, 
you are gone both ways. 


Jes. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath 


made me a Christian. 


Laun. Truly, the more to blame he: we were 


Christians enow before; e’en as many as could well 
live, one by another. This making of Christians 
will raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be 
pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on 
the coals for money. 


Enter Lorenzo. 


Jes. Ill tell my husband, Launcelot, what you | 


say: here he comes. 


Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launce- | 


lot, if you thus get my wife into corners. 
Jes. N ay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launce- 
lot and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no 
mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s 
daughter: and he says, you are no good member 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I. 


of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to 
Christians, you raise the price of pork. 

Lor. I shall answer that better to the common- 
wealth that you can the getting up of the negro’s 
belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. 

Laun. It is much that the Moor should be more 
than reason: but if she be less than an honest wo- 
man, she is indeed more than I took her for. 

Lor. How every fool can play upon the word! 
I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into 
silence, and discourse grow commendable in none 
only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare 
for dinner. 

Laun. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. 

Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! 
then bid them prepare dinner. 

Laun. That is done too, sir; ouly ‘ cover’ is the 
word. 

Lor. Will you cover then, sir? 

Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. 

Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt 
thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant ? 
I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain 
meaning: go to thy fellows; bid them cover the 
table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to din- 
ner. 

Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for 
the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming 
in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and con- 
ceits shall govern. [ Heit. 

Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are suited ! 
The fool hath planted in his memory 
An army of good words; and I do know 
A many fools, that stand in better place, 
Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word 
Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica ? 
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, 

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife ? 

Jes. Past all expressing. It is very meet 

The Lord Bassanio live an upright life; 

For, having such a blessing in his lady, 

He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; 

And if on earth he do not mean it, then 

In reason he should never come to heaven. 

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match 
And on the wager lay two earthly women, 

And Portia one, there must be something else 


| Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world 
_ Hath not her fellow. 


Lor. Even such a husband 
Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. 
Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. 
Lor. I will anon: first, let us go to dinner. 
Jes. Nay, let me praise you while I havea stomach. 
Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ; 
Then, howsoe’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things 


I shall digest it. 
Jes. Well, I’ll set you forth. [Hveunt. 


bexeCon TIVE. 


SCENE I.— Venice. 


_. Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, 
Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio, and others. 


Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 

Ant. Ready, so please your grace. [swer 
_ Duke. Lam sorry for thee: thou art come to an- 
_ A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
_Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 
| Ant. I have heard 
|Your grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify 


| His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate 


A court of justice. 


And that no lawful means can carry me 

Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose 

My patience to his fury, and am arm’d 

To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 

The very tyranny and rage of his. 
Duke. Go one, and eall the Jew into the court. 
Saler. He is ready at the door: he comes, my lor. 


Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our 
Shylock, the world thinks,andI thinksotoo, [face. 
That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act; and then ’t is thought 

163 


ACT IV. 


Thou ‘It show thy mercy and remorse more strange 

Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 

And where thou now exact’st the penalty, 

Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, 

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 

But, touch’d with human gentleness and love, 

Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 

That have of late so huddled on his back, 

Enow to press a royal merchant down 

And pluck commiseration of his state 

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, 

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d 

To offices of tender courtesy. 

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. [pose ; 
Shy. I have possess’d your grace of what I pur- 

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 

To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 

If you deny it, let the danger light 

Upon your charter and your city’s freedom. 

Youll ask me, why I rather choose to have 

A weight of carrion fiesh than to receive 

Three thousand ducats: Ill not answer that: 

But, say, it is my humour: is it answer’d ? 

What if my house be troubled with a rat 

And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 

To have it baned ? What, are you answer’d yet ? 

Some men there are love not a gaping pig; 

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat; 

And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose, 

Cannot contain their urine: for affection, 

Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood 

Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: 

As there is no firm reason to be render’d, 

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; 

Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 

Why he, a woollen bag-pipe; but of force 

Must yield to such inevitable shame 

As to offend, himself being offended ; 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 

More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing 

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 

A losing suit against him. Are you answer’d ? 
Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 

To excuse the current of thy cruelty. [swers. 
Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my an- 
Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? 
Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? 
Bass. Every offence is nota hate at first. [twice ? 
Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee 
Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew: 

You may as well go stand upon the beach 

And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 

You may as well use question with the wolf 

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; 

You may as well forbid the mountain pines 

To wag their high tops and to make no noise, 

When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; 

You may as well do any thing most hard, 

Asseek to soften that—than which what’s harder?— 

His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you, 

Make no more offers, use no farther means, 

But with all brief and plain conveniency 

Let me have judgment and the Jéw his will. 
Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 
Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 

Were in six parts and every part a ducat, 

IL would not draw them; I would have my bond. 
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering 

none? [wrong ! 

Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no 

You have among you many a purchased slave, 

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, 

You use in abject and in slavish parts, 

Because you bought them: shall I say to you, 

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 

Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 


164 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I. 


Be made as soft as yours and let their palates 

Be season’d with such viands? You will answer 
‘ The slaves are ours:’ so do I answer you: 

The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 

Is dearly bought: tis mine and I will have it. 

If you deny me, fie upon your law! 

There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 

I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it ? 

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 

Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day. 

Saler. My lord, here stays without 
A messenger with letters from the doctor, 

New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters; call the messenger. 

Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, cour- 

age yet! 
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Ant. J am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me: 

You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, 
Than to live still and write mine epitaph. 


Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer’s clerk. 


Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 

Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your 

grace. [Presenting a letter. 

Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? 

Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt 

there. 

Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, 
Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can, 
No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness 
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee ? 

Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. 

Gra. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog ! 

And for thy life let justice be accused. 

Thou almost makest me waver in my faith 

To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 

That souls of animals infuse themselves 

Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit é 
Govern’d a wolf, who, hang’d for human slaughter, 
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, 

And, whilst thou lay’st in thy unhallow’d dam. 
Infused itself in thee; for thy desires 

Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. 

Shy. Tillthou canst rail the seal from off my bond, 
Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud: 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court. 

Where is he? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 

To know your answer, whether you ’ll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of 
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. [you 
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario’s letter. 

Clerk. [Reads] Your grace shall understand that 
at the receipt of your letter I am very sick: but in 
the instant that your messenger came, in loving 
visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; 
his name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the 
cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio 
the merchant: we turned o’er many books together: 
he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered 
with his own learning, the greatness whereof I can- 
not enough commend, comes with him, at my im- 
portunity, to fill up your grace’s request in my stead. 
I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impedi- — 
ment to let him lack a reverend estimation; for 
never knew so young a body with so old a head. 1 — 
leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial _ 
i Shall better publish his commendation. Z 


f 
i 


aay. 


Duke. You hear the learn’d Bellario, what he 
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. _ [writes: 


Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. 


Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario ? 
Por. I did, my lord. 
Duke. You are welcome: take your place. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court ? 
Por. 1am informed throughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 
Por. Is your name Shylock ? 
Shy. Shylock is my name. 
Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow: 
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. 
You stand within his danger, do you not ? 
Ant. Ay, so he says. 


‘Por. Do you confess the bond ? 
Ant. I do. 
Por Then must the Jew be merciful. 


Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 
. The quality of mercy is not strain’d, 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 
*T is mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown: 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself ; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. 
Shy. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 
Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority: 
To do a great right, do a little wrong, 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
Por. It must not be; there is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established: 


71 will be recorded for a precedent, 


And many an error by the same example 
Will rush into the state: it cannot be. 
Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! 


_ O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! 


} 


or. 
_ And lawfully by this 


Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
Shy. Here ’t is, most reverend doctor, here it is. 


cr peviock, there’s thrice thy money offer’d 
- | 


ee. 
Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: | 


Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 


No, not for Venice. 
Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
the Jew may claim 


_ A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 


| 
} 


| 


Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful: 
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. 
Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I, 


It doth appear you are a worthy judge; 

You know the law, your exposition 

Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law, 

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear 

There is no power in the tongue of man 

To alter me: I stay here on my bond. , 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Or. Why then, thus it is: 
You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shy. O noble judge! O excellent young man! 

Por. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 

Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. Tis very true: O wise and upright judge! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks! 

Por. Therefore lay bare your bosom. 

Shy. Ay, his breast: 
So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge ? 
‘Nearest his heart:’ those are the very words. 

Por. It isso. Are there balance here to weigh 
The flesh ? 

Shy. I have them ready. [charge, 

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

Por. It is not so express’d: but what of that ? 
T were good you do so much for charity. 

Shy. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond. 

Por. You, merchant, have you any thing to say ? 

Ant. But little: Iam arm’d and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you; 

For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 

Than is her custom: it is still her use 

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow 

An age of poverty; from which lingering penance 

Of such misery doth she cut me off. 

Commend me to your honourable wife: 

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end; 

Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death; 

And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 

Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 

Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, 

And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 

Ill pay it presently with all my heart. 

Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself; 

But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 

Are not with me esteem’d above thy life: 

I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 

Here to this devil, to deliver you. [that, 
Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for 

If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love: 

I would she were in heaven, so she could 

Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 
Ner. ’Tis well you offer it behind her back; 

The wish would make else an unquiet house. 

Shy. These be the Christian husbands. I have a 
Would any of the stock of Barrabas [daughter ; 
Had been her husband rather than a Christian! 

[ Aside. 

We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence. | 
Por. A pound of that same merchant’s fiesh is 

thine: 

The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
Shy. Most rightful judge! [breast : 
Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his 

The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shy. sbi learned judge! A sentence! Come, pre- 

are | 

Por. Tarry a little; there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 


165 


ACT IV. 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I. 


The words expressly are ‘a pound of flesh: ’ 

Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; 

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 

Unto the state of Venice. 
Gra. O upright judge! 
Shy. Is that the law ? 
OTe Thyself shalt see the act: 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
Gra. O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned 

judge! 

Shy. I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. 

Por. Soft! 

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste: 

He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gra. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! 

Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut’st more 
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 

Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimation of a hair, 

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! 

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. [feiture. 
Por. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy for- 
Shy. Giye me my principal, and let me go. 

Bass. 1 have it ready for thee; here it is. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court: 

He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel! 

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it! 
T7ll stay no longer question. 

Por. Tarry, Jew: 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 

It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 

If it be proved against an alien 

That by direct or indirect attempts 

He seek the life of any citizen, 

The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive 

Shall seize one-half his goods; the other half 

Comes to the privy coffer of the state; 

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy 

Of the duke only, ’gainst all other voice. 

In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st; 

For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly and directly too 

Thou hast contrived against the very life 

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d 

The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. 

Gra. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang 

thyself: 

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 

Thou hast not left the value of a cord; 

Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. 
Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our 

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it: [spirits, 

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s; 

The other half comes to the general state, 

Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Por. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio. 

Shy. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that: 
You take my house when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house; you take my life 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? 


166 


[judge ! 
Mark, Jew: O learned 


Here is the money. 


Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s sake. 
Ant. So please my lord the duke and all the court 
To quit the fine for one-half of his goods,. 
IT am content; so he will let me have 
The other half in use, to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter: 
Two things provided more, that, for this favour, 
He presently become a Christian ; 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d, 
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 
Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. [say ? 
Por. Art thou contented, Jew ? what dost thou 
Shy. I am content. 
Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 
Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence; 
I am not well: send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 
Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
Gra. In christening shalt thou have two god- 
fathers: 
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. 
[ Hxit Shylock. 
Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 
Por. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon: 
I must away this night toward Padua, 
And it is meet I presently set forth. 
Duke. lam sorry that your leisure serves you not. 
Antonio, gratify this gentleman, 
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 
[Exeunt Duke and his train. 
Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend 
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof, 
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 
We freely cope your courteous pains withal. 
Ant. And stand indebted, over and above, 
In love and service to you evermore. 
Por. He is well paid that is well satisfied ; 
And I, delivering you, am satisfied 
And therein do account myself well paid: 
My mind was never yet more mercenary. - 
I pray you, know me when we meet again: 
I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 
Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you 
further: 
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, 
Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you, 
Not to deny me, and to pardon me. [yield. 
Por. You press me far, and therefore I will 
[To Ant.] Give me your gloves, Ill wear them for 
your sake; 
[To Bass.] And, for your love, Ill take this ring 
from you: 
Do not draw back your hand; I ’ll take no more; 
And you in love shall not deny me this. 
Bass. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle! 
I will not shame myself to give you this. 
Por. I will have nothing else but only this; 
And now methinks I have a mind to it. 
Bass. There’s more depends on this than on the 
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
And find it out by proclamation: 
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. 
Por. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers: 
You taught me first to beg; and now methinks 
You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d. 
Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by my 
And when she put it on, she made me vow _ [wife; 
That i should neither sell nor give nor lose it. 
Por. eee ’scuse serves many men to save their 
gifts. 
An if your wife be not a mad-woman, 
And know how well I have deserved the ring, 


[value. . 


ia 
‘= 
“4 


ACT V. 


She would not hold out enemy for ever, 
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you! 
[Hxeunt Portia and Nerissa. 
Ant. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring: 
Let his deservings and my love withal 
Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandment. 
Bass. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; 
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, 
Unto Antonio’s house: away! make haste. 
[Hxit Gratiano. 
Come, you and I will thither presently ; 
And in the morning early will we both 
Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio. 


SCENE II.— The same. A street. 


Enter Portia and Nerissa. 
Por. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this 


[ Hxeunt. 


THE MERCHANT 


UE Viv ECE: SCENE I. 


me 


Enter Gratiano. 


Gra. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en: 
My Lord Bassanio upon more advice 
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 
Your company at dinner. 
Por. That cannot be: 
His ring I do accept most thankfully: : 
And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, 
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock’s house. 
Gra. That will I do. 
er. Sir, I would speak with you. 
[ Aside to Por.| I ll see if I can get my husband’s ring, 
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. 
Por. [Aside to Ner.] Thou mayst, I warrant. 
We shall have old swearing 
That they did give the rings away to men; 
But we ’ll outface them, and outswear them too. 


And let him sign it: we’ll away to-night [deed | [Aloud] Away! make haste: thou know’st where I 

And be a day before our husbands home: will tarry. [house ,—Hzxeunt. 

This deed wiil be well welcome to Lorenzo. Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me to this 
COTE V. 


SCENE I.— Belmont. 


Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. 
Lor. The moon shines bright: in such a night 
as this, 

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees 
And they did make no noise, in such a night 
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls 

And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

In such a night 


Jes. 
Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew 
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself 
And ran dismay’d away. 


Avenue to Portia’s house. 


or. In such a night 
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love 
To come again to Carthage. 
es. In such a night 

Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old Auson. 

Lov. In such a night 
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Belmont. 

Jes. In such a night 
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
And ne’er a true one. 

Lor. In such a night 
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 

Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come; 
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 


Enter Stephano. 


Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night ? 
Steph. A friend. 
Lor. A friend! what friend ? your name, I pray 
you, friend ? 
Steph..Stephano is my name; and I bring word 
My mistress will before the break of day 
Be here at Belmont: she doth stray about 
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays 
For happy wedlock hours. 
Lor. Who comes with her ? 
Steph. None but a holy hermit and her maid. 
I pray you, is my master yet return’d ? 
Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. 
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 


And ceremoniously let us prepare 
Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 


Enter Launcelot. 


Laun. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! 

Lor. Who calls ? 

Laun. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo? Mas- 
ter Lorenzo, sola, sola! 

Lor. Leave hollaing, man: here. 

Laun. Sola! where? where ? 

Lor. Here. 

Laun. Tell him there’s a post come from my 
master, with his horn full of good news: my master 
will be here ere morning. [ Haxit. 

Lor. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their 

coming. 

And yet no matter: why should we go in? 
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, ~ 
Within the house, your mistress is at hand; 
And bring your music forth into the air. 

[Exit Stephano. 
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: 
There ’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 


Enter Musicians. 


Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn: 

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear 

And draw her home with music. [ Music. 
Jes. Iam never merry when I hear sweet music. 
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive: 

For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, 

Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 

Or any air of music touch their ears, 

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 

Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze 

By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet 

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods ; 


167 


ACT V. 


Since nought: so stockish, hard and full of rage, 
But music for the time doth change his nature. 
The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night 

And his affections dark as Erebus: 

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. 


Enter Portia and Nerissa. 


Por. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
How far that little candle throws his beams! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Nerv. When the moon shone, we did not see the 


candle. 
Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less: 
A substitute shines brightly as a king 
Until a king be by, and then his state 
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
Into the main of waters. Music! hark! 
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house. 
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect: 
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. 
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. 
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark 
When neither is attended, and I think 
The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
No better a musician than the wren. 
How many things by season season’d are 
To their right praise and true perfection ! 
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion 
And would not be awaked. | Music ceases. 
Lor. That is the voice, 
Or I am much deceived, of Portia. [cuckoo, 
Por. He knows me as the blind man knows the 
By the bad voice. 
Lor. Dear lady, welcome home. 
Por. We have been praying for our husbands’ 
healths, 
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
Are they return’d? 
Lor. Madam, they are not yet; 
But there is come a messenger before, 
To signify their coming. 
Por. Go in, Nerissa; 
Give order to my servants that they take 
No note at all of our being absent hence; 
Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. 
[A tucket sounds. 
Lor. Your husband is at hand; [hear histrumpet: 
We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not. 
Por. This night methinks is but the daylight sick ; 
It looks a little paler: ’tis a day 
Such as the day is when the sun is hid. 


Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their 
followers. 


Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes, 
If you would walk in absence of the sun. 

Por. Let me give light, but let me not be light; 
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, 

And never be Bassanio so for me: [lord. 
But God sort all! Your are welcome home, my 

Bass. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my 
This is the man, this is Antonio, [friend. 
To whom I am so infinitely bound. 

Por. You should in all sense be much bound to 
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. [him, 

Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of. 

Por. Sir, you are very welcome to our house: 

It must appear in other ways than words, 
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. 

Gra. [To Ner.| By yonder moon I swear you do 
In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk: [me wrong; 
Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, 

Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. 


168 


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


SCENE I, 


Por. A quarrel, ho, already! what ’s the matter ? 
Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring 
That she did give me, whose posy was 
For all the world like cutler’s poetry 
Upon a knife, ‘ Love me, and leave me not.’ 
Nerv. What talk you of the posy or the value ? 
You swore to me, when I did give it you, 
That you would wear it till your hour of death 
And that it should lie with you in your grave: 
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, 
You should have been respective and have kept it. 
Gave it a judge’s clerk! no, God’s my judge, 
The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it. 
Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man. 
Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 
Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, 
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, 
No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk, 
A prating boy, that begg’d it as a fee: 
I could not for my heart deny it him. 
Por. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, 
To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift; 
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger 
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. 
I gave my love a ring and made him swear 
Never to part with it; and here he stands; 
I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it 
Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth 
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, 
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief: 
An ’t were to me, I should be mad at it. 
Bass. [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left 
And swear I lost the ring defending it. [hand off, 
Gra. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away 
Unto the judge that begg’d it and indeed 
Deserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk, 
That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine; 
And neither man nor master would take aught 
But the two rings. 
Por. What ring gave you, my lord ? 
Not that, IL hope, which you received of me. 
Bass. If I could add a lie unto a fault, 
I would deny it; but you see my finger 
Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. 
Por. Even so void is your false heart of truth. 
By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed 
Until I see the ring. 


e 


Ner. Nor I in yours 
Till I again see mine. 
Bass. Sweet Portia, 


If you did know to whom I gave the ring, 

If you did know for whom I gave the ring, 

And would conceive for what I gave the ring, 

And how unwillingly I left the ring, 

When nought would be accepted but the ring, 

You would abate the strength of your displeasure. 
Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring, 

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 

Or your own honour to contain the ring, 

You would not then have parted with the ring. 

What man is there so much unreasonable, 

If you had pleased to have defended it 

With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty 

To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? 

Nerissa teaches me what to believe: 

Ill die for ’t but some woman had the ring. 
Bass. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, 

No woman had it, but a civil doctor, 

Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me 

And begg’d the ring; the which I did deny him 

And suffer’d him to go displeased away ; 

Even he that did uphold the very life 

Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady ? 

I was enforced to send it after him; 

I was beset with shame and courtesy ; 

My honour would not let ingratitude 

So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; 


ACT V. 


For, by these blessed candles of the night, 
Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d 
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 

Por. Let not that doctor e’er come near my house: 

Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, 

And that which you did swear to keep for me, 

I will become as liberal as you: 

I’ll not deny him any thing I have, 

No, not my body nor my husband’s bed: 

Know him I shall, I am well sure of it: 

Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus: 
If you do not, if I be left alone, 

Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, 

Ill have that doctor for my bedfellow. 

Ner. And I his clerk; therefore be well advised 
How you do leave me to mine own protection. 

Gra. Well, do you so: let not me take him, then; 
For if I do, I 11 mar the young clerk’s pen. 

Ant. Iam the unhappy subject of these quarrels. 

Por. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome not- 

withstanding. 

Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong ; 
And, in the hearing of these many friends, 

I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, 
Wherein I see myself — 

Por. Mark you but that! 
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; 

In each eye, one: swear by your double self, 
And there ’s an oath of credit. 

Bass. Nay, but hear me: 
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee. 

Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth; 
Which, but for him that had your husband’s ring, 
Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again, 

My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
Will never more break faith advisedly. 

Por. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this 
And bid him keep it better than the other. 

Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep thisring. 

Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! 

Por. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio; 

For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. 
Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano ; 
For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, 
fn lieu of this last night did le with me. 
Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways 


_ \ i 
hy ee \ Lay 
4 
(A i i} 
i fi 


i | 


. 
u 


THHE MERCHANT 


Z_\i 
Ky 


hos RN 


OF 


In summer, where the ways are fair enough: 
What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it ? 
Por. Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed: 
Here is a letter; read it at your leisure; 
It comes from Padua, from. Bellario: 
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, 
Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you 
And even but now return’d; I have not yet 
Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon ; 
There you shall find three of your argosies 
Are richly come to harbour suddenly: 
You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. 
Ant. I am dumb. 
Bass. Were you the doctor and I knew you not ? 
Gra. Were you the clerkthatisto make me cuckold ? 
Ner. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it. 
Unless he live until he be a man. 
Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow : 
When I am absent, then lie with my wife. 
Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living ; 
For here I read for certain that my ships 
Are safely come to road. 
Por. How now, Lorenzo! 
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. 
Ner. Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee. 
There do I give to you and Jessica, 
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, 
After his death, of all he dies possess’d of. 
Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way 
oe people. 
or 


DRL Nd Eos SCENE I. 


: It is almost morning, 
And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 
Of these events at full. Let us go in; 
And charge us there upon inter’gatories, 
And we will answer all things faithfully. 
Gra. Let it be so: the first inter’gatory 
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, 
Whether till the next night she had rather stay, 
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day: 
But were the day come, I should wish it dark, 
That I were couching with the doctor’s clerk. 
Weil, while I live Ill fear no other thing 
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. [ Hxeunt. 


) A m 


S55 


N 
AS 


> 
X 


—— 
SSsty 


=", 
4 \=¢ 
= Wi 


Salanio.—I never heard a passion so confus’d, 
So strange, outrageous, and so variable, 
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets: 
“My daughter!—O my ducats! —O my daughter! 
Fled with a Christian !— O my Christian ducats! 
Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter! 


AcT II., Scene viii. 


169 


AS YOU LIKE IT. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Duke, living in banishment. 

Frederick, his brother, and usurper of his dominions. 
Amiens, lords attending on the banished duke. 
Jaques, 

Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick. 
Charles, wrestler to Frederick. 

Oliver, 
Jaques, 
Orlando, 
Adam, 2 
Dennis ' servants to Oliver. 
Touchstone, a clown. 

Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar. 


sons of Sir Rowland de Boys. 


Corin, 
Silvius, 
William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey. 
A person representing Hymen. 

Rosalind, daughter to the banished duke. 
Celia, daughter to Frederick. 

Phebe, a shepherdess. 

Audrey, a country wench. 


\ shepherds. 


Lords, pages, attendants, &c. 


SCENE — Oliver’s house; Duke Frederick’s court; and 
the Forest of Arden. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLvitt.] 


De. OM ORES Be 


SCENE I. — Orchard of Oliver’s house. 


Enter Orlando and Adam. 


Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this 
fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand 
crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, 
on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins 
my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, 
and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my 
part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak 
more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for 
call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, 
that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His 
horses are bred better; for, besides that they are 
fair with their feeding, they are taught their man- 
age, and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his 
brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for 
the which his animals on his dunghills are as much 
bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he 
so plentifully gives me, the something that nature 
gave me his countenance seems to take from me: 
he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of 
a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my 
gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, 
that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which 
I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this 
servitude: I will no longer endure it, though yet I 
know no wise remedy how to avoid it. 

Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. 

Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how 
he will shake me up. 


Enter Oliver. 

Oli. Now, sir! what make you here ? 

Orl. Nothing: Lam not taught to make anything. 

Oli. What mar you then, sir? 

Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that 
which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, 
with idleness. 

Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught 
awhile. 

Orl. Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with 
them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I 
should come to such penury ? 


170 


Oli. Know you where you are, sir? 

Orl. O, sir, very well: here in your orchard. 

Oli. Know you before whom, sir ? 

Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. 
I know you are my eldest brother; and, in the gen- 
tle condition of blood, you should so know me. 
The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in 
that you are the first-born; but the same tradition 
takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers 
betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as 
you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is 
nearer to his reverence. 

Oli. What, boy! 
fake Come, come, elder brother, you are too young 
in this. 

Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ? 

Orl. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of 
Sir Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is 
thrice a villain that says such a father begot vil- 
lains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take 
this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled 
out thy tongue for saying so: thou hast railed on 
thyself. 

Adam. Sweet masters, be patient: for your fa- 
ther’s remembrance, be at accord. 

. Olt. Let me go, I say. 

Orl. I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. 
My father charged you in his will to give me good 
education: you have trained me like a peasant, ob- 
securing and hiding from me all gentleman-like qual- 
ities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, 
and I will no longer endure it: therefore allow me 
such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give 
me the poor allottery my father left me by testa- 
ment; with that I will go buy my fortunes. 

Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is 
spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be 
troubled with you; you shall have some part of your 
will: I pray you, leave me. 

Orl. I will no further offend you than becomes 
me for my good. 

Oli. Get you with him, you old dog. 

Adam. Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I 
have lost my teeth in your service. God be with 


~~ 
a 


AOT I. 


Ae KOU 


my old master! he would not have spoke such a 
word. [Hxeunt Orlando and Adam. 

Oli. Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? 
I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand 
crowns neither. Holla, Dennis! r 


Enter Dennis. 

Den. Calls your worship ? 

Oli. Was not Charles, the duke’s wrestler, here 
to speak with me ? 

Den. So please you, he is here at the door and 
importunes access to you. 

Oli. Call him in. [Hit Dennis.] ’T will be a good 
way; and to-morrow the wrestling is. 


Enter Charles. 


Cha. Good morrow to your worship. 

Oli. Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new 
news at the new court ? 

Cha. There’s no news at the court, sir, but the 
old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his 
younger brother the new duke; and three or four 
loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile 
with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new 
duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander. 

Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter, 
be banished with her father ? 

Cha. O, no; for the duke’s daughter, her cousin, 
so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred to- 
gether, that she would have followed her exile, or 
have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, 
and no less beloved of her uncle than his own 
daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. 

Oli. Where will the old duke live ? 

Cha. They say he is already in the forest of Arden, 
and a many merry men with him; and there they 
live like the old Robin Hood of England: they say 
many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and 
at oan time carelessly, as they did in the golden 
world. 

Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the 
new duke? 

Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint 
you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to 


understand that your younger brother Orlando hath | 


a disposition to come in disguised against me to try 
a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and 
he that escapes me without some broken limb shall 
acquit him well. Your brother is but young and 
tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil 


him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in: | 


therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to 
acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him 
from his intendment or brook such disgrace well as 
he shall run into, in that it isa thing of his own 
search and altogether against my will. 

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, 
which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I 
had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein 
and have by underhand meauis laboured to dissuade 
him from it, but he is resolute. Ill tell thee, 
Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of 
France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of 
every man’s good parts, a secret and villanous con- 
triver against me his natural brother: therefore 
use thy discretion; I had as lief thou didst break 
his neck as his finger. And thou wert best. look 
to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace or if 
he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will 
practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some 
treacherous device and never leave thee till he hath 
ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, 
I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there 


is not one so young and so villanous this day living. | 


I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anato- 
mize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep 
and thou must look pale and wonder. 


LL EH tT: 


SCENE II. 


Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If 
he come to-morrow, [ll give him his payment: if 
ever he go alone again, I ’ll never wrestle for prize 
more: and so God keep your worship! 

Oli. Farewell, good Charles. [Hxit Charles.] Now 
will I stir this gamester: I hope I shall see an end 
of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates 
nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never 
schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of 
all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much 
in the heart of the world, and especially of my own 
people, who best know him, that I am altogether 
misprised : but it shall not be so long; this wrestler 
Shall clear all: nothing remains but that I kindle 
the boy thither; which now I'll go about. [ Evit. 


SCENE II.— Lawn before the Duke’s palace. 


Enter Celia and Rosalind. 


Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. 

fos. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am 
mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier ? 
Unless you could teach me to forget a banished 
father, you must not learn me how to remember 
any extraordinary pleasure. 

Cel. Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full 
weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished 
father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, 
so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught 
my love to take thy father for mine: so wouldst 
thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so right, 
eously tempered as mine is to thee. 

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my es- 
tate, to rejoice in yours. 

Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, 
nor none is like to have: and, truly, when he dies, 
thou shalt be his heir, for what he hath taken away 
from thy father perforce, I will render thee again 
in affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I 
break that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, 
my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. 

ftos. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise 
sports. Let mesee: what think you of falling in love? 

Cel. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal: 
but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in 
sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou 
mayst in honour come off again. 

Ftos. What shall be our sport, then ? 

Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife For- 
tune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth 
be bestowed equally. 

Ros. I would we could do so, for her benefits are 
mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman 
doth most mistake in her gifts to women. 

Cel. ’T is true; for those that she makes fair she 
scarce makes honest, and those that she makes 
honest she makes very ill-favouredly. 

Ros. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office 
to Nature’s: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, 
not in the lineaments of Nature. 


Enter Touchstone. 


Cel. No ? when Nature hath made a fair creature, 
may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though 
Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath 
not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument ? 

Ros. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Na- 
ture, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the 
cutter-off of Nature’s wit. , 

Cel. Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work 
neither, but Nature’s; who perceiveth our natural 
wits too dull to reason of such goddesses and hath 
sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the 
dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. 
How now, wit! whither wander you? (father. 

Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your 

Cel, Were you made the messenger ? 


171 


ACHE A. 


AS YiGU SL TIGER one 


SCENE If. 


Touch. No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come | Fos. But is there any else longs to see this broken 


for you. 

Fos. Where learned you that oath, fool ? 

Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his 
honour they were good pancakes and swore by his 
honour the mustard was naught: now I ’ll stand to 
it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was 
good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. 

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of 
your knowledge ? 

Ros. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. 

Touch. Stand you both forth now: stroke your 
chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. 

Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. 

Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; 
but if you swear by that that is not, you are not 
forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by 
his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he 
had sworn it away before ever he saw those pan- 
cakes or that mustard. 

Cel. Prithee, who is ’t that thou meanest ? 

Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. 

Cel. My father’s love is enough to honour him: 
enough! speak no more of him; you ’ll be whipped 
for taxation one of these days. 

Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak 
wisely what wise men do foolishly. 

Cel. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the 
little wit that fools have was silenced, the little 
foolery that wise men have makes a great show. 
Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. 

Ros. With his mouth full of news. [young. 

Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their 

fos. Then shall we be news-crammed. [able. 

Cel. All the better; we shall be the more market- 


Enter Le Beau. 


Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: what’s the news ? 
Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much good 
Cel. Sport! of what colour ? [sport. 
Le Beau. What colour, madam! how shall I answer 
Ros. As wit and fortune will. [you? 
Touch. Or as the Destinies decree. 

Cel. Well said: that was laid on with a trowel. 

Touch. Nay, if I keep not my rank,— 

Ros. Thou losest thy old smell. 

Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies: I would have 
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the 
sight of. 

fos. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. 

Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning; and, if it 
please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the 
best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are 
coming to perform it. 

Cel. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried. 

Le Beau. There comes an old man and his three 
sons,— 

Cei. I could match this beginning with an old tale. 

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent 
growth and presence. 

Ros. With bills on their necks, ‘ Be it known unto 
all men by these presents.’ 

Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with 
Charles, the duke’s wrestler; which Charles in a 
moment threw him and broke three of his ribs, that 
there is little hope of life in him: so he served the 
second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor 
old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over 
them that all the beholders take his part with weep- 

Ttos. Alas! [ing. 

Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the 
ladies have lost ? 

Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 

Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day: it 
is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs 
was sport for ladies. 

Cel. Or I, i promise thee. 

172 


music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon 
rib-breaking ? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin ? 
Le Beau. You must, if you stay here; for here is 
the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are 
ready to perform it. 
Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now 
stay and see it. 


Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Or- 
lando, Charles, and Attendants. 


Duke F. Come on: since the youth will not be 
entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. 

Ros. Is yonder the man ? 

Le Beau. Even he, madam. {fully. 

Cel. Alas, he is too young! yet he looks success- 

Duke Ff’. How now, daughter and cousin! are you 
crept hither to see the wrestling ? 

tos. Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave. 

Duke #. You will take little delight in it, I can 
tell you; there is such odds in the man. In pity 
of the challenger’s youth I would fain dissuade 
him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, 
ladies; see if you can move him. 

Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. 

Duke F. Do so: Ill not be by. 

Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses 
call for you. 

Orl. I attend them with all respect and duty. 

Ros. Young man, have you challenged Charles 
the wrestler ? 

Orl. No, fair princess; he is the general chal- 
lenger: I come but in, as others do, to try with 
him the strength of my youth. 

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold 
for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this 
man’s strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes 
or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of 
your adventure would counsel you to a more equal 
enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to 
embrace your own safety and give over this attempt. 

fos. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not 
therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to 
the duke that the wrestling might not go forward. 

Orl. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard 
thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to 
deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing. but 
let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to 
my trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one 
shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one 
dead that is willing to be so: I shall do my friends 
no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the world 
no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the 
world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied 
when I have made it empty. 

Ros. The little strength that I have, I would it 
were with you. 

Cel. And mine, to eke out hers. [in you! 

Ros. Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived 

Cel. Your heart’s desires be with you! 

Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that is 
so desirous to lie with his mother earth ? 

Orl. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more 
modest working. 

Duke F. You shall try but one fall. 

Cha. No, I warrant your grace, you shall not en- 
treat him to a second, that have so mightily per- 
suaded him from a first. 

Orl. An you mean to mock me after, you should 


_not have mocked me before: but come your ways. 


ftos. Now Hercules be thy speed, young man! 

Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong 
fellow by the leg. [They wrestle. 

fos. O excellent young man! 

Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can 
tell who should down. [Shout. Charles is thrown- 

Duke F. No more, no more. 


AT. 


ae ROO SDD E FP. 


SCENE III. 


Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet 
well breathed. 
Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ? 
Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 
Duke F. Bear him away. What is thy name, 
young man ? 
Orl. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir 
Rowland de Boys. [man else: 
Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some 
The world esteem’d thy father honourable, 
But I did find him still mine enemy: [deed, 
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this 
Hadst thou descended from another house. 
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth: 
I would thou hadst told me of another father. 
{Hxeunt Duke I’red., train, and Le Beau. 
Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this ? 
Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, 
His youngest son; and would not change that call- 
To be adopted heir to Frederick. [ing, 
fios. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, 
And all the world was of my father’s mind: 
Had I before known this young man his son, 
I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 
Ere he should thus have ventured. 
Cel. Gentle cousin, 
Let us go thank him and encourage hiin: 
My father’s rough and envious disposition 
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved: 
If you do keep your promises in love 
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, 
Your mistress shall be happy. 
Ros. Gentleman, 
[Giving hima chain from her neck. 
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks 
Shall we go, coz? [means. 
Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. 
Orl. Can I not say, I thank you? My better 
parts [up 
Are all thrown down, and that which here stands 
ts but a quintain,a mere lifeless block. [fortunes ; 
fios. He calls us back: my pride fell with my 
[ll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir? 
Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 
Cel. Will you go, coz? 
Ros. Have with you. Fare you well. 
[EHxeunt Rosalind and Celia. 
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my 
tongue ? 
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference. 
O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! 
Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. 


Re-enter Le Beau. 


Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you 
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved 
High commendation, true applause and love, 

Yet such is now the duke’s condition 

That he misconstrues all that you have done. 
The duke is humorous! what he is indeed, 
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. 

Orl. I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this; 
Which of the two was daughter of the duke 
That here was at the wrestling ? [manners ; 

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by 
But yet indeed the lesser is his daughter: 

The other is daughter to the banish’d duke, 
And here detain’d by her usurping uncle, 

To keep his daughter company; whose loves 
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. 
But I can tell you that of late this duke 

Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, 
Grounded upon no other argument 

But that the people praise her for her virtues 
And pity her for her good father’s sake; 


And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady 

Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well: 

Hereafter, in a better world than this, 

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. 
Orl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you well. 

[Hxit Le Beau. 

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother; 

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother: 

But heavenly Rosalind! [ Exit. 


SCENE III.—A room in the palace. 


Enter Celia and Rosalind. 


Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have 
have mercy ! not a word ? ’ 

tos. Not one to throw at a dog. 

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast 
away upon curs; throwsome of them at me; come, 
lame me with reasons. 

fos. Then there were two cousins laid up: when 
the one should be lame with reasons and the other 
mad without any. 

Cel. But is all this for your father ? 

fios. No, some of it is for my child’s father. O, 
how full of briers is this working-day world! 

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee 
in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden 
paths, our very petticoats will catch them. 

Ros. I could shake them off my coat: these burs 
are in my heart. 

Cel. Hem them away. [him. 

Fos. I would try, if F could cry ‘hem’ and have 

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. 

Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrestler 
than myself! 

Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in 
time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests 
out of service,let us talk in good earnest: is it 
possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so 
strong aliking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son ? 

Ros. The duke my father loved his father dearly. 

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love 
his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should 
hate him, for my father hated his father dearly ; 
yet I hate not Orlando. 

Ros. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. 

Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve well ? 

Ros. Let me love him for that, and do you love 
him because I do. Look, here comes the duke. 

Cel. With his eyes full of anger. 


Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. 
Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest 


And get you from our court. [haste 
Fos. Me, uncle? 
Duke F. You, cousin: 


Within these ten days if that thou be’st found 
So near our public court as twenty miles, 
Thou diest for it. 
tos. I do beseech your grace, 
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me: 
If with myself I hold intelligence 
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires, 
If that I do not dream or be not frantic,— 
As I do trust I am not,—then, dear uncle, 
Never so much as in a thought unborn 
Did I offend your highness. 
Duke F. Thus do all traitors: 
If their purgation did consist in words, 
They are as innocent as grace itself: 
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. , 
Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make mea traitor: 
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. (enough. 
Duke F. Thou art thy father’s daughter; there’s 
Ros. So was I when your highness took his duke- 
So was I when your highness banish’d him: [dom; 
Treason is not inherited, my lord; 
173 


ACT Il. 


AS FOO SDI Cy, 


SCENE I. 


Or, if we did derive it from our friends, 
What’s that to me? my father was no traitor: 
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much 
To think my poverty is treacherous. 

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 

Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay’d her for your sake, 
Else had she with her father ranged along. 

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay; 

It was your pleasure and your own remorse : 

I was too young that time to value her; 

But now I know her: if she be a traitor, 

Why so am I; we still have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together, 
And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, 
Still we went coupled and inseparable. 

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her 
Her very silence and her patience [smoothness, 
Speak to the people, and they pity her. 

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name; 

And thou wilt show more bright and seem more 
virtuous 

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips: 

Firm and irrevocable is my doom 

Which I have passed upon her; she is banish’d. 

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my 
I cannot live out of her company. [liege : 

Duke F. Youarea fool. You, niece, provide your- 
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, [self: 
And in the greatness of my word, you die. 

[Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords. 

Cel. O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go ? 
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. 

I charge thee, be not. thou more grieved than I am. 
ios. I have more cause. 

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ; 
Prithee, be cheerful: know’st thou not, the duke 
Hath banish’d me, his daughter ? 

Ros. That he hath not. 

Cel. No, hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love 
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one: 
Shall we be sunder’d ? shall we part, sweet girl ? 


No: let my father seek another heir. 

Therefore devise with me how we may fly, 
Whither to go and what to bear with us; 

And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out: 


| For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 


| 


Say what thou canst, Ill g0 along with thee. 
Ros. Why, whither shall we go ? 
Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden. 
ftos. Alas, what danger will it be to us, 
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! 
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 
Cel. Ill put myself in poor and mean attire 


| And with a kind of umber smirch my face, 


The like do you: so shall we pass along 
And never stir assailants. 

Os. Were it not better, 
Because that I am more than common tall, 
That 1 did suit me all points like a man ? 

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 

A boar-spear in my hand; and—in my heart 

Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will— _ 
We ’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, 

As many other mannish cowards have 

That do outface it with their semblances. 

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man ? 

Ros. 1’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own 
And therefore look you call me Ganymede. [page; 
But what will you be call’d ? 

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state: 
No longer Celia, but Aliena. 

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal 
The clownish fool out of your father’s court ? 
Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 

Cel. He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me; 
Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, 

And get our jewels and our wealth together, 
Devise the fittest time and safest way 
To hide us from pursuit that will be made 


Pee 


SCENE I.—The Forest of Arden. 


Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and two or three 
Lords, like foresters, 


Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, 
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, 

The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang 

And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, 
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, 
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 

‘ This is no flattery: these are counsellors 

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’ 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head: 

And this our life exempt from public haunt 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones and good in every thing. 

lL would not change it. 

Ami. Happy is your grace, 
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, 

Being native burghers of this desert city, 
Should in their own confines with forked heads 
Have their round haunches gored. 


174 


After my flight. Now go we in content 
To liberty and not to banishment. [ Hxeunt. 
First Lord. Indeed, my lord, 


The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, 
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 


| Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you. 
| To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself 


Did steal behind him as he lay along 

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: 
To the which place a poor sequester’d stag, 
That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, 
Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord, 

The wretched animal heaved forth such groans 
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
Almost to bursting, and the big round tears 
Coursed one another down his innocent nose 

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, 

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
Augmenting it with tears. 

Duke 8. But what said Jaques ? 
Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 

First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes, 
First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; 
‘Poor deer,’ quoth he ‘thou makest a testament 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more __[alone, 
To that which had too much:’ then, being there 
Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends, 

‘°T is right:’ quoth he ‘thus misery doth part 
The flux of company:’ anon a careless herd, 
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him 


ACT II. 


‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 

*T is just the fashion: wherefore do you look | 

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?’ 

Thus most invectively he pierceth through 

The body of the country, city, court, 

Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we 

Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what ’s worse, 

To fright the animals and to kill them up 

In their assign’d and native dwelling-place. [tion ? 
Duke S: And did you leave him in this contempla- 
Sec. Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com- 

Upon the sobbing deer. [menting 
Duke S. Show me the place: 

I love to cope him in these sullen fits, 

For then he’s full of matter. 
First Lord. 17ll bring you to him straight. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— A room in the palace. 


Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. 


Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them ? 
I¢ cannot be: some villains of my court 
Are of consent and sufferance in this. 
First Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. 
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, 
Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early 
They found the bed untreasured of their mistress. 
Sec. Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so 
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. [oft 
Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman, 
Confesses that she secretly o’erheard 
Your daughter and her cousin much commend 
The parts and graces of the wrestler 
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; 
And she believes, wherever they are gone, 
That youth is surely in their company. [hither ; 
Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant 
If he be absent, bring his brother to me; 
Ill make him find him: do this suddenly, 
And let not search and inquisition quail 
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Before Oliver’s house. 


Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 


~Orl. Who’s there ? [master! 

Adam. What, my young master? O my gentle 
O my sweet master! O you memory 
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here ? 
Why are you virtuous ? why do people love you ? 
And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant ? 
Why would you be so fond to overcome 
The bonny priser of the humorous duke ? 

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 
Know you not, master, to some kind of men 
Their graces serve them but as enemies ? 

No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master, 
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 

O, what a world is this, when what is comely 
Envenoms him that bears it! 

Orl. Why, what ’s the matter ? 

Adam. O unhappy youth! 
Come not within these doors; within this roof 
The enemy of all your graces lives: 

Your brother—no, no brother; yet the son— 

Yet not the son, I will not call him son 

Of him I was about to call his father — 

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means 

To burn the lodging where you use to lie 

And you within it: if he fail of that, 

He will have other means to cut you off. 

I overheard him and his practices. 

This is no place; this house is but a butchery: 

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 20? 
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me 


Ae AOD DERE TT. 


And never stays to greet him; ‘ Ay,’ quoth Jaques, 


SCENE IV. 


Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 
Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg 
my food ? 
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 
A thievish living on the common road ? 
This I must do, or know not what to do: 
Yet this I will not do, do how I ean; 
I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. [erowns, 
Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred 
The thrifty hire I saved under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse 
When service should in my old limbs lie lame 
And unregarded age in corners thrown: 
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea providently caters for the sparrow, 
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; 
All this I give you. Let me be your servant: 
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility; 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you; 
1’ll do the service of a younger man 
In all your business and necessities. 
Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world, 
When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Where none will sweat but for promotion, 
And having that, do choke their service up 
Even with the having: it is not so with thee. 
But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree, 
That cannot so much as a blossom yield 
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. 
But come thy ways; we’ll go along together, 
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, 
We’ll light upon some settled low content. 
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee, 
‘To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore 
Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ; 
But at fourscore it is too late.a week: 
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better 
Than to die well and not my master’s debtor. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV. — The Forest of Arden. 


Enter Rosalind for Ganymede, Celia for Aliena, 
and Touchstone. 

Ros. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits! © 

Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were 
not weary. 

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s 
apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must com- 
fort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to 
show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore cour- 
age, good Aliena! 

Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can go no 
further. 

Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you 
than bear you: yet I should bear no cross if I did 


_bear you, for I think you have no money in your 


urse. 
E Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden. 

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool [; 
when I was at home, I was in a better place: but 
travellers must be content. 

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. 


Enter Corin and Silvius. 


Look you, who comes here; a young man and an 
old in solemn talk. 


175 


AOT t3 


AS KOO LARGE RE 


SCENE V. 


_- foe 


Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still. 
Sil. O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her! 
Cor. I partly guess; for I have loved ere now. 
Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, 

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover 

As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow: 

But if thy love were ever like to mine — 

As sure I think did never man love so— 

Flow many actions most ridiculous 

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ? 
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. 
Sil. O, thou didst then ne’er love so heartily! 

If thou remember’st not the slightest folly 

That ever love did make thee run into, 

Thou hast not loved: 

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, 

Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise, 

Thou hast not loved: 

Or if thou hast not broke from company 

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, 

Thou hast not loved. 

O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [ Exit. 
fvos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy wound, 

I have by hard adventure found mine own. 

Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in 
love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him 
take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I 
remember the kissing of her batlet and the cow’s 
dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milked; and 
I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, 
from whom I took two cods and, giving her them 
again, said with weeping tears ‘ Wear these for my 
sake.’ We that are true lovers run into strange 
capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature 
in love mortal in folly. 

fos. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. 

Touch. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own 
wit till I break my shins against it. 

fos. Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion 

Is much upon my fashion. 

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale 

with me. 

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man 
If he for gold will give us any food: 

I faint almost to death. 

Touch. Holla, you clown! 

fos. Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman. 

Cor. Who calls ? 

Touch. Your betters, sir. 

Cor. Else are they very wretched. 

ftos. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. 

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 

fos. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold 
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed: 
Here ’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d 
And faints for succour. 

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her 
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, 
My fortunes were more able to relieve her; 

But I am shepherd to another man 

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze: 

My master is of churlish disposition 

And little recks to find the way to heaven 

By doing deeds of hospitality: 

Besides, his cote, his flocks and bounds of feed 
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now, 
By reason of his absence, there is nothing 
That you will feed on; but what is, come see, 
And in my voice most welcome shall you be. 

Jtos. What is he that shall buy his flock and 

pasture ? ferewhile, 

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but 
That little cares for buying anything. 

ftos. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 

Buy thou the cottage, pasture and the flock, 
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 


176 


Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like this 
And willingly could waste my time init. __[place, 
Cor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold: 
Go with me: if you like upon report 
The soil, the profit and this kind of life, 
I will your very faithful feeder be 
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Haxeunt. 


SCENE V. — The forest. 


Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others. 


SONG. 
Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither: 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 


Ami. 


Jaq. More, more, I prithee, more. 

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur 
Jaques. 

Jag. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can 
suck melancholy out of a song, aS a weasel sucks 
eggs. More, I prithee, more. 

Ami. My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please 
you. 

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire 
you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call 
you ’em stanzos ? 

Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. 

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe 
me nothing. Will you sing? 

Ami. More at your request than to please myself. 

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ 
thank you; but that they call compliment is like 
the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man 
thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a 
penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, 
sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues. 

Ami. Well, I’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the 
while; the duke will drink under this tree. He 
hath been all this day to look you. 

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. 
He is too disputable for my company: I think of as 
many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks and — 
make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. 


SONG. 


Who doth ambition shun [All together here. 
And loves to live i’ the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither: 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 


Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made 
yesterday in despite of my invention. 

Ami. And Ill sing it. 

Jaq. Thus it goes: — 


If it do come to pass 
That any man turn ass, 
Leaving his wealth and ease, 
A stubborn will to please, 
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame: 
Here shall he see 
Gross fools as he, 
An if he will come to me. 


Ami. What ’s that ‘ducdame’ ? ; 
Jag. ’T is a Greek invocation, to call fools into a 


kOTHII. } Ab MOONEE TT. SCENE VII. 


— 


circle. Ill go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, Ill rail Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 
against all the first-born of Egypt. Jaq. It is my only suit; 
Ami. And I’ll go seek the duke: his banquet is | Provided that you weed your better judgments 


prepared. [Hxeunt severally. | Of all opinion that grows rank in them 
That Iam wise. I must have liberty 
SCENE VI1.— The forest. Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 


To blow on whom I please; for so fools have; 
Enter Orlando and Adam. And they that are most galled with my folly, 
Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I | Theymost must laugh. And why, sir, must they so ? 

die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out | The ‘ why’ is plain as way to parish church: 
my grave. Farewell, kind master. He that a fool doth very wisely hit 

~Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in | Doth very foolishly, although he smart, 
thee? Live alittle; comfort a little; cheer thyself | Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not, 
a little. If this uncouth forest yield any thing | The wise man’s folly is anatomized 
savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for | Even by the squandering glances of the fool. 
food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy | Invest me in my motley; give me leave 
powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death.; To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
awhile at the arm’s end: I will here be with thee | Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
presently ; and if L bring thee not something to eat, | If they will patiently receive my medicine. [do. 
I will give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before | Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst 


I come, thouart a mocker of my labour. Well said! Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good? 
thou lookest cheerly, and Ill be with thee quickly. Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding 
Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear | For thou thyself hast been a libertine, [sin: 


thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for | As sensual as the brutish sting itself; 
lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert. | And all the embossed sores and headed evils, 


Cheerly, good Adam! [Hxeunt. | That thou with license of free foot hast caught, 
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. 
SCENE VII.— The forest. Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride, 


A table set out. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and ata a MOR Hootes Hucerae alte Leli 
Lords like outlaws. Till that the weary very means do ebb ? 
Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a beast; | What woman in the city do I name, 
For I can no where find him like a man. When that I say the city-woman bears 
First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone | The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ? 
Here was he merry, hearing of a song. {hence: | Who can come in and say that I mean her, 
Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, When such a one as she such is her neighbour ? 
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Or what is he of basest function 
Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him. That says his bravery is not on my cost, 
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits 
His folly to the mettle of my speech ? [wherein 
There then; how then? what then? Let me see 
My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right, 
Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free, 
Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, 
Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here? 
| 
i 


Enter Jaques. 


First Lord. He saves my labour by his own ap- 
proach. [is this, 
Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life 
That your poor friends must woo your company ? 
What, you look merrily! 
Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, 
A motley fool; a miserable world! 
As I do live by food, I met a fool; 
Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun, aq. Why, I have eat none yet. 
And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. 
In good set terms and yet a motley fool. Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of ? 
‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘ No, sir,’ quoth he, Duke S. Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy 
*Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:’ | Or else a rude despiser of good manners, [distress, 


Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn. 
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 


And then he drew a dial from his poke, That in civility thou seem’st so empty ? [point 
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Orl. You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny 
Says very wisely, ‘It is ten o’clock: Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show 
Thus we may see,’ quoth he, ‘ how the world wags: |} Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred 
*Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And know some nurture. But forbear, I say: 
And after one hour more ’t will be eleven; He dies that touches any of this fruit 
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, Till I and my affairs are answered. 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, 
And thereby hangs a tale.’ When I did hear I must die. 
The motley fool thus moral on the time, Duke S. What would you have? Your gentle- 
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, ness shall force 
That fools should be so deep-contemplative, More than your force move us to gentleness. 
And I did laugh sans intermission Orl. I almost die for food; and let me have it. 
- An hour by his dial. O noble fool! Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our 
A worthy fool! Motley ’s the only wear. table. 
Duke S. What fool is this ? [tier, Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you: 
Jaq. O worthy fool! One that hath been a cour- | I thought that all things had been savage here: 
And says, if ladies be but young and fair, And therefore put I on the countenance 
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain, Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are 
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit That in this desert inaccessible, 
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d Under the shade of melancholy boughs, - 
With observation, the which he vents Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; 
In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! If ever you have look’d on better days, 
Iam ambitious for a motley coat. If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, 


12 177 


ACT IIit. 


AS YOU LIKE IT. 


SCENE II. 


If ever sat at any good man’s feast, 
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear _ 
And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: 
In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. 
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days, 
And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church 
And sat at good men’s feasts and wiped our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d: 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness 
And take upon command what help we have 
That to your wanting may be minister’d. 
Orl. Then but forbear your food a little while, 
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn 
And give it food. There is an old poor man, 
Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limp’d in pure love: till he be first sufficed, 
Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger, 
I will not touch a bit. 
Duke 8S. Go find him out, 
And we will nothing waste till you return. 
Orl. I thank ye; and be blest for your good com- 
fort ! [ Hxit. 
Duke S. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: 
This wide and universal theatre 
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 
Wherein we play in. 
aq. All the world’s a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players: 
They have their exits and their entrances; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. 
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, 
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, 
In fair round belly with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances 5 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, 


His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second childishness and mere oblivion, 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 


Re-enter Orlando, with Adam. 
Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable 


And let him feed. {burthen, 
Orl. I thank you most for him. 
Adam. So had you need: 


I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 
Duke S. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you 
As yet, to question you about your fortunes. 


, Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. 


SONG. 


Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man’s ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 
Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 


Ami. 


Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember’d not. 
Heigh-ho! sing, &c. 


Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s 
As you have whisper’d faithfully you were,  [son, 
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 
Most truly limn’d and living in your face, 

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke 

That loved your father: the residue of your fortune, 
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, 

Thou art right welcome as thy master is. 

Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, 
And let me all your fortunes understand. [Hxeun#. 


GPs TORS 
SCENE I. —A room in the palace. | 


Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver. finter Orlando, with a paper. 


Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot | Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love: 
be: And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey 

But were I not the better part made mercy, With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, — 
[ should not seek an absent argument Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway. 
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: O Rosalind! these trees shali be my books 
Find out thy brother, wheresoe’er he is; And in their barks my thoughts I ’ll character; 
Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living That every eye which in this forest looks 
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where. 
‘To seek a living in our territory. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree 
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine | The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she. 
Worth seizure do we seize into our hands, 
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth 
Of what we think against thee. 

Oli. O that your highness knew my heart in this! 
I never loved my brother in my life. 

Duke #’. More villain thou. Well, push him out 

of doors; 

And let my officers of such a nature 
Make an extent upon his house and lands: 
Do this expediently and turn him going. 


178 


SCENE II. — The forest. 


[ Exit. 


Enter Corin and Touchstone. 


Cor. And how like you this shepherd’s life, Mas- 
ter Touchstone ? 

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is 
a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s 
life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I 
like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it 
is a very vile life. Now,in respect it is in the fields, 


{[Hxeunt. | it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the 


' 
i 


os pt Maa Oe 


court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, 
it tits my humour well; but as there is no more 
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. 
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd ? 

Cor. No more but that I know the more one sick- 
ens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants 
money, means and content is without three good 
friends; that the property of rain is to wet and fire 
to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and 
that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; 
that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor 
art may complain of good breeding or comes of a 
very dull kindred. 

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast 
ever in court, shepherd ? 

Cor. No, truly. 

Touch. Then thou art damned. 

Cor. Nay, I hope. 

Touch. Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted 
egg, all on one side. 

Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 

Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou 
never sawest good manners; if thou never sawest 
good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; 
and wickedness is sin,and sin is damnation. Thou 
art in a parlous state, shepherd. 

Oor. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good 
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the coun- 
try as the behaviour of the country is most mocka- 
ble at the court. You told me you salute not at 
the court, but you kiss your hands: that courtesy 
would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds. 

Touch. Instance, briefly ; come, instance. 

Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes, and 
their fells, you know, are greasy. 

Touch. Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat ? 
and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as 
the sweat of aman? Shallow, shallow. <A better 
instance, I say; come. 

Cor. Besides, our hands are hard. 

Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shal- 
low again. A more sounder instance, come. 

Cor. And they are often tarred over with the 
surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss 
tar ? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet. 

Touch. Most shallow man!. thou worms-meat, in 
respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the 
wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than 
tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the in- 
stance, shepherd. 

Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest. 

Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, 
shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art 
raw. 

Cor. Sir, Iam a true labourer: I earn that I eat, 
get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s 
happiness, glad of other men’s good, content with 
my harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my 
ewes graze and my lambs suck. 

Touch. That is another simple sin in you, to bring 
the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get 
your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to 
a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelve- 
month to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out 
of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned 
for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; 
I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape. 

Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my 
new mistress’s brother. 


Enter Rosalind, with a paper, reading. 


Ros. From the east to western Ind, 
No jewel is like Rosalind. 
Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 
Through all the world bears Rosalind. 
All the pictures fairest lined 
Are but black to Rosalind. 


AS FOU \ LIKE TT. 


SCENE II. 


Let no fair be kept in mind 
But the fair of Rosalind. 

Touch. I’l1 rhyme you so eight years together, 
dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: 
it is the right butter-women’s rank to market. 

Ros. Out, fool! 

Touch. For a taste: 

If a hart do lack a hind, 

Let him seek out Rosalind. 

If the cat will after kind, 

So be sure will Rosalind. 

Winter garments must be lined, 

So must slender Rosalind. 

They that reap must sheaf and bind ; 

Then to cart with Rosalind. 

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, 

Such a nut is Rosalind. 

He that sweetest rose will find 

Must find love’s prick and Rosalind. 
This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you 
infect yourself with them ? 

Ros. Peace, youdull fool! I found them on a tree. 

Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 

Ros. 1°ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff 
it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit 
i’ the country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half 
ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar. 

Touch. You have said ; but whether wisely or no, 
let the forest judge. 


Enter Celia, with a writing. 

Ros. Peace! 

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside. 

Cel. [Reads] 

Why should this a desert be? 
For it is unpeopled? No; 
Tongues I ’ll hang on every tree, 
That shall civil sayings show: 
Some, how brief the life of man 
Runs his erring pilgrimage, 
That the stretching of a span 
Buckles in his sum of age; 
Some, of violated vows 
*T wixt the souls of friend and friend: 
But upon the fairest boughs, 
Or at every sentence end, 
Will I Rosalinda write, 
Teaching all that read to know 
The quintessence of every sprite 
Heaven would in little show. 
Therefore Heaven Nature charged 
That one body should be fill’d 
With all graces wide-enlarged: 
Nature presently distill’d 
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, 
Cleopatra’s majesty, 
Atalanta’s better part, 
Sad Lucretia’s modesty. 
Thus Rosalind of many parts 
By heavenly synod was devised, 
Of many faces, eyes and hearts, 
To have the touches dearest prized. 
Heaven would that she these gifts should have, 
And I to live and die her slave. 

Ros. O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious hom- 
ily of love have you wearied your parishioners with- 
al, and never cried ‘ Have patience, good people!’ 

Cel. How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off 
a little. Go with him, sirrah. 

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honoura- 
ble retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet 
with scrip and scrippage. 

[EHxeunt Corin and Touchstone. 

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? 

Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for 
some of them had in them more feet than the verses 
would bear. 


179 


ACMIYS BUR 


AS YOU 

Cel. That’s no matter: the feet might bear the 
verses. 

Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame and could not 
bear themselves without the verse and therefore 
stood lamely in the verse. 

Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering how 
thy name should be hanged and carved upon these 
trees ? 

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the won- 
der before you came; for look here what I found on 
a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since Pyth- 
agoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can 
hardly remember. 

Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? 

Ros. Is it a man? 

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his 
neck. Change you colour ? 

fos. I prithee, who ? 

Cel. O Lord, Lord! it isa hard matter for friends 
to meet; but mountains may be removed with 
earthquakes and so encounter. 

Fios. Nay, but who is it ? 

Cel. Is it possible ? 

fios. Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary 
vehemence, tell me who it is. 

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonder- 
ful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after 
that, out of all hooping! 

fos. Good my complexion! dost thou think, 
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a 
doublet and hose in my disposition ? One inch of 
delay more is a South-sea of discovery; I prithee, 
tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would 
thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this 
concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out 
of a narrow-mouthed bottle, either too much at 
once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out 
of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. 

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 

fos. Is he of God’s making? What manner of 
man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a 

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. [beard ? 

Ros. Why, God will send more, if the man will 
be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if 
thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. 

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the 
wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant. 

ftos. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, 
sad brow and true maid. 

Cel. I’ faith, coz, tis he. 

fos. Orlando ? 

Cel. Orlando. 

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall Ido with my doublet 
and hose? What did he when thou sawest him ? 
What said he ? How looked he? Wherein went he ? 
What makes he here? Did he ask forme? Where 
remains he? How parted he with thee ? and when 
shalt thou see him again ? Answer me in one word. 

Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth 
first: ’tis a word too great for any mouth of this 
age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars 
is more than to answer in a catechism. 

tos. But doth he know that I am in this forest 
and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he 
did the day he wrestled ? 

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve 
the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my 
finding him, and relish it with good observance. I 
found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn. 

tos. It may well be called Jove’s tree, when it 
drops forth such fruit. 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 

fos. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he, 
wounded knight. 

ftos. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it 
well becomes the ground. 


180 


stretched along, like a 


LIKE IT. 


Cel. Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it cur- 
vets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. 

Ros. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. 

Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou 
bringest me out of tune. 

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I 
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. 

Cel. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here ? 


SCENE II. 


Enter Orlando and Jaques. 
Ros. ’T is he: slink by, and note him. 


Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good 


faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. 
Orl. And so had 1; but yet, for fashion sake, 1 
thank you too for your society. 

Jaq. God be wi’ you; let ’s meet as little as we can. 

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 

Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing 
love-songs in their barks. 

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with 
reading them ill-favouredly. 

Jag. Rosalind is your love’s name ? 

Orl. Yes, just. 

Jaq. I do not like her name. 

Ort, There was no thought of pleasing you when 
she was christened. 

Jaq. What stature is she of ? 

Orl. Just as high as my heart. 
— Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you 
not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and 
conned them out of rings ? 

Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, 
from whence you have studied your questions. 

Jaq. You have a nimble wit: I think ’t was made 
of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? 
and we two will rail against our mistress the world 
and all our misery. 

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but 
myself, against whom I know most faults. 

Jag. The worst fault you have is to be in love. 

Orl. Tis a fault I will not change for your best 
virtue. Iam weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when 
I found you. 

Orl. He is drowned in the brook: look but in, 
and you shall see him. 

Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. 

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. 

Jaq. Ill tarry no longer with you: farewell, good 
Signior Love. 

Orl. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good 
Monsieur Melancholy. [ Hxit Jaques. 

Ros. [Aside to Celia] I will speak to him like a 
saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave 
with him. Do you hear, forester ? 

Orl. Very well: what would you? 

Ros. I pray you, what is ’t o’clock ? 

Orl. You should ask me what time o’ day: 
there ’s no clock in the forest. 

Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest; 
else sighing every minute and groaning every hour 
would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. 

Orl. And why not the swift foot of Time? had 
not that been as proper ? 

Ros. By no means, sir: Time travels in divers 
paces with divers persons. I7ll tell you who Time 
ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time 
gallops withal and who he stands still withal. 

Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal ? 

fos. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid be- 
tween the contract of her marriage and the day it 
is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’nnight 
Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of 
seven year. 

Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? 

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich 
/ man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily 


ACT III. 


— 


AS ROOD TRE PE 


SCENE III. 


because he cannot study and the other lives merrily 
because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden 
of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing 
no burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time 
ambles withal. 

Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? 

Ros. With a thief to the gallows, for though he 
go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too 

Orl. Who stays it still withal ? [soon there. 

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep 
between term and term and then they perceive not 
how Time moves. . 

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in 
the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. 

Orl. Are you native of this place? — [is kindled. 

Ros. As the cony that you see dwell where she 

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you 
could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 

Ros. I have been told so of many: but indeed an 
old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, 
who was in his youth an inland man; one that 
knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. 
I have heard him read many lectures against it, 
and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched 
with so many giddy offences as he hath generally 
taxed their whole sex withal. 

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils 
that he laid to the charge of women ? 

Ros. There were none principal ; they were all like 
one another as half-pence are, every one fault seem- 
ing monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. 

Orl. I prithee, recount some of them. 

fos. No, I will not cast away my physic but on 
those that are sick. There isa man haunts the for- 
est, that abuses our young plants with carving 
‘Rosalind’ on their barks; hangs odes upon haw- 
thorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deify- 
ing the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that 
fancy-monger, I would give him some good coun- 
oa for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon 
lim. 

Orl. Tam he that is so love-shaked: I pray you, 
tell me your remedy. 

Fos. ‘There is none of my uncle’s marks upon 
you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in 
which cage of rushes I am sure you are not pris- 

Orl. What were his marks ? [oner. 

Fos. A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue 
eye and sunken, which you have not, an unques- 
tionable spirit, which you have not, a beard neglect- 
ed, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, 
for simply your having in beard is a younger 
brother’s revenue: then your hose should be ungar- 
tered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbut- 
toned, your shoe untied and every thing about 
you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you 
are no such man; you are rather point-device in 
your accoutrements as loving yourself than seem- 
ing the lover of any other. 

Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee 
believe I love. 

ftos. Me believe it! you may as soon make her 
that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is 
apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of 
the points in the which women still give the lie to 
their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he 
that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosa- 
lind is so admired ? 

Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand 
of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. 

tos. But are you so much in love as your rhymes 
speak ? [much. 

Orl Neither rhyme nor reason can express how 

ftos. Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, 
deserves as well a dark house and a whip as mad- 
men do: and the reason why they are not so pun- 


| 
| 
| 


ished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary 
that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess 
curing it by counsel. 

Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 
_ ftos. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to 
imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him 
every day to woo me: at which time would I, 
being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, 
changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, 
apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of 
smiles, for every passion something and for no pas- 
sion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the 
most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, 
now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear 
him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I 
drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a 
living humour of madness; which was, to for- 
swear the full stream of the world and to live in a 
nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; 
and this way will I take upon me to wash your 
liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there 
shall not be one spot of love in ’t. 

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 

fos. I would cure you, if you would but call me 
Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me. 

Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me 
where it is. 

fios. Go with me to it and Il] show it you: and 
by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you 
live. Will you go? 

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 

Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sis- 
ter, will you go? [ Exeunt. 


SCENE ITI.— The forest. 


Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques behind. 


Touch. Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch 
up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I 
the man yet? doth my simple feature content you ? 

Aud. Your features! Lord warrant us! what 
features ? 

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as 
the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among 
the Goths. 

Jaq. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse ° 
than Jove in a thatched house! 

Touch. When a man’s verses cannot be under- 
stood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the for- 
ward child Understanding, it strikes a man more 
dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, 
I would the gods had made thee poetical. 

Aud. I do not know what ‘poetical’ is: is it 
honest in deed and word? is it a true thing? 

Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the 
most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and 
what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they 
do feign. [poetical ? 

Aud. Do you wish then that the gods had made me 

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou 
art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have 
some hope thou didst feign. 

Aud. Would you not have me honest ? 

Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured ; 
for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a 
sauce to sugar. 

Jaq. [Aside] A material fool! 

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray 
the gods make me honest. 

Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a 
foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish. 

Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I 
am foul. 

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness ! 
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it 
may be, I will marry thee, and to that end I have 
been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next 


181 


ACT III. AS YOO SLA PF SCENE V. 


village, who hath promised to meet me in this place | Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good colour. 


of the forest and to couple us. Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever 
Jaq. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting. the only colour. 
Aud. Well, the gods give us joy! Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the 


Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fear- | touch of holy bread. 
ful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: 
no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn- | a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more relig- 
beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns | iously; the very ice of chastity is in them. 
are odious, they are necessary. It is said, ‘many a fos. But why did he swear he would come this 
man knows no end of his goods:’ right; many a/| morning, and comes not? 
man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 
Well, that is the dowry of his wife; tis none of Ros. Do you think so? 
his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a 
alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as | horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think 
huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore | him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten 
blessed ? No: as a walled town is more worthier Ros. Not true in love? {nut. 
than a village, so is the forehead of a married man Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. 
more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor ; fos. You have heard him swear downright he was. 
and by how much defence is better than no skill, Cel. ‘ Was’ is not ‘ is:’ besides, the oath of a lover 


by so much is a horn more precious than to want. | is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are 

Here comes Sir Oliver. both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends 
: , ; here in the forest on the duke your father. 

Enter Sir Oliver Martext. Ros. I met the duke yesterday and had much 


Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you dis- | question with him: he asked me of what parentage 

patch us here under this tree, or shall we go with | I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed 

you to your chapel ? and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when 
Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman? | there is such a man as Orlando ? 


Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man. Cel. O, that ’s.a brave man! he writes brave verses, 
Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the mar- | speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks 
riage is not lawful. them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of 


Jaq. [Advancing] Proceed, proceed: Ill give her. | his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse 
' Touch. Good even, good Master What-ye-call ’t: | but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: 
now do you, sir? You are very well met: God ’ild | but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. 
you for your last company: I am very glad to see | Who comes here ? 
you: even a toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be cov- , 

Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? [ered. Enter Corin. 

Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft inquired 
curb and the falcon her bells, so man hath his de- | After the shepherd that complain’d of love, 
sires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nib- | Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, 


bling. Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess 
Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, | That was his mistress. 
be married under a bush like a beggar? Get you Cel. Well, and what of him ? 


to church, and have a good priest that can tell you Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play’d, 
what marriage is: this fellow will but join you to- | Between the pale complexion of true love 
gether as they join wainscot; then one of you will | And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, 
* prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, | Go hence a little and I shall conduct you, 
warp. If you will mark it. 

Touch. [Aside] 1am not in the mind but I were | — fos. O, come, let us remove: 
better to be married of him than of another: for he | The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. 

is not like to marry me well; and not being well | Bring us to this sight, and you shall say 


married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter | Ill prove a busy actor in their play. [ Hxeunt. 
to leave my wife. 
Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. SCENE V.-—Another part of the forest. 
Touch. Come, sweet Audrey: ay 
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Enter Silvius and Phebe. 
Farewell, good Master Oliver: not,— Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, 
O sweet Oliver, Say that you love me not, but say not so [Phebe; 
O brave Oliver, In bitterness. The common executioner, 
Leave me not behind thee: Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes 
but,— Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck __[hard, - 
Wind away, But first begs pardon: will you sterner be 
Begone, I say, Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 
I will not to wedding with thee. ‘ : : ; 
[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind. 


Sir Oli. >V is no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave | Phe. I would not be thy executioner: 
of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Ezit. | I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye: 


SCENE IV.—The forest. *T is pretty, sure, and very probable, 
Ek ; ; That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, 
nter Rosalind and Celia. Who shut their coward gates on atomies, 
Ros. Never talk to me; I will weep. Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers! 
_Cel. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to con- | Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; 
sider that tears do not become a man. And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: 
fos. But have I not cause to weep ? [weep. | Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; 


Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore | Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, 
Jtos. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. | Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers! 
Cel. Something browner than Judas’s: marry, his | Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: 
kisses are Judas’s own children. | Seratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 
182 


; 


| 


AS YOU 


Some sear of it; lean but upon a rush, 
The cicatrice and capable impressure 
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not, 
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
That can do hurt. 
Sil. O dear Phebe, 
If ever,—as that ever may be near,— 
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, 
Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
That love’s keen arrows make. 

Phe. But till that time 
Come not thou near me: and when that time comes, 
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; 

As till that time I shall not pity thee. [mother, 

Ros. And why, I pray you? Who might be your 
That you insult, exult, and all at once, [beauty,— 
Over the wretched? What though you have no 
As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
Than without candle may go dark to bed — 

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 
Why, what means this? Whydo you look on me? 
1 see no more in you than in the ordinary 
Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, 
I think she means to tangle my eyes too! 
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it: 
*T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair, 
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, 
That can entame my spirits to your worship. 
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 
Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain ? 
You are a thousand times a properer man 
Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you 
That makes the world full of ill-favour’d children : 
*T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her; 
And out of you she sees herself more proper 
Than any of her lineaments can show her. 
But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees, 
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love: 
For I must tell you friendly in your ear, 
Sell when you can: you are not for all markets: 
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer: 
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. 
So take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well. 
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year 
together : 
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. 
fos. He’s fallen in love with your foulness and 
she ’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as 
fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I ’ll 
sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon 

Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. [me ? 

ios. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, 
For I am falser than vows made in wine: 

Besides, Llike younot. If you will know my house, 
*T is at the tuft of olives here hard by. 

Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. 
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, 
And be not proud: though all the world could see, 


ACT IV. 


_ None could be so abused in sight as he. 


Come, to our flock.. , 
[Hxeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin. 


LIKE IT. 


Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, 

‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ?’ 
Sil. Sweet Phebe,— 
Phe. Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius ? 
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 
Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. 
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be: 

If you do sorrow at my grief in love, , 

By giving love your sorrow and my grief 

Were both extermined. 
Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly ? 
Sil. I would have you. 
Phe. Why, that were covetousness. 

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee, 

And yet it is not that I bear thee love; 

But since that thou canst talk of love so well, 

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 

I will endure, and I ’ll employ thee too: 

But do not look for further recompense 

| Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d. 

| Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love, 

And I in such a poverty of grace, 

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop 

To glean the broken ears after the man 

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then 

A scatter’d smile, and that Il] live upon. [while? 
Phe. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me ere- 


SCENE I. 


Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; 
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds 
That the old carlot once was master of. 

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
’T is but a peevish boy; yet he talks well: 

But what care I for words? yet words do well 
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
It is a pretty youth: not very pretty: 
But, sure, he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him: 
He ’l) make a proper man: the best thing in him 
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue 
Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 
i He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall: 
His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well: 
There was a pretty redness in his lip, . 
| A little riper and more lusty red {ference 
Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’t was just the dif- 
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him 
In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
To fall in love with him; but, for my part, 
I love him not nor hate him not; and yet 
I have more cause to hate him than to love him: 
For what had he to do to chide at me? 
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black, 
And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me: 
I marvel why I answer’d not again: 
But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance. 
I ll write to him a very taunting letter, 
And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius ? 

Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 

Phe. Ill write it straight ; 
The matter ’s in my head and in my heart: 

I will be bitter with him and passing short. 
Go with me, Silvius. [ Hxeunt. 


wAsGenl EV. . 


SCENE I.— The forest. 


Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. 


Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better ac- 
quainted with thee. 

_Ttos. They say you are a melancholy fellow. 

Jaq. Lam so; I do love it better than laughing. 

fos. Those that are in extremity of either are 
abominable fellows and betray themselves to every 
modern censure worse than drunkards. 


Jaq. Why, ’t is good to be sad and say nothing. 

Ros. Why then, ’tis good to be a post. 

Jag. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, 
which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which 1s 
fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor 
the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, 
which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor 
the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy 
of mine own, compounded of many simples, ex- 
tracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry | 

¢ 183 


ACT IV. 


contemplation of my travels, in which my often 
rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. 

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great 
reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands 
to see other men’s; then, to have seen much and to 
have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 

Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had 
rather have a fool to make me merry than experience 
to make me sad; and to travel for it too! 


Enter Orlando. 


Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind! | 

Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in 
blank verse. [ Exit. 

Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp 
and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your 
own country, be out of love with your nativity and 
almost chide God for making you that countenance 
you are, or I will scarce think you have swam ina 
eee Why, how now, Orlando! where have you 

een all this while ? Youa lover! An you serve me 
such another trick, never come in my sight more. 

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of 
my promise. 

Ros. Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will 
divide a minute into athousand parts and break but 
a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the atf- 
fairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath 
clapped him o’ the shoulder, but Ill warrant him 

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. {heart-whole. 

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in 
my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail. 

Orl. Of a snail ? 

fos. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, 
he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, 
I think, than you make a woman: besides, he brings 
his destiny with him. 

Orl. What ’s that ? 

Ros. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be 
beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in 
his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife. 

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is 

fos. And I am your Rosalind. [virtuous. 

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a 
Rosalind of a better leer than you. 

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me, for nowI am ina 
holiday humour and like enough to consent. What 
would you say to me now, an I were your very very 

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. [Rosalind ? 

Rios. Nay, you were better speak first, and when 
you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might 
take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when 
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking 
— God warn us!—matter, the cleanliest shift is to 

Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? [kiss. 

fios. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there 
begins new matter. 

vl. Who could be out, being before his beloved 
mistress ? 

fios. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis- 
tress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my 

Orl. What, of my suit ? [wit. 

fos. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your 
suit. Am not I your Rosalind ? 

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I 
would be talking of her, 

tos. Well in her person I say I will not have you. 

Orl. Then in mine own person I die. 

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world 
is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time 
there was not any man died in his own person, vide- 
licet, inalove-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed 
out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could 
to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. 
Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, 
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for 
a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went 


184 


AS YOU\LLKE Tf. 


SCENE lI. 


but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being 
taken with the cramp was drowned: and the foolish 
coroners of that age found it was ‘ Hero of Sestos.’ 
But these are all lies: men have died from time to 
time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. 

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this 
mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 

fos. By this hand, it will not killa fly. But come, 
now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on 
disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it. 

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. 

tos. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays 

Orl. And wilt thou have me? {and all. 

Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 

Orl. What sayest thou ? 

Ros. Are you not good ? 

Orl. I hope so. 

fos. Why then, can one desire too much of a 
good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest 
and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. 
What do you say, sister ? 

Url. Pray thee, marry us. 

Cel. I cannot say the words. 

Fos. You must begin, ‘ Will you, Orlando—’ 

Cel. Goto. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this 

Orl. I will. [Rosalind ? 

Ros, Ay, but when ? 

Url. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. 

tos. Then you must say ‘I take thee, Rosalind, 
for wife.’ 

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 

fos. I might ask you for your commission; but 
I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there’s a 
girl goes before the priest ; and certainly a woman’s 
thought runs before her actions. 

Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. 

Fos. Now tell me how long you would have her 
after you have possessed her. 

Orl. For ever and a day. 

fos. Say ‘a day,’ without the ‘ever.’ No, no, 
Orlando; men are April when they woo, December 
when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, 
but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be 
more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon 
over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against 
rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in 
my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, 
like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when 
you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a 
hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. 
Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. O, but she is wise. 

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do 
this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors 
upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement ; 
shut that and ’t will out at the keyhole; stop that, 
’t will fly with the smoke out of the chimney. 

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he 
might say ‘ Wit, whither wilt ?’ 

ftos. Nay, you might keep that check for it till 
you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s 
bed. {that ? 

Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse 

Ros. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. 
You shall never take her without her answer, unless 
you take her without her tongue. O, that woman 
that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, 
let her never nurse her child herself, for she will 
breed it like a fool! 

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave 
thee. [hours. 

fios. Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two 

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two 
o’clock I will be with thee again. 

fos. Ay, gO your ways, go your ways; I knew 
what you would prove: my friends told me as 
much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue 


ACT IV. 


of yours won me: ’tis but one cast away, and so, 
come, death! Two o’clock is your hour ? 

Ori. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so 
God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not 
dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or 
come one minute behind your hour, I will think 
you the most pathetical break-promise and the most 
hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call 
Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band 
of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and 
keep your promise. 

Ori. With no less religion than if thou wert in- 
deed my Rosalind: so adieu. 

Ros. Well, Time is the old justice that examines 
all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu. 

[Exit Orlando. 

Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your 
love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose 
plucked over your head, and show the world what 
the bird hath done to her own nest. 

Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou 
didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! 
But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an un- 
known bottom, like the bay of Portugal. 

Cel. Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you 
pour affection in, it runs out. 

Ros. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus 
that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen and 
born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses 
every one’s eyes because his own are out, let him be 
judge how deep I am in love. Ill tell thee, Aliena, 
I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I ot go find 
a shadow and sigh till he come. 

Cet. And I’ll sleep. [ Hxewnt. 


SCENE II. The forest. 


Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters. 


Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ? 

A d. Sir, it was I. 

Jaq. Let ’s present him to the duke, like a Roman 
conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer’s 
horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have 
you no song, forester, for this purpose ? 

For. Yes, sir. 

Jaq. Sing it: tis no matter how it be in tune, 
so it make noise enough. 


SONG. 


For. What shall he have that kill’d the deer ? 
His leather skin and horns to wear. 
Then sing him home; 
[The rest shall bear this burden. 
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; 
It was a crest ere thou wast born: 
Thy father’s father wore it, 
And thy father bore it: 
‘The horn, the horn, the lusty horn 
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. 


SCENE III. The forest. 


Enter Rosalind and Celia. 


ios. How say you now? Is it not past two 
o’clock ? and here much Orlando! 

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled 
brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone 
forth to sleep. Look, who comes here. 


[ Hxeunt. 


Enter Silvius. 


Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth; 
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this: 
I know not the contents; but, as I guess 
By the stern brow and waspish action 

hich she did use as she was writing of it, 
It bears an angry tenour: pardon me; 
I am but as a guiltless messenger. 


ASO DPE E 7. 


SCENE III. 


Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter 

And play the isd Seow bear this, bear all: 

She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; 

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, 
Were man as rare as pheenix. ’Od’s my will! 

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt: 

Why writes she soto me? Well, shepherd, well, 
This is a letter of your own device. 

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents: 
Phebe did write it. 

Ros. Come, come, you are a fool 
And turn’d into the extremity of love. 

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, 
A freestone-colour’d hand; I verily did think 
That her old gloves were on, but ’t was her hands: 
She has a huswife’s hand; but that’s no matter: 
I say she never did invent this letter; 
This is a man’s invention and his hand. 
Sil. Sure, it is hers. 
fos. Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style, 
A style for challengers; why, she defies me, 
Like Turk to Christian : women’s gentle brain 
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, 
Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect 
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter ? 
Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet; 
Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty. 
Ros. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant 
writes. [ Reads. 
Art thou god to shepherd turn’d, 
That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d ? 
Can a woman rail thus ? 

Sil. Call you this railing ? 

Ros. [Reads] 

Why, thy godhead laid apart, 

Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart ? 
Did you ever hear such railing ? 

Whiles the eye of man did woo me, 

That could do no vengeance to me. 
Meaning me a beast. 

If the scorn of your bright eyne 

Have power to raise such love in mine, 

Alack, in me what strange effect 

Would they work in mild aspect! 

Whiles you chid me, I did love; 

How then might your prayers move! 

He that brings this love to thee 

Little knows this love in me: 

And by him seal up thy mind ; 

Whether that thy youth and kind 

Will the faithful offer take 

Of me and all that I can make; 

Or else by him my love deny, 

And then I’ll study how to die. 

Sil. Call you this chiding ? 

Cel. Alas, poor shepherd ! 

Ros. Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. 
Wilt thou love such a woman ? What, to make thee 
an instrument and play false strains upon thee! not 
to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see 
love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to 
her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; 
if she will not, I will never have her unless thou en- 
treat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a 
word; for here comes more company. [Hzit Silvius. 


Enter Oliver. 


Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you 
know, 
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands 
A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees ? 
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour 
bottom : 
The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream 
Left on your right hand brings you to the place. 
But at this hour the house doth keep itself; 
There ’s none within. 
Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 
185 


SAS) SOE, 


Then should I know you by description ; 
Such garments and such years: ‘ The boy is fair, 
Of female favor, and bestows himself 
Like a ripe sister: the woman low 
And browner than her brother.’ Are not you 
The owner of the house I did inquire for ? 
Cel. It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we are. 
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both, 
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind 
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he? 
Ros. Lam: what must we understand by this ? 
Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me 
What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
This handkercher was stain’d. 
Cel. I pray you, tell it. 
Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from 
you 
He left a promise to return again 
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest, 
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, 
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside, 
And mark what object did present itself: 
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age 
And high top bald with dry antiquity, 
A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, 
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck 
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, 
Who with her head nimble in threats approach’d 
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, 
Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself, 
And with indented glides did slip away 
Into a bush: under which bush’s shade 
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, 
When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis 
The royal disposition of that beast 
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same 
brother ; 
And he did render him the most unnatural 
That lived amongst men. 
Oli. And well he might so do, 
For well I know he was unnatural. 
fos. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there, 
Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness ? 
Oli. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so; 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, 
And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 
Made him give battle to the lioness, 
Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling 
From miserable slumber I awaked. 
Cel. Are you his brother ? 
Ros. Was ’t you he rescued ? 


ACT V. 


LIKE IT. 


SCENE I. 


Simieilng ’t you that did so oft contrive to kill 
1im 3 
Oli. "T was 1; but *tis not I: I do not shame 
To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? 
} By and by. 


Oli. 
When from the first to last betwixt us two 
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, 
As how I came into that desert place : — 
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, 
Committing me unto my brother’s love; 
Who led me instantly unto his cave, 
There stripp’d himself, and here upon his arm 
The lioness had torn some flesh away, 
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted 
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound ; 
And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 
He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
To tell this story, that you might excuse 
His broken promise, and to give this napkin 
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth 
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 
[ Rosalind swoons. 

Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Gany- 

mede! 

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 

Cel. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede! . 

Oli. Look, he recovers. 

Fos. I would I were at home. 

Cel. Well lead you thither. 
I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? 

Oli. Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you 
lack a man’s heart. 

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body 
would think this was well counterfeited! I pray 
you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. 
Heigh-ho! 

Oli. This was not counterfeit: there is too great 
testimony in your complexion that it was a passion 
of earnest. 

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 

Oli. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit 
to be a man. 

Ros. So I do: but, i’ faith, I should have been a 
woman by right. 

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, 
draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. 

Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back 
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 

fos. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, 
commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you 
go? [ Hxeunt. 


AGE TV 


SCENE I.— The forest. 


Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 


Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, 
gentle Audrey. 

Aud. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all 
the old gentleman’s saying. 

Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most 
vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here 
in the forest lays claim to you. 

Aud. Ay, 1 know who ’tis; he hath no interest 
in me in the world: here comes the man you 
mean. 

Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a 
clown: by my troth, we that have good wits have 
Pugh s answer for; we shall be flouting; we can- 
not hold. 


186 


Enter William. 


Will. Good even, Audrey.. 
Aud. God ye good even, William. 
Will. And good even to you, sir. 
Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, 
cover thy head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are 
Will. Five and twenty, sir. [you, friend ? 
Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? 
Will. William, sir. | 
Touch. A fairname. Wast born i’ the forest here? 
Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. | 
Touch. ‘ Thank God;’ a good answer. Artrich? 
Will. Faith, sir, so so. a 
Touch. ‘So so’ is good, very good, very excellent 
' good; and yet it is not; it is but soso. Art thou 
| Will Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. [wise ? 


ACT V. 


AS YOU. LIKE TL. 


SCENE II. 


Touch. Why, thousayest well. I do now remem- 
ber a saying, ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but 
the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ The 
heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a 
grape, would open his lips when he put it into his 
mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to 
eat and lips to open. You do love this maid ? 

Will. I do, sir. 

Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned ? 

Will. No, sir. 

Touch. Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; 
for it isa figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured 
out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth 
empty the other; for all your writers do consent 
that ipse is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he. 

Will. Which he, sir ? 

Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. 
Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in the 
vulgar leave,—the society,— which in the boorish 
is company,—of this female,—which in the com- 
mon is woman; which together is, abandon the 
society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest ; 
or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, 
I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into 
death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison 
with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy 
with thee in faction; I will o’er-run thee with pol- 
icy ; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways: there- 
fore tremble, and depart. 

Aud. Do, good William. 


Will. God rest you merry, sir. [ Eavit. 


Enter Corin. 


Cor. Our master and mistress seek you; come, 
away, away ! 


Touch. Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, 
T attend. [ Hveunt. 


SCENE III.— The forest. 


Enter Orlando and Oliver. 


Orl. Ist possible that on so little acquaintance 
you should like her? that but seeing you should 
love her ? and loving woo ? and, wooing, she should 
grant ? and will you persever to enjoy her ? . 

Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, 
the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sud- 
den wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say 


‘with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she loves 


me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other : 
it shall be to your good; for my father’s house and 
all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I 
estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. 
Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding 
be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke and 
all ’s contented followers. Go you and prepare 
Aliena; for look you, here comes my Rosalind. 


Enter Rosalind. 


ios. God save you, brother. 

Oli. And you, fair sister. [ Exit. 

fios. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to 
see thee wear thy heart in a scarf! 

Orl. It is my arm. 

fios. I thought thy heart had been wounded with 
the claws of a lion. | 

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 

Jios. Did your brother tell you how I counter- 
caer to swoon when he showed me your handker- 
cher : 

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 

Rios. O, I know where you are: nay, ’t is true: 
there was never anything so sudden but the fight 


| of two rams and Cesar’s thrasonical brag of ‘I 


_ Came, Saw, and overcame;’ for your brother and 


| 


my sister no sooner met but they looked, no sooner 
looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they 


_ Sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another 


the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they 


sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they 
made a pair of stairs to marriage which they will 
climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before 
marriage: they are in the very wrath of love and 
they will together; clubs cannot part them. 

Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I will 
bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a 
thing it is to look into happiness through another 
man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow 
be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I 
shall think my brother happy in having what he 
wishes for. 

ttos. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your 
turn for Rosalind ? ) 

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 

ios. I will weary you then no longer with idle 
talking. Know of me then, for now I speak to 
some purpose, that I know you are a gentleman of 
good conceit: I speak not this that you should bear 
a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I 
know you are; neither do I labour for a greater 
esteem than may in some little measure draw a 
belief from you, to do yourself good and not to 
grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can 
do strange things: I have, since I was three years 
old, conversed with a magician, most profound in 
his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosa- 
lind so near your heart as your gesture cries it out, 
when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry 
her: I know into what straits of fortune she is 
driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear 
not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes 
to-morrow human as she is and without any danger. 

Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? 

ftos. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, 
though I say Iam a magician. Therefore, put you 
in your best array; bid your friends; for if you will 
be Petty to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, 
TRE Enter Silvius and Phebe. 

Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers. 

Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness, 
To show the letter that I writ to you. 

fos. I care not if I have: it is my study 
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you: 

You are there followed by a faithful shepherd ; 

Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. [love. 
Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’t is to 
Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears; 

And so am I for Phebe. 

Phe. And I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And I for Rosalind. 

Ros. And I for no woman. 

Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service; 
And so am I for Phebe. 

Phe. And I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And I for Rosalind. 

Ros. And I for no woman. 

Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy, 

All made of passion and all made of wishes, 
All adoration, duty, and observance, 

All humbleness, all patience and impatience, 
All purity, all trial, all observance; 

And so am I for Phebe. 

Phe. And so am I for Ganymede. 

Orl. And so am I for Rosalind. 

Ros. And so am I for no woman. 

Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to love your 

Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? 

Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? 

Fos. Who do you speak to, ‘ Why blame you me 
to love you?’ 

Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. 

Ros. Pray you, no more of this; *tis like the 
howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [70 
Sil.] I will help you, if I can: [To Phe.] I would 
love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all to- 
gether. [Zo Phe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry 


187 


AS LOG 


woman, and Ill be married to-morrow: [To Orl.] I 
will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you 
shall be married to-morrow: [To Sil.] I will content 
you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall 
be married to-morrow. [Zo Orl.] As you love Rosa- 
lind, meet: [Zo Sil.] as you love Phebe, meet; and 
as I love no woman, 1’ll meet. So fare you well: 
I have left you commands. 

Sil. I°ll not fail, if I live. 

Phe. Nor I. 

Orl. Nor I. 


SCENE III.— The forest. 


Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 


Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to- 
morrow will we be married. 

Aud. Ido desire it with all my heart; and I hope 
it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of 
the world. Here come two of the banished duke’s 
pages. 


ACT V. 


[ Exeunt. 


Enter two Pages. 


First Page. Well met, honest gentleman. 

Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, 
and a song. 

Sec. Page. We are for you: sit i’ the middle. 

First Page. Shall we clap into ’t roundly, without 
hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which 
are the only prologues to a bad voice ? 

Sec. Page. I’ faith, i’ faith; and both in a tune, 
like two gipsies on a horse. 


SONG. 


It was a lover and his lass, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That o’er the green corn-field did pass 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 


Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
These pretty country folks would lie, 

In spring time, &c. 


This carol they began that hour, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
How that a life was but a flower 

In spring time, Xe. 


And therefore take the present time, 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; 
For love is crowned with the prime 
In spring time, &c. 


Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was 
no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very 
untuneable. 

First Page. You are deceived, sir: we kept time, 
we lost not our time. 

Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost 
to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and 
God mend your voices! Come, Audrey. [Evweunt. 


SCENE IV.—The forest. 


Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, 
Oliver, and Celia. 
Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
Can do all this that he hath promised ? 
Orl. [sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not ; 
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 


Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe. 
feos. Patience once more, whiles our compact is 
urged : ; 
You say, if 1 bring in your Rosalind, 
You will bestow her on Orlando here ? 
188 


TTAIOTG EL. SCENE IV. 
Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give 
with her. . {her ? 


Ros. And you say, you will have her, when I bring 
Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king: 
Ros. You say, you’ll marry me, if I be willing ? 
Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after. 
Ros. But if you do refuse to marry me, 

You ’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd ? 

Phe. So is the bargain. 

Ros. You say, that you ll have Phebe, if she will ? 

Sil. Though to have her and death were both 

one thing. 

Ros. [have promised to make all this matter even. 
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter; 
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter: 
Keep your word, Phebe, that you ’ll marry me, 

Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd: 
Keep your word, Silvius, that you ’ll marry her, 
If she refuse me: and from hence I go, 
To make these doubts all even. 
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. 

Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour. 

Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him 
Methought he was a brother to your daughter: 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born, 

And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 
Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest. 


Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 


Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward, and 
these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes 
| a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues 
| are called fools. 

Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all! 

Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the 
motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met 
in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears. 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to 

| my purgation. I have trod a measure: I have flat- 
| tered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, 
smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three 
tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
fought one. 

Jag. And how was that ta’en up? : 

Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was 
upon the seventh cause. 

Jug. How seventh cause? Good my lord, like 
this fellow. 

Duke S. I like him very well. 

Touch. God ’ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. 
I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country 
copulatives, to swear and forswear; according as 
marriage binds and blood breaks ; a poor virgin, sir, 
an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor 
humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else 
will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor 
house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. 

Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sen- 
tentious. 

Touch. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such 
duleet diseases. 

Jaq. But, for the seventh cause; how did you find 
the quarrel on the seventh cause ? ; 

Touch. Upon a lie seven times’ removed : — bear 
your body more seeming, Audrey : —as thus, sir. I 
did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard: he 
sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, 
he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort 
Courteous. If I sent him word again ‘it was not 
well cut,’ he would send me word, he cut it to please 
himself: this is called the Quip Modest. If again 
‘it was not well cut,’ he disabled my judgment: this 
is called the Reply Churlish. If again ‘it was not 
well cut,’ he mould answer, I spake not true: this 


, 
‘ 


is called the Reproof Valiant. If again ‘it was not i 


ACT V. 


well cut,’ he would say, I lied: this is called the 
Countercheck Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie Cir- 
cumstantial and the Lie Direct. 

Jag. And how oft did you say his beard was not 
well cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no further than the Lie Circum- 
stantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct ; 
and so we measured swords and parted. 

Jag. Can you nominate in order now the degrees 
of the lie ? 

Touch. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ; 
as you have books for good manners: I will name 
you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; 
the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply 
Churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, 
the Countercheck Quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie 
with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. 
All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and 


you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew when | 


seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when 
the parties were met themselves, one of them 
thought but of an If, as, ‘If you said so, then I 
said so ;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. 
Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as 
good at any thing and yet a fool. 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse 
and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit. 


Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia. 
. Still Music. 
Then is there mirth in heaven, 
When earthly things made even 
Atone together. 
Good duke, receive thy daughter: 
Hymen from heaven brought her, 
_ Yea, brought her hither, 
That thou mightst join her hand with his 
Whose heart within his bosom is. 
Ros. pe uke] To youl give myself,for lam yours. 
[To Or |) To you I give myself, for I am yours. 
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my 
daughter. 
Orl. If there be truth in sight, youare my Rosalind. 
Phe. Vf sight and shape be true, 
Why then, my love adieu! 
fos. 17ll have no father, if you be not he: 
-17ll have no husband, if you be not he: 
Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she. 
Hym. Peace, ho! I bar confusion: 
*T is I must make conclusion 
Of these most strange events: 
Here’s eight that must take hands 
To join in Hymen’s bands, 
If truth holds true contents. 
You and you no cross shall part: 
You and you are heart in heart : 
You to his love must accord, 
Or have a woman to your lord: 
You and you are sure together, 
As the winter to foul weather. 
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 
Feed yourselves with questioning ; 
That reason wonder may diminish, 
How thus we met, and these things finish. 


SONG. 


Wedding is great Juno’s crown: 
O blessed bond of board and bed! 
*T is Hymen peoples every town; 
High wedlock then be honoured: 
Honour, high honour and renown, 
To Hymen, god of every town! 


Hyin. 


Duke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to 


AS YOU LIKE ITT. 


SCENE IV. 


Enter Jaques de Boys. 


Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or 
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, [two: 
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. 
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
Men of great worth resorted to this forest, _, 
Address’d a mighty power; which were on foot, 
In his own conduct, purposely to take 
His brother here and put him to the sword: 

And to the skirts of this wild wood he came; 
Where meeting with an old religious man, 
After some question with him, was converted 
Both from his enterprise and from the world, 
His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother, 
And all their lands restored to them again 
That were with him exiled. This to be true, 

I do engage my life. 

Duke 8S. Welcome, young man; 

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding: 

To one his lands withheld, and to the other 

A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 

First, in this forest let us do those ends 

That here were well begun and well begot: 

And after, every of this happy number 

That have endured shrewd days and nights with us 
Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 
According to the measure of their states. 
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity 

And fall into our rustic revelry. 

Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all, 
With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall. 

Jaq. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, 
The duke hath put on a religious life 
And thrown into neglect the pompous court ? 

Jag. de B. He hath. 

Jaq. To him will I: out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and learn’d. 

[To Duke] You to your former honour I bequeath ; 
Your patience and your virtue well deserves it: 
[Zo Orl.] You to.a love that your true faith doth 
merit: [allies : 
[To Oli.] You to your land and love and great 
[To Sil.] You to a long and well-deserved bed: 
[To Touch.]| And you to wrangling; for thy loving 
voyage {ures : 
Is but for two months victuall’d. So, to your pleas- 
I am for other than for dancing measures. 

Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. 

Jaq. To see no pastime I: what you would have 
I ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave. _—— [ Exit. 

Duke S. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these 
As we do trust they ’ll end, in true delights. [rites, 

A dance. 
EPILOGUE. 

Ros. It is not the fashion to see the lady the 
epilogue; but it isno more unhandsome than to see 
the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine 
needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs 
no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good 
bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help 
of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that 
am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate 
with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not 
furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not 
become me: my way is to conjure you; and [ll 
begin with the women. I charge you, O women, 
for the love you bear to men, to like as much of 
this play as please you: and I charge you, O men, 
for the love you bear to women —as I perceive by 
your simpering, none of you hates them —that be- 
tween you and the women the play may please. If 
I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had 
beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me 
and breaths that I defied not: and, I am sure, as 


| Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree. [me! 
| Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; | 
| Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. 


many as have good beards or good faces or sweet 
breaths will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, 
_ bid me farewell. [ Haxeunt. 


189 


LEAT 


oF 


ay, 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


DRAMATIS PERSON, 


A Lord. Tranio, A 
Christopher Sly, a tinker. Persons in the Biondello, \ servanla to Laie 
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, | Induction. Grumio, serventeds Dateien 
and Servants. ; Curtis, 
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. A Pedant. 
Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa. Katharina, the shrew, \ daughters to Baptista, 
Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. Bianca, 
Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Widow. 
Katharina, Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Bap 
Gremio, 


tista and Petruchio. 


itors to Bianca. 
Hortensio, \ sui - f | 


SCENE — Padua, and Petruchio’s country house. 
[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page XLIX.] 


INDUCTION. 


SCENE I.— Before an alehouse on a heath. 


Enter Hostess and Sly. 

Sly. Ill pheeze you, in faith. 

Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! 

Sly. Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; 
look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard 
Conqueror. Therefore paucas pallabris; let the 
world slide: sessa! [burst ? 

Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have 

Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to 
thy cold bed, and warm thee. 

Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the 
third-borough. [ Hat. 

Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I 7] an- 
swer him by law: I ’ll not budge an inch, boy: let 
him come, and kindly. [Falls asleep. 


Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train. 


Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my 
hounds: 
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d; 
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. 
Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good 
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault ? 
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. f[lord; 
First Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my 
He cried upon it at the merest loss 
And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent: 
Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 
Lord. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet, 
I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 
But sup them well and look unto them all: 
To-morrow I intend to hunt again. 
First Hun. I will, my lord. 
Lord. What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, 
doth he breathe ? 
Sec. Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not 
warm’d with ale, 
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. flies! 
Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he 
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! 
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. 
What think you, if he were convey’d to bed, 
Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, 
A most delicious banquet by his bed, 
190 


[een en aan InnnEnnenee cee 


And brave attendants near him when he wakes, 
Would not the beggar then forget himself? [choose. 

First Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot 

Sec. Hun. It would seem strange unto him when 

he waked. [fancy. 

Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worthless 
Then take him up and manage well the jest: 
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber 
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: 
Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters 
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet: 
Procure me music ready when he wakes, 

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; 

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight 

And with a low submissive reverence 

Say ‘ What is it your honour will command ?’ 

Let one attend him with a silver basin 

Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers ; 
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 

And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your 
Some one be ready with a costly suit [hands ?’ 
And ask him what apparel he will wear; 

Another tell him of his hounds and horse, 

And that his lady mourns at his disease: 

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic; 

And when he says he is, say that he dreams, 

For he is nothing but a mighty lord. 

This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs: 

It will be pastime passing excellent, 

If it be husbanded with modesty. 

First Hun. My lord, I warrant you we will piay 
As he shall think by our true diligence [our part, 
He is no less than what we say he is. 

Lord. Take him up gently and to bed with him, 
And each one to his office when he wakes. 

[Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. 
Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds: 
[Exit Servingman. 
Belike, some noble gentleman that means, 
Travelling some journey, to repose him here. 


Re-enter Servingman. 

How now! who is it ? 

Serv. An’t please your honour, players 
That offer service to your lordship. 

Lord. Bid them come near. 


INDUCTION. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE II. 


Enter Players. 


Now, fellows, you are welcome. 
Players. We thank your honour. 
Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night ? 
A Player. So please your lordship to accept our 


duty. 
Lord. Withallmy heart. This fellow I remember, 
Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son: 
”T was where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well: 
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part 
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. [means. 
A Player. I think ’t was Soto that your honour 
Lord. ’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent. 
Well, you are come to me in happy time; 
The rather for I have some sport in hand 
Wherein your cunning can assist me much, 
There is a lord will hear you play to-night: 
But I am doubtful of your modesties ; 
Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,— 
For yet his honour never heard a play,— 
You break into some merry passion 
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, 
1f you should smile he grows impatient. [selves, 
A Player. Fear not, my lord: we can contain our- 
Were he the veriest antic in the world. 
Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 
And give them friendly welcome every one: 
Let them want nothing that my house affords. 


[ Hxit one with the Players. 


Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, 
And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady: 
That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber ; 
And call him ‘ madam,’ do him obeisance. 
Tell him from me, as he will win my love, 
He bear himself with honourable action, 
Such as he hath observed in noble ladies 
Unto their lords, by them accomplished : 
Such duty to the drunkard let him do 
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, 
And say ‘ What is ’t your honour will command, 
Wherein your lady and your humble wife 
May show her duty and make known her love ?’ 
And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, 
And with declining head into his bosom, 
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d 
To see her noble lord restored to health, 
Who for this seven years hath esteemed him 
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar: 
And if the boy have not a woman’s gift 
To rain a shower of commanded tears, 
An onion will do well for such a shift, 
Which in a napkin being close convey’d 
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 
See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst: 
Anon I’ll give thee more instructions. 
[ Hxit a Servingman. 
I know the boy will well usurp the grace, 
Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman: 
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband, 
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter 
When they do homage to this simple peasant. 
1’ll in to counsel them ; haply my presence 
_ May well abate the over-merry spleen 
_ Which otherwise would grow into extremes. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. 


inter aloft Sly, with Attendants; some with apparel, 


others with basin and ewer and other appurtenances ; 
and Lords, 


Sly. For God’s sake, a pot of small ale. 

First Serv. Will’t please your lordship drink a 
cup of sack ? 

Sec. Serv. Will ’t please your honour taste of these 
conserves ? 


Third Serv. What raiment will your honour wear 

to-day ? 

Sly. Iam Christophero Sly; call not me ‘ honour’ 
nor ‘lordship:’ I ne’er drank sack in my life; and 
if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of 
beef: ne’er ask me what raiment Ill wear; for | 
have no more doublets than backs, no more stock- 
ings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, 
sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my 
toes look through the over-leather. 

Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your 
O, that a mighty man of such descent, [honour! 
Of such possessions and so high esteem, 

Should be infused with so foul a spirit! 

Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I 
Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burtonheath, by 
birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by trans- 
mutation a bear-herd, and now by present profes- 
sion a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale- 
wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say Iam 
not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score 
me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. 
What! I am not bestraught: here ’s— 

Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady 

mourn! [droop! 

Sec. Serv. O, this it is that makes your servants 

Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns 

your house 
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 
O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, 
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment 
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. 
Look how thy servants do attend on thee, 
Each in his office ready at ony beck. 
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays [Music. 
And twenty caged nightingales do sing: 
Or wilt thou sleep? well have thee to a couch 
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed 
On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. 
Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: 
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp’d, 
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. 


| Dost thou love hawking ? thou hast hawks will soar 


Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt ? 
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them 
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 
First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds 
are as swift 
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 
Sec. Serv. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch 
thee straight 
Adonis painted by a running brook, 
And Cytherea all in sedges hid, 
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, 
Even as the waving sedges play with wind. 
Lord. Well show thee Io as she was a maid, 
And how she was beguiled and surprised, 
As lively painted as the deed was done. [wood, 
Third Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny 
Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds, 
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, 
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. 
Lord. Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord: 
Thou hast a lady far more beautiful 
Than any woman in this waning age. [for thee 
First Serv. And till the tears that she hath shed 
Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face, 
She was the fairest creature in the world; 
And yet she is inferior to none. 
Sly. AmTIa lord? and have I such a lady? 
Or do I dream ? or have I dreain’d till now ? 
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak ; 
I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things * 
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed 
And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly. 
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; 
And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. 


191 


ACT I. 


Sec. Serv. Will ’t please your mightiness to wash 
your hands ? 
O, how we joy to see your wit restored! 
O, that once more you knew but what you are! 
These fifteen years you have been in a dream ; 
Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept. 

Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. 
But did I never speak of all that time ? 

First Serv. O, yes, my lord, but very idle words: 
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, 
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door; 
And rail upon the hostess of the house; 

And say you would present her at the leet, 
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts: 
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. 
Sly. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. 
Third Serv. Why, sir, you know no house nor no 
such maid, 
Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up, 
As Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greece 
And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell 
And twenty more such names and men as these 
Which never were nor no man ever saw. 

a: Now Lord be thanked for my good amends! 
All. Amen. 

Sly. I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it. 


Enter the Page as a lady, with Attendants. 


Page. How fares my noble lord ? 
Sly. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. 
Where is my wife ? 
Page. Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her ? 
Sly. Are you my wife and will not: call me hus- 
and ? [man. 
My men should call me ‘lord:’ I am your good- 
Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and hus- 


THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 


SCENE I. 


Lord. Madam. 

Sly. Al’ce madam, or Joan madam ? (ladies. 

Lord. ‘Madam,’ and nothing else: so lords eall 

Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d 
And slept above some fifteen year or more. 

Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, 
Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. 

Sly. "Tis much. Servants, leave me and her 

alone. 
Madam, undress you and come now to bed. 

Page. Thrice-noble lord, let me entreat of you 
To pardon me yet for a night or two, . 

Or, if not so, until the sun be set: 

For your physicians have expressly charged, . 
In peril to incur your former malady, 

That I should yet absent me from your bed: 

I hope this reason stands for my excuse. 

Sly. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so 
long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams 
again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh 
and the blood. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Your honour’s players, hearing your amend- 
Are come to play a pleasant comedy: {ment, 
For so your doctors hold it very meet, 

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood, 
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy: 

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play 
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, 
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. 

Sly. Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not a 
comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick ? 

Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. 

Sly. What, household stuff ? 

Page. It is a kind of history. 

Sly. Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit 


I am your wife in all obedience. [band ; | by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be 
Sly. I know it well. What must I call her? younger. Flourish. 
LEGIT. TT; 


SCENE I.— Padua. 


Enter Lucentio and his man Tranio. 


Inc. Tranio, since for the great desire I had 
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, 
I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy, 
The pleasant garden of great Italy ; 
And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d 
With his good will and thy good company, 
My trusty servant, well approved in all, 
Here let us breathe and haply institute 
«A course of learning and ingenious studies. 
Pisa renowned for grave citizens 
Gave me my being and my father first, 
A merchant of great traffic through the world, 
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 
Vincentio’s son brought up in Florence 
It shall become to serve all hopes conceived, 
To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: 
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, 
Virtue and that part of philosophy 
Will L apply that treats of happiness 
By virtue specially to be achieved. 
Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left 
And am to Padua come, as he that leaves 
A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep 
And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. 

Tra. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine, 
I am in all affected as yourself ; 
Glad that you thus continue your resolve. 
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 
Only, good master, while we do admire 
This virtue and this moral discipline, 


192 


A public place. 


| To make a stale of me amongst these mates? 


Let ’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray; 
Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks 
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured: 
Balk logic with acquaintance that you have 
And practise rhetoric in your common talk; 
Music and poesy use to quicken you; 
The mathematics and the metaphysics, 
Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you; 
No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en: 
In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 
Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. 
If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, 
We could at once put us in readiness, 
And take a lodging fit to entertain 
Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. 


| But stay a while: what company is this? 


Tra. Master, some show to welcome us to town. 


Enter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio,and 
Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand by. 


Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, 
For how I firmly am resolved you know; 
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter 
Before I have a husband for the elder: 
If either of you both love Katharina, 
Because I know you well and love you well, 


Leave shall you have to court her at your pleas- =. 


ure. 
Gre. [Aside] To cart her rather: she’s toorough 
for me. . 
There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? 
Kath. I pray you, sir, is it your will 


ACT I. 


Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that ? no mates 
Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. [for you, 
Kath. V faith, sir, you shall never need to fear: 
I wis it is not half way to her heart; 
But if it were, doubt not her care should be 
To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool 
And paint your face and use you like a fool. 

Hor. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us! 

Gre. And me too, good Lord! [ward: 

Tra. Hush, master! here ’s some good pastime to- 
That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. 

Luc. But in the other’s silence do I see 

Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. 
Peace, Tranio ! 

Tra. Wellsaid, master; mum! and gaze your fill. 

Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good 

What I have said, Bianca, get you in: 
And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, 
For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl. 
Kath. A pretty peat! it is best 
Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. 
Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent. 
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: 
My books and instruments shall be my company, 
On them to look and practise by myself. [speak. 
Iue. Hark, Tranio! thou may’st hear Minerva 
Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange ? 
Sorry am I that our good will effects 
Bianca’s grief. 

Gre. Why will you mew her up, 
Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 

And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? 

Bap. Gentlemen, content ye: I am resolved: 

Go in, Bianca: [Hait Branca. 
And for I know she taketh most delight 

In music, instruments and poetry, 

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house, 

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, 

Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, 

Prefer them hither; for to cunning men 

I will be very kind, and liberal 

To mine own children in good bringing up: 

And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay; 

For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Ezit. 

Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I 

not? What,shall I be appointed hours; as though, 
belike, I knew not what to take, and what to leave, 
ha? [ Ecit. 
Gre. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts 
are so good, here’s none will hold yor. Their love 
is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails 
together, and fast it fairly out: our cake’s dough on 
both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my 
sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit 
man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will 
wish him to her father. 

Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. 
_Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked 
parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both, 

that we may yet again have access to our fair mis- 
‘tress and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love, to labour 
and effect one thing specially. 
. What’s that, I pray ? 
Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. 
‘e. A husband! a devil. 

Hor. I say, a husband. 

- Gre. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, 
though her father be very rich, any man is so very 
a fool to be married to hell ? 

_ Hor. Tush, Gremio, though it pass your patience 
and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, 
there be good fellows in the world, an a man could 
light on them, would take her with all faults, and 
money enough. 
_ Gre. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her 
dowry with this condition, to be whipped at the 
high cross every morning. 
13 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE I. 

Hor. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in 
rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law 
makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly 
maintained till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter 
to a husband we set his youngest free for a husband, 
and then have tot afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy 
man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. 
How say you, Signior Gremio ? 

Gre. Lam agreed; and would I had given him the 
best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would 
thoroughly woo her, wed her and bed her and rid 
the house of her! Come on. 

[EHxeunt Gremio and Hortensio. 

Tra. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible 
That love should of a sudden take such hold ? 

Luc. O Tranio, till I found it to be true, 

I never thought it possible or likely ; 

But see, while idly I stood looking on, 

I found the effect of love in idleness: 
And now in plainness do confess to thee, 
That art to me as secret and as dear 

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, 


' Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, 


eR ————————— 


If I achieve not this young modest girl. 
Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst; 
Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. 
Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now; 
Affection is not rated from the heart: 
If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so, 
‘Redime te captum quam queas minimo.’ 
Tuc. Gramercies, lad, go forward; this contents: 
The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. 
Tra. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid, 
Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. 
Luc. O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, 
Such as the daughter of Agenor had, 
That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, 
When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. 
Tra. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her 
Began to scold and raise up such a storm [sister 
That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? 
Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move 
And with her breath she did perfume the air: 


Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. [trance. 

Tra. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his 
I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid, [stands: 
Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it 


Her eldest sister is so curst and shrewd 
That till the father rid his hands of her, 
Master, your love must live a maid at home; 
And therefore has he closely mew’d her up, 
Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. 
Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father ’s he! 
But art thou not advised, he took some care 
To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her ? 
Tra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’t is plotted, 
Inuc. I have it, Tranio. 
Tra. Master, for my hand, 
Both our inventions meet and jump in one. 
Luc. Tell me thine first. 
Tra. You will be schoolmaster 
And undertake the teaching of the maid: 
That ’s your device. i 
Tue. It is: may it be done? 
Tra. Not possible; for who shall bear your part, 
And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son, 
Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends, 
Visit his countrymen and banquet them ? 
Luc. Basta; content thee, for I have it full. 
We have not yet been seen in any house, 
Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces 
For man or master ; then it follows thus; 
Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, 
Keep house and port and servants, as I should: 
I will some other be, some Florentine, 
Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 
’T is hatch’d and shall be so: Tranio, at once 
198 


vy shy: THE TAMING 


Unease thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak: 
When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; 

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. 
_ Tra. So had you need. 

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, 

And I am tied to be obedient ; 

For so your father charged me at our parting, 
‘ Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he, 
Although I think ’t was in another sense; 
Iam content to be Lucentio, 

Because so well I love Lucentio. 

Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves: 
And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid 
Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. 
Here comes the rogue. 


Enter Biondello. 


Sirrah, where have you been ? 

Bion. Where have I been! Nay,how now! where 
are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your 
clothes? Or you stolen his? or both? pray, what’s 
the news ? 

Luc. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest, 
And therefore frame your manners to the time. 
Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, 

Puts my apparel and my countenance on, 

And I for my escape have put on his; 

For in a quarrel since I came ashore 

I kill’d a man and fear I was descried: 

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, 
While I make way from hence to save my life: 
You understand me ? 

Bion. I, sir! ne’er a whit. 

Lue. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth: 
Tranio is changed into Lucentio. 

Bion. The better for him: would I were so too! 

Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish 

after, [daughter. 
That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest 
But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I 
advise [panies : 


You use your manners discreetly in all kind of com- | 


When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio; 
But in all places else your master Lucentio. 

Luc. Tranio, let’s go: one thing more rests, that 
thyself execute, to make one among these wooers: 
if thou ask me why, sufliceth, my reasons are both 
good and weighty. [ Hxeunt. 


The presenters above speak, 
First Serv. My lord, you nod; you do not mind 
the play. | 
Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, 
surely : comes there any more of it ? 
Page. My lord, ’tis but begun. 
Sly. ’T is a very excellent piece of work, madam 
lady: would ’t were done! [They sit and mark. 


SCENE II.— Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. 


Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. 


Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, 
To see my friends in Padua, but of all 
My best beloved and approved friend, 
Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. 
Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say. 
Gru. Knock, sir! whom should I knock ? is there 
any man has rebused your worship ? 
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. 
Gru. Knock you here, sir! why, sir, what am I, 
sir, that I should knock you here, sir ? 
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate 
And rap me well, or Ill knock your knave’s pate. 
Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should 
knock you first, 
And then I know after who comes by the worst. 
Pet. Will it not be? 


194 


OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE If. 


Faith, sirrah, an you’ll not knock, Ill ring it; 
1° try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. 
[He wrings him by the ears. 
Gru. Help, masters, help! my master is mad. 
Pet. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain! 


Enter Hortensio. 


Hor. How now! what’s the matter? My old 
friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! 
How do you all at Verona ? 

Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray ? 
‘Con tutto il cuore, ben trovato,’ may I say. 

Hor.‘ Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato 
signor mio Petruchio.’ 

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel. 

Gru. Nay, ’t is no matter, sir, what he ’leges in 
Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave 
his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and 
rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant 
to use his master so, being perhaps, for aught I see, 
two and thirty, a pip out ? 

Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, 
Then had not Grumio come by the worst. 
Pet. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, 
I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, 
And could not get him for my heart to do it. 

Gru. Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake 
you not these words plain, ‘ Sirrah, knock me here, 
rap me here, knock me well, and knock mesoundly’ ? 
And come you now with, ‘ knocking at the gate’? 

Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. 

Hor. Petruchio, patience; Iam Grumio’s pledge: 
Why, this’s a heavy chance *twixt him and you, 
Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. 
And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale 
Blows you to Padua here from old Verona ? 

Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through 

the world 
To seek their fortunes farther than at home 
Where small experience grows. But in a few, 
Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: 
Antonio, my father, is deceased ; 
And I have thrust myself into this maze, 
Haply to wive and thrive as best I may: 
Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home, 
And so am come abroad to see the world. 

Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee 
And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wite ? 
Thou ’ldst thank me but a little for my counsel: 
And yet Ill promise thee she shall be rich 
And very rich: but thou ’rt too much my friend, 
And Ill not wish thee to her. 

Pet. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we 
Few words suffice: and therefore, if thou know 
One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife, 

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, 
Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love, 

As old as Sibyl and as curst and shrewd 

As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse, 

She moves me not, or not removes, at least, 
Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough 
As are the swelling Adriatic seas: 


| I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; 


If wealthily, then happily in Padua. 


@ 


Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what — 


his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry 
him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot 
with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she haye as_ 


many diseases as two and fifty horses: why, nothing 
“-. 


comes amiss, so money comes withal. 


Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, — 
I will continue that I broach’d in jest. a 
I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife - 


With wealth enough and young and beauteous, 
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: 
Her only fault, and that is faults enough, 

Is that she is intolerable curst 


q 


’ 


ACT I. 


And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure 
That, were my state far worser than it is, 
I would not wed her for a mine of gold. __ [effect: 

Pet. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s 
Tell me her father’s name and *tis enough; 

For I will board her, though she chide as loud 

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. 
Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, 

An affable and courteous gentleman: 

Her name is Katharina Minola, 

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue. 

Pet. I know her father, though I know not her; 
And he knew my deceased father well. 

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; 
And therefore let me be thus bold with you 
To give you over at this first encounter, 
Unless you will accompany me thither. 

Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour 
lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him as well as I 
do, she would think scolding would do little good 
upon him: she may perhaps call him half a score 
knaves or so: why, that’s nothing; an he begin 
once, he ’ll rail in his rope-tricks. Ill tell you what, 
sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a 
figure in her face and so disfigure her with it that 
she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. 
You know him not, sir. 

Hor. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, 
For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: 

He hath the jewel of my life in hold, 

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, 

And her withholds from me and other more, 

Suitors to her and rivals in my love, 

Supposing it a thing impossible, 

For those defects I have before rehearsed, 

That ever Katharina will be woo’d ; 

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, 

That none shall have access unto Bianca 

Till Katharine the curst have got a husband. 
Gru. Katharine the curst! 

A title for a maid of all titles the worst. 

Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, 
And offer me disguised in sober robes 
To old Baptista as a schoolmaster 
Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ; 

That so I may, by this device, at least 
Have leave and leisure to make love to her 
And unsuspected court her by herself. 

Gru. Here’sno knavery! See, to beguile the old 

folks, how the young folks lay their heads together ! 


Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised. 


Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha ? 
Hor. Peace, Grumio! it is the rival of my love. 
Petruchio, stand by a while. 
Gru. A proper stripling and an amorous! 
Gre. O, very well, I have perused the note. 
Hark you, sir; I ’ll have them very fairly bound: 
_ All books of love, see that at any hand; 


_ And see you read no other lectures to her: 


_ You understand me: over and beside 
Signior Baptista’s liberality, 
1’ll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too, 
And let me have them very well perfumed : 
_For she is sweeter than perfume itself 
To whom they goto. What will you read to her? 
' Luc. Whate’er I read to her, Ill plead for you 
_As for my patron, stand you so assured, 
_As firmly as yourself were still in place: 
Yea, and perhaps with more successful words 
han you, unless you were a scholar, sir. 
Gre. O this learning, what a thing it is! 
Gru. O this woodcock, what an ass it is! 
| Pet. Peace, sirrab ! [Gremio. 
_ Hor. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior 
__ Gre. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. 
) Trow you whither Lam going ? To Baptista Minola. 


eat LAMING OF 


THH SHREW. 


SCENE ITI. 


I promised to inquire carefully 
About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca: 
And by good fortune I have lighted well 
On this young man, for learning and behaviour 
Fit for her turn, well read in poetry 
And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. 
Hor. ’T is well; and I have met a gentleman 
Hath promised me to help me to another, 
A fine musician to instruct our mistress ; 
So shall I no whit be behind in duty 
To fair Bianca, so beloved of me. [prove. 
Gre. Beloved of me; and that my deeds shall 
Gru. And that his bags shall prove. 
Hor. Gremio, ’t is now no time to vent our love: 
Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, 
I'll tell you news indifferent good for either. 
Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, 
Upon agreement from us to his liking, 
Will undertake to woo curst Katharine, 
Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 
Gre. So said, so done, is well. 
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? 
Pet. I know she is an irksome brawling scold : 
If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. [man ? 
Gre. No, say’st me so, friend? What country- 
Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son: 
My father dead, my fortune lives for me; 
And I do hope good days and long to see. [strange! 
Gre. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were 
But if you have a stomach, to ’t i’ God’s name: 
You shall have me assisting you in all. 
But will you woo this wild-cat ? 
Pet. Will I live ? 
Gru. Will he woo her ? ay, or I ’ll hang her. 
Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent ? 
Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? 
Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? 
Have I not heard the sea puff’d up with winds 
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat ? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, 
And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies ? 
Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? 
And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, 
That gives not half so great a blow to hear 
As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire ? 
Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs. 
Gru. For he fears none. 
Gre. Hortensio, hark: 
This gentleman is happily arrived, 
My mind presumes, for his own good and ours. 
Hor. I promised we would be contributors 
And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. 
Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her. 
Gru. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. 


Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. 


Tra. Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold, 
Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way 
To the house of Signior Baptista Minola ? 

Bion. He that has the two fair daughters: is ’t 

Tra. Even he, Biondello. fhe you mean ” 

Gre. Hark you, sir; you mean not her to—. 

Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you 

to do? 

Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. 

Tra. Llove no chiders, sir. Biondello, let ’saway. 

Luc. Well begun, Tranio. 

Hor. Sir, a word ere you go; 
Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no ? 

Tra. And if I be, sir, is it any offence ? 

Gre. No; if without more words you will get you 

hence. 

Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free 
For me as for you ? 

re. But so is not she. 
Tra. For what reason, I beseech you? 


195 


AOT It. 


Gre. For this reason, if you ‘ll know, 
That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. 
Hor. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. 
Tra. Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen, 
Do me this right; hear me with patience. 
Baptista is a noble gentleman, 
To whom my father is not all unknown; 
And were his daughter fairer than she is, 
She may more suitors have and me for one. 
Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers; 
Then well one more may fair Bianca have: 
And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one, 
Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. 
Gre. What! this gentleman will out-talk us all. 
Luc. Be give him head: I know he’ll prove a 
jade. 
Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? 
Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, 
Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter ? 
Tra. No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two, 
The one as famous for a scolding tongue 
As is the other for beauteous modesty. 
Pet. Sir, sir, the first ’s for me; let her go by. 
Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules; 
And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE J, 


Pet. Sir, understand you this of me in sooth: 
The youngest daughter whom you hearken for 
Her father keeps from all access of suitors, 

And will not promise her to any man 
Until the elder sister first be wed: 
The younger then is free and not before. 

Tra. If it be so, sir, that you are the man 
Must stead us all and me amongst the rest, 

And if you break the ice and do this feat, 
Achieve the elder, set the younger free 

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her 
Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. 

Hor. Sir, you say well and well you do conceive ; 
And since you do profess to be a suitor, 

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, 
To whom we all rest generally beholding. 

Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof, 
Please ye we may contrive this afternoon, 

And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health, 
And do as adversaries do in law, 
Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. 
Gru. Bion. excellent motion! Fellows, let ’s 
be gone. . 

Hor. The motion ’s good indeed and be it so, 

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. [ Hxeunt. 


GOT TT: 


SCENE I.— Padua. 


Enter Katharina and Bianca. 


Bian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong your- 
To make a bondmaid and a slave of me: [self, 
That I disdain: but for these other gawds, 
Unbind my hands, I’) pull them off myself, 

Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; 
Or what you will command me will I do, 
So well I know my duty to my elders. 

Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell 
Whom thou lovest best: see thou dissemble not. 

Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive 
I never yet beheld that special face 
Which I could fancy more than any other. 

Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio? 

Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear 
Ill plead for you myself, but you shall have him. 

Kath. O then, belike, you fancy riches more: 
You will have Gremio to keep you fair. 

Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so ? 

Nay then you jest, and now I will perceive 
You have but jested with me all this while: 
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. 

Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. 

[Strikes her. 


A room in Baptista’s house. 


Enter Baptista. 


Bap. Why, how now, dame! whence grows this 
insolence ? 
Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. 
Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her. 
For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, 
Why ce thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong 
thee ? 
When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? 
Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I ’ll be rever.ged. 
[Flies after Bianca. 
Bap. What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. 
[Exit Bianca. 
a What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now 
see 
She is your treasure, she must have a husband; 
J must dance barefoot on her wedding day 
And for your love to her lead apes in hell. 
Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep 
Till I can find occasion of revenge. 


196 


[ Exit. 


Bap. Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I? 
But who comes here ? 


Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; 
Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, 
with Biondello bearing u lute and books. 


Gre. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. 
Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. 
save you, gentlemen! 
Pet. And you, good sir! 
daughter 
Call’d Katharina, fair and virtuous ? 
Bap. I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina. 
Gre. You are too blunt: go to it orderly. [leave. 
Pet. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me 
I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, 
That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, 
Her affability and bashful modesty, 
Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, 
Am bold to show myself a forward guest 
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness 
Of that report which I so oft have heard. 
And, for an entrance to my entertainment, 
I do present you with a man of mine, 
[Presenting Hortensio. 
Cunning in music and the mathematics, 
To instruct her fully in those sciences, 
Whereof I know she is not ignorant: 
Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: 
His name is Licio, born in Mantua. {sake. 
Bap. You ’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good 
But for my daughter Katharine, this I know, 
She is not for your turn, the more my grief. 
Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her, 
Or else you like not of my company. 
Bap. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. ‘ 
Whence are you, sir ? what may I call your name? — 
Pet. Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son, 
A man well known throughout all Italy. [sake. 
Bap. I know him well: you are welcome for his” 
Gre. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, 
Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too: 
Baccare! you are marvellous forward. ‘ 
Pet. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain — 
be doing. [wooing. 
Gre. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your 


God 


Pray, have you not a 


ACT II. 


Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure 
of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that 
have been more kindly beholding to you than any, 
freely give unto you this young scholar [presenting 
Lucentio}, that hath been long studying at Rheims; 
as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, 
as the other in music and mathematics: his name 
is Cambio; pray, accept his service. 

Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. Wel- 
come, good Cambio. [Zo T'ranio] But, gentle sir, 
methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold 
to know the cause of your coming ? 

Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own, 
That, being a stranger in this city here, 

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, 
Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. 

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, 

In the preferment of the eldest sister. 

This liberty is all that I request, 

That, upon knowledge of my parentage, 

I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo 
And free access and favour as the rest: 

And, toward the education of your daughters, 
I here bestow a simple instrument, 

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: 
If you accept them, then their worth is great. 

Bap. Lucentio is your name; of whence, I pray ? 

Tra. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. 

Bap. A mighty man of Pisa; by report 
I know him well: you are very welcome, sir. 

Take you the lute, and you the set of books; 
You shall go see your pupils presently. 
Holla, within ! 

Enter a Servant. 

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen 
To my daughters; and tell them both, 
These are their tutors: bid them use them well. 

[Exit Servant. with. Lecentio and Hortensio, Bion- 

dello following. 
We will go walk a little in the orchard, 
And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, 
And so I pray you all to think yourselves. 

Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, 
And every day I cannot come to woo. 

You knew my father well, and in him me, 
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, 
Which I have better’d rather than decreased : 
Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love 
What dowry shall I have with her to wife ? 

Bap. After my death the one half of my lands, 
And in possession twenty thousand crowns. 

Pet. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of 
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, 

In all my lands and leases whatsoever: 
Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, 
That covenants may be kept on either hand. 

Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, 

That is, her love; for that is all in all. 

__ Pet. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, 
I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; 

And where two raging fires meet together 

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury: 

_ Though little fire grows great with little wind, 
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all: 

So I to her and so she yields to me; 

_ Por Iam rough and woo not like a babe. [speed ! 

Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy 
But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. [winds, 

Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for 
- That shake not, though they blow perpetually. 


fte-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. 


Bap. How now, my friend! why dost thou look 
So pale ? 

Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. 

Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good 
musician ? 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE I. 


Hor. I think she ’l] sooner prove a soldier: 

Iron may,hold with her, but never lutes. [lute ? 
Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to the 
Hor. Why,no; for she hath broke the lute to me. 

I did but tell her she mistook her frets, 

And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering ; 

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, , 

‘ Frets, call you these ?’? quoth she; ‘I ’ll fume with 

them :’ 

And, with that word, she struck me on the head, 

And through the instrument my pate made way ; 

And there I stood amazed for a while, 

As on a pillory, looking through the lute: 

While she did call me rascal fiddler 

And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms, 

As had she studied to misuse me so. 

Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; 

I love her ten times more than e’er I did: 

O, how I long to have some chat with her! 

Bap. Well, go with me and be not so discomfited : 
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter ; 
She’s apt to learn and thankful for good turns. 
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, 

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? 

Pet. I pray you do. [ Hxeunt- all but Petruchio. 

I will attend her here, 

And woo her with some spirit when she comes. 

Say that she rail; why then Ill tell her plain 

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: 

Say that she frown; Ill say she looks as clear 

AS morning roses newly wash’d with dew: 

Say she be mute and will not speak a word; 

Then I 711 commend her volubility, 

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence: 

If she do bid me pack, Ill give her thanks, 

As though she bid me stay by her a week: 

If she deny to wed, I ’ll crave the day 

When I shall ask the banns and when be married. 

But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. 


Enter Katharina. 


Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear. 

Isath. Well have you heard, but something hard 

of hearing : 
They call me Katharine that do talk of me. 

Pet. You lie,in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate, 
And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst ; 
But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, 
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 

For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, 
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; 
Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, 
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, 
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, 

Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife. 

Kath. Moved! in good time: let him that moved 

you hither 
Remove you hence: I knew you at the first 
You were a moveable. 

Pet. 

Kath. A join’d-stool. 

Pet. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. 

Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. 

Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. 

Kath. No such jade as you, if me you mean. 

Pet. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; 
For, knowing thee to be but young and light— 

Kath. Too light for such aswain as you to catch; 
And yet as heavy as my weight should be. 

Pet. Should be! should — buzz! 

Kath. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. 

Pet. Ou slowuis o turtle! shall a buzzard take 

thee ? 

Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. 

Pet. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too 

angry. j 

Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 

197 


Why, what ’s a moveable ? 


AUT hr. 


Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. 

Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. 

Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his 
sting? In his tail. 

Kath. In his tongue. 

Pet. Whose tongue ? 

Kath. Yours,if you talk of tails: and so farewell. 

Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, 
Good Kate; Iam a gentleman. [come again, 

Kath. That 170 try. [She strikes him. 

Pet. I swear I’) cuff you, if you strike again. 

Kath. So may you lose your arms: 

If you strike me, you are no gentleman; 

And if no gentleman, why then no arms. 

Pet. A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books! 

Kath. What is your crest? a coxcomb? 

Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. 

Kath. Nocock of mine; you crow toolikeacraven. 

Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look 
so sour. 

Kath. 1t is my fashion, when I see a crab. 

Pet. Why, here’s no crab; and therefore look 
not sour. 

Kath. There is, there is. 

Pet. Then show it me. 

Kath. Had I a glass, I would. 

Pet. What, you mean my face? 

Kath. Well aim’d of such a young one. 

Pet. Now, by Saint George, lam too young for you. 

Kath. Yet you are wither’d. 

Pet. *T is with cares. 

Kath. I care not. 

Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you scape not 

Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go. [so. 

Pet. No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle. 
*T was told me you were rough and coy and sullen, 
And now I find report a very liar; 

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, 

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers: 

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, 

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, 

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk, 

But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers, 

With gentle conference, soft and affable. 

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? 

O slanderous world! Kate like the hazel-twig 

Is straight and slender and as brown in hue 

As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels. 

O, let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt. 

Kath. Go, fool,and whom thou keep’st command. 

Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove 
As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? 

O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate; 

And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful! 
Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech ? 
Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. 
Kath. A witty mother! witless else her son. 

Pet. Am I not wise ? 

Kath. Yes; keep you warm. 

Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy 
And therefore, setting all this chat aside, 
Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented 
That you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on; 
And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. 

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; 

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, 

Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well, 

Thou must be married to no man but me; 

For I am he am born to tame you Kate, 

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate 

Conformable as other household Kates. 

Here comes your father: never make denial; 

I must and will have Katharine to my wife. 


Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio. 


Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you 
with my daughter ? 
198 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


[bed : | 


SCENE I. 


Pet. How but well, sir? how but well ? 
It were impossible I should speed amiss. 
Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in 
your dumps ? [you 
Kath. Call you me daughter? now, I promise 
You have show’d a tender fatherly regard, 
To wish me wed to one half lunatic; 
A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, 
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. 
Pet. Father, ’t is thus: yourself and all the world, 
That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her: 
If she be curst, it is for policy, 
For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove; 
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; 
For patience she will prove a second Grissel, 
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity : 
And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together, 
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 
Kath. 1°ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. 
Gre. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee 


hang’d first. 
Tra. Is this your speeding? nay, then, good 
night our part! [self ; 


Pet. Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for my- 
If she and I be pleased, what’s that to you? 
’T is bargain’d twixt us twain, being alone, 
That she shall still be curst in company. 
I tell you, ’t is incredible to believe 
How much she loves me: O, the kindest Kate! 
She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss 
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, 
That in a twink she won me to her love. 
O, you are novices! ’tis a world to see, 
How tame, when men and women are alone, 
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. 
Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice, 
To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. 
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; 
I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine. [hands; 
Bap. I know not what to say: but give me your 
God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match. 
Gre. Tra. Amen, say we: we will be witnesses. 
Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu; 
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace: 
We will have rings and things and fine array ; 
And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday. 
[Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina severally, — 
Gre. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly ? 
Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s 
And venture madly on a desperate mart. [part, 
Tra. "Twas a commodity lay fretting by you: 
°T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. 
Bap. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. 
Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. 
But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: 
Now is the day we long have looked for: 
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 
Tra. And I am one that love Bianca more 
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess. 
Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. 
Tra. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. 
Gre. But thine doth fry. — 
Skipper, stand back: ’tis.age that nourisheth. r 
Tra. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth. 
Bap. Content you, gentlemen: I will compound 
this strife: | 
’T is deeds must win the prize; and he of both ‘g 
That can assure my daughter greatest dower . 
Shall have my Bianca’s love. ‘G 
Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ? g 
Gre. First,as you know, my house within the — 
Is richly furnished with plate and gold; [city 
Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; 
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry ; 
In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; 
In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, 
Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, 


{ 


’ 
; 
: 


ACT III. THE 


Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, 
Valance of Venice gold in needlework, 

Pewter and brass and all things that belong 
To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm 
I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, 
Sixseore fat oxen standing in my stalls, 

And all things answerable to this portion. 
Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; 
And if I die to-morrow, this is hers, 

If whilst I live she will be only mine. 

Tra. That‘ only’ came well in. Sir, list to me: 

I am my father’s heir and only son: 

If I may have your daughter to my wife, 

Il] leave her houses three or four as good, 
Within rich Pisa walls, as any one 

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; 

Besides two thousand ducats by the year 

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. 
What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio ? 

Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! 

My land amounts not to so much in all: 
That she shall have; besides an argosy 
That now is lying in Marseilles’ road. 

What, have I choked you with an argosy ? 

Tra. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less 
Than three great argosies; besides two galliases, 
And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her, 
And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next. 

Gre. Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more; 
And she can have no more than all I have: 

If you like me, she shall have me and mine. 


ALCd 


SCENE I.— Padua. Baptistu’s house. | 


Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. 


Inuc. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir: 
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment 
Her sister Katharine welcomed you withal ? 

Hor. But, wrangling pedant, this is 
The patroness of heavenly harmony: 

Then give me leave to have prerogative ; 
And when in music we have spent an hour, 
Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. 

Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read so far 

To know the cause why music was ordain’d ! 
Was it not to refresh the mind of man 
After his studies or his usual pain ? 

Then give me leave to read philosophy, 
And while I pause, serve in your harmony. 

Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. 

Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, 
To strive for that which resteth in my choice: 

I am no breeching scholar in the schools; 

I ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, 

But learn my lessons as I please myself. 

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down: 
Take you your instrument, play you the whiles; 
His lecture will be done ere you have tuned. 

Hor. Youll leave his lecture when I am in tune ? 

Luc. That will be never: tune your instrument. 

Bian. Where left we last ? 

Luc. Here, madam: 

‘Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus ; 
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.’ 

Bian. Construe them. 

Luc. ‘Hic ibat,’ as I told you before, ‘ Simois,’ I 
am Lucentio, ‘ hic est,’ son unto Vincentio of Pisa, 
‘Sigeia tellus,’ disguised thus to get your love; ‘ Hic 
steterat,’ and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, 
*Priami,’ is my man Tranio, ‘regia,’ bearing my 
port, ‘celsa senis,’ that we might beguile the old 
pantaloon. 


LAMING OF LE SHREW. 


SCENE I. 


a 


Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the 
world 
By your firm promise: Gremio is out-vied. 

Bap. I must confess your offer is the best ; 

And, let your father make her the assurance, 
She is your own; else, you must pardon me, 
If you should die before him, where ’s her dower ? 

Tra. That ’s but a cavil: he is old, I young: 

Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old ? 

Bap. Well, gentlemen, 

I am thus resolved: on Sunday next you know 
My daughter Katharine is to be married: 
Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca 
Be bride to you, if you make this assurance; 
If not, to Signior Gremio: 

And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. 

Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. | Hxit Baptista. 
Now I fear thee not: 
Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool 
To give thee all, and in his waning age 
Set foot under thy table: tut, a toy! 

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Evit. 

Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide! 
Yet I have faced it with a card of ten. 
°T is in my head to do my master good: 

I see no reason but supposed Lucentio 

Must get a father, call’d ‘supposed Vincentio; ’ 

And that ’s a wonder: fathers commonly 

Do get their children: but in this case of wooing, 

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my mnargay 
vit. 


tobe 


Hor. Madam, my instrument’s in tune. 

Bian. Let’s hear. O fie! the treble jars. 

Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. 

Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: 

‘Hic ibat Simois,’ I know you not, ‘ hic est Sigeia 
tellus,’ I trust you not; ‘ Hic steterat Priami,’ take 
heed he hear us not, ‘regia,’ presume not, ‘celsa 
senis,’ despair not. 

Hor. Madam, ’t is now in tune. 

Tue. All but the base. 

Hor. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that 
[ Aside] How fiery and forward our pedantis!  [jars. 
Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: 
Pedascule, I ll watch you better yet. 

Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. 

Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, Aacides 
Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. [you, 

Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I promise 
I should be arguing still upon that doubt: 

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you: 
Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray, 
That I have been thus pleasant with you both. 

Hor. You may go walk, and give me leave a while: 
My lessons make no music in three parts. 

Luc. Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait, 
[Aside] And watch withal; for, but I be deceived, 
Our fine musician groweth amorous. 

Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument, 
To learn the order of my fingering, 

I must begin with rudiments of art; 

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, 

More pleasant, pithy and effectual, 

Than hath been taught by any of my trade: 
And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. 

Bian. Why, lam past my gamut long ago. 

Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. [accord, 

Bian. [Reads] ‘‘‘ Gamut’ I am, the ground of all 

‘A re,’ to plead Hortensio’s passion ; 
‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord, 
‘C fa ut,’ that loves with all affection: 
199 


ACT III. 


‘D sol re,’ one clef, two notes have I: 
‘E la mi,’ show pity, or I die.”’ 
Call you this gamut’? tut, I like it not: 
Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice, 
To change true rules for old inventions. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your 
And help to dress yoursister’schamberup: [books 
You know to-morrow is the wedding-day. 

Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be 

gone. [Hxeunt Bianca and Servant. 

Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to 

stay. [ Heit. 

Hor. But I have cause to pry into this pedant: 
Methinks he looks as though he were in love: 
Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble 
To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale, 

Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, 
Hortensio will be quit with thee by TLE 3 
wit. 


SCENE II. — Padua. 


Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, 
Bianca, Lucentio, and others, Attendants, 


Bap. {To Tranio| Signior Lucentio, this is the 
*pointed day 

That Katharine and Petruchio should be married, 
And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. 
What will be said ? what mockery will it be, 
To want the bridegroom when the priest attends 
To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage! 
What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? 

Kath. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be 

forced 

To give my hand opposed against my heart 
Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen; 
Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. 
I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, 
Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour: 
And, to be noted for a merry man, 
He ’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage, 
Make feasts, invite friends, and proclaim the banns; 
Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. 
Now must the world point at poor Katharine, 
And say, ‘ Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife, 
If it would please him come and marry her!’ 

Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too. 
Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, 
Whatever fortune stays him from his word: 
Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; 
Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. 

Kath. 

though! 
[Hxit weeping, followed by Bianca and others. 

Bap. Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep; 
For such an injury would vex a very saint, 

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. 


Enter Biondello. 


Bion. Master, master! news, old news, and such 
news as you never heard of! 

Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be? 

Bion. Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio’s 

Bap. Is he come ? [coming ? 

Bion. Why, no, sir. 

Bap. What then ? 

Bion. He is coming. 

Bap. When will he be here ? 

Bion. When he stands where I am and sees you 

Tra. But say, what to thine old news?  [there. 

Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and 
an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, 
a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one 
buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta’en 


200 


Before Baptista’s house. 


Would Katharine had never seen him | 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE II. 


out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and 
chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hip- 
ped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no 
kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and 
like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lam- 
pass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, 
sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure 
of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn 
with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder- 
shotten; near-legged before and with a half-checked 
bit and a head-stall of sheep’s leather which, being 
restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been 
often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth 
six times pieced and a woman’s crupper of velure, 
which hath two letters for her name fairly set down 
in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. 

Bap. Who comes with him ? 

Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world ca- 
parisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one 
leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered 
with ared and blue list; an old hat and ‘ the humour 
of forty fancies’ pricked in ’t for a feather: & mon- 
ster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Chris- © 
tian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey. 

Tra. "Tis some odd humour pricks him to this 

fashion ; 
Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. 

Bap. Iam glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes, 

Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. 

Bap. Didst thou not say he comes ? 

Bion. Who? that Petruchio came? 

Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came. 

Bion. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him 
on his back. 

Bap. Why, that’s all one. 

Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy, 

I hold you a penny, 
A horse and a man 
Is more than one, 

And yet not many. 


Enter Petruchio and Grumio. 


Pet. Come, where be these gallants? who’s at 
Bap. You are welcome, sir. [home ? 
And yet I come not well. 
not. 

Not so well apparell’d 


et. 
Bap. And yet you halt 
Tra. 
As I wish you were. 
Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. 
But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride? 
How does my father? Gentles, methinks you 
frown: 
And wherefore gaze this goodly company, 
As if they saw some wondrous monument, 
Some comet or unusual prodigy ? [day: 
Bap. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding- 
First were we sad, fearing you would not come; 
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. 


Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate, 
| An eye-sore to our solemn festival! 


Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import 
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, 
And sent you hither so unlike yourself ? 

Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear: 
Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, 

Though in some part enforced to digress ; 
Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse 


_ As you shall well be satisfied withal. 


But where is Kate? I stay too long from her: 
The morning wears, ’t is time we were at church. 
Tra. See not your bride in these unreverent robes: 
Go to my chamber; put on clothes of mine. 
Pet. Not I, believe me: thus I'll visit her. 
Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. 
Pet. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done 
with words: 
To me she’s married, not unto my clothes: 


ACT IIl. 


Could I repair what she will wear in me, 
As I can change these poor accoutrements, 
*T were well for Kate and better for myself. 
But what a fool am I to chat with you, 
When I should bid good morrow to my bride, 
And seal the title with a lovely kiss! 
[Hxeunt Petruchio and Grumio. 
Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire: 
We will persuade him, be it possible, 
To put on better ere he go to church. 
Bap. 17ll after him, and see the event of this. 
[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and attendants. 
Tra. But to her love concerneth us to add 
Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass, 
As I before imparted to your worship, 
I am to get a man,— whate’er he be, 
It skills not much, we ’ll fit him to our turn,— 
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa; 
And make assurance here in Padua 
Of greater sums than I have promised. 
So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, 


_ And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 


Inc. Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster 
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, 
*T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; 
Which once performed, let all the world say no, 
i ll keep mine own, despite of all the world. 
Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, 
And watch our vantage in this business: 
Well over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, 
The narrow-prying father, Minola, 
The quaint musician, amorous Licio; 
All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. 


Re-enter Gremio. 


Signior Gremio, came you from the church ? 
Gre. As willingly as e’er I came from school. 
Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming 
home ? 
Gre. A bridegroom say you? *tisa groom indeed, 
v.N Ey sana groom, and that the girl shall find. 

a. Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible. 
Gre. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. 
Tra. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam. 
Gre. Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him! 

ill tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest 

Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, 

* Ay, by gogs-wouns,’ quoth he; and swore so loud, 

That, all-amazed, the priest let fall the book; 

And, as he stoop’d again to take it up, 

The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff 

That down fell priest and book and book and priest : 

* Now take them up,’ quoth he, ‘if any list.’ 

Tra. What said the wench when he rose again ? 
Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d 
and swore, 

As if the vicar meant to cozen him. 

But after many ceremonies done, 

He calls for wine: ‘ A health!’ quoth he, as if 

He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 

After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel 

And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face; 

Having no other reason : 

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly 

And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking. 

This done, he took the bride about the neck 

And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack 

That at the parting all the church did echo: 

And I seeing this came thence for very shame; 

And after me, I know, the rout is coming. 

Such a mad marriage never was before: 

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [ Music. 


fe-enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Bap- 
tista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train. 


Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your 
pains: 


LHHE TAMING OF THH SHREW. 


SCENE II. 


I know you think to dine with me to-day, 

And have prepared great store of wedding cheer ; 

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, 

And therefore here I mean to take my leave. 
Bap. Is’t possible you will away to-night ? 
Pet. I must away to-day, before night come: 

Make it no wonder; if you knew my business, 

You would entreat me rather go than stay. 

And, honest company, I thank you all, 

That have beheld me give away myself 

To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife: 

Dine with my father, drink a health to me; 

For I must hence; and farewell to you all. 

Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. 
Pet. It may not be. 


Gre. Let me entreat you. 
Pet. It cannot be. 

Kath. Let me entreat you. 

Pet. I am content. 

Kath. Are you content to stay ? 


Pet. Iam content you shall entreat me stay ; 
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. 
Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. 
Pet. Grumio, my horse. 
Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten 
the horses. 
Kath. Nay, then, 
Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day; 
No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. 
The door is open, sir; there lies your way; 
You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; 
For me, Ill not be gone till I please myself: 
’T is like youll prove a jolly surly groom, 
That take it on you at the first so roundly. 
Pet. O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not angry. 
Kath. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? 
Father, be quiet: he shall stay my leisure. 
Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. 
Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: 
I see a woman may be made a fool, 
If she had not a spirit to resist. [mand. 
Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy com- 
Obey the bride, you that attend on her; 


| Go to the feast, revel and domineer, 


Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, 


| Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves: 


But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; 
I will be master of what is mine own: 
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, 
My household stuff, my field, my barn, 
My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing; 
And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; 
Ill bring mine action on the proudest he 
That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, 
Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves; 
Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. 
Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, 
Kate: 
Ill buckler thee against a million. 
| Hxeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grunvio. 
Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. 
Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with 
laughing. 
Tra. Of all mad matches never was the like. 
Luc. Mistress, what ’s your opinion of your sister? 
Bian. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated. 
Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. _ 
Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and 
bridegroom wants 
For to supply the places at the table, 
You know there wants no junkets at the feast. 
Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place ; 
And let Bianca take her sister’s room. Nie 3 
Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it ? 
Bap. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, 
let ’s go. [| Hxewnt. 


201 


AMET AVS 


THE TAMING OF. THE SHEEW. 


SCENE I. 


ALG TN. 


SCENE I.— Petruchio’s country house. 


Enter Grumio. 


Gru. Fie, fie or all tired jades, on all mad mas- 
ters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten ? 
was ever man so rayed ? was ever Man so weary ? 
I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming 
after to warm them. Now, were not La little pot 
and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, 
my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my 
belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me: but 
I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself ; for, con- 
sidering the weather, a taller man than I will take 
cold. Holla, ho! Curtis. 


Enter Curtis. 


Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? 

Gru. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst 
slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater 
arun but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. 

Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio ? 

Gru. O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, fire; 
cast on no water. 

Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported ? 

Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost: but, 
thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast; 
for it hath tamed my old master and my new mis- 
tress and myself, fellow Curtis. 

Curt. Away, you three-inch fool! Iam no beast. 

Gru. Am I but three inches ? why, thy horn is a 
foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou 
make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mis- 
tress, whose hand, she being now at hand, thou 
shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow 
in thy hot office ? 

Curt. IL prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes 
the worid ? 

Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but 
thine; and therefore fire: do thy duty, and have 
thy duty; for my master and mistress are almost 
frozen to death. 

Curt. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good 
Grumio, the news. 

Gru. Why, ‘Jack, boy! ho! boy!’ and as much 
news as will thaw. 

Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching! 

Gru. Why, therefore fire; for I have caught ex- 
treme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready, 
the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept 5 
the serving-men in their new fustian, their white 
stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment 
on? Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair with- 
out, the carpets laid, and every thing in order ? 

Curt. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news. 

Gru. First, know, my horse is tired; my master 
and mistress fallen out. 

Curt. How ? 

Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and 
thereby hangs a tale. 

Curt. Let ’s ha ’t, good Grumio. 

Gru. Lend thine ear. 

Curt. Here. 

Gru. There. [Strikes him. 

Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. 

Gru. And therefore ’t is called a sensible tale: 
and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and 
beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we 
came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my 
mistress,— 

Curt. Both of one horse ? 

Gru. What ’s that to thee ? 

Curt. Why, a horse. 


Gru. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not 
crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her 


202 


horse fell and she under her horse; thou shouldst 
have heard in how miry a place, how she was 
bemoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her, 
how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how 
she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, 
how he swore, how she prayed, that never prayed 
before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how 
her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper, with 
many things of worthy memory, which now shall 
die in oblivion and thou return unexperienced to 
thy grave. [she. 

Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew than 

Gru. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you 
all shall find when he comes home. But what talk 
lof this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, 
Philip, Walter, Sugarsop and the rest: let their 
heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed 
and their garters of an indifferent knit: let them 
curtsy with their left legs and not presume to touch 
a hair of my master’s horsetail till they kiss their 
hands. Are they all ready ? 

Curt. They are. 

Gru. Call them forth. 

Curt. Do you hear, ho ? you must meet my master 
to countenance my mistress. 

Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. 

Curt. Who knows not that ? 

Gru. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to 
countenance her. 

Curt. I call them forth to credit her. 

Gru. Why,she comes to borrow nothing of them. 


Enter four or fwe Servingmen. 


Nath. Welcome home, Grumio! 

Phil. How now, Grumio! 

Jos. What, Grumio! 

Nich. Fellow Grumio! 

Nath. How now, old lad ? 

Gru. Welcome, you;—how now, you;—what, — 
you;—fellow, you; —and thus much for greeting. — 
Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all 
things neat ? 

Nath. All things is ready. 
master ? 

Gru. E’en at hand, alighted by this: and there- 
peeeree not —Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my 
master. 


How near is our 


Enter Petruchio and Katharina. 


Pet. Where be these knaves? What, no man at 
To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse! [door 
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? 

All Serv. Here, here, sir; here, sir. 

Pet. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! 

You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! 
What, no attendance? no regard ? no duty? 
Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? 
Gru. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. ‘ 
Pet. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt- 
horse drudge ! 
Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, a 
And bring along these rascal knaves with thee ? : 

Gru. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made, 
And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel; 
There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, i ak 
And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing: 
There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; 
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; : 
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. — 

Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. 

[Hxeunt Servants. 

[Singing] Where is the life that late I led — P 
Where are those—Sit down, Kate, and welcomée.— 
Soud, soud, soud, soud! . 


ACT IV. 


Re-enter Servants with supper. 


Why, when, I say ? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. 
Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains, when ? 
[Sings] It was the friar of orders grey, 

As he forth walked on his way :— 
Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry: 
Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. 

[Strikes him. 
Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho! 
Where ’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence, 
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither: 
One, on that you must kiss, and be acquainted 
with. 

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water ? 


Enter one with water. 


Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. 
You whoreson villain! will you let it fall? 
[ Strikes him. 

Kath. Patience, I pray you; *twas a fault un- 

willing. 

Pet. A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! 
Come,Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach. 
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else shall I? 
What’s this? mutton ? 


First Serv. y- 
Pet. Who brought it ? 
Peter. I 
Pet. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. 

What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook ? 


How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, 
And serve it thus to me that love it not ? 
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all: 
[Throws the meat, &c., about the stage. 
You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! 
What, do you grumble? Ill be with you straight. 
Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet: 
The meat was well, if you were so contented. 
Pet. Itell thee, Kate, ’t was burnt and dried away : 
And I expressly am forbid to touch it, 
For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; 
And better ’t were that both of us did fast, 
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, 
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 
_ Be patient; to-morrow ’t shall be mended, 
_ And, for this night, we ’ll fast for company: 
_ Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. 
Re-enter Servants severally. res 
Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ? 
Peter. He kills her in her own humour. 


Re-enter Curtis. 


Gru. Where is he ? 
Curt. In her chamber, making a sermon of con- 
tinency to her; 
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, 
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, 
And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 
Away,away! for he is coming hither. 


sa aceel 


[ Exeunt. 


Re-enter Petruchio. 


Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, 
And ’tis my hope to end successfully. 
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty; 
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, 
For then she never looks upon her lure. 
Another way I have to man my haggard, 
To make her come and know her keeper’s call, 
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites 
That bate and beat and will not be obedient. 
_ She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; 

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not; 

As with the meat, some undeserved fault 
_ Ill find about the making of the bed; 
. And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster, 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE II. 


This way the coverlet, another way the sheets: 
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend 

That all is done in reverend care of her; 

And in conclusion she shall watch all night: 

And if she chance to nod I ’ll rail and brawl 

And with the clamour keep her still awake. 

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness; __, 
And thus I ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. 
He that knows better how to tame a shrew, 

Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show.  [Ezit. 


SCENE II.— Padua. 


Enter Tranio and Hortensio. . 
Tra. Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress 
Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? [Bianca 
I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. 
Hor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 
Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. 


Before Baptista’s house. 


Enter Bianca and Lucentio. 


Luc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read ? 

ae Yip: master, read you? first resolve me 

at. 

Luc. I read that I profess, the Art to Love. 

Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your art! 

Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of 

my heart! 

Hor. Quick proceeders, marry! 

I pray, 
You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca 
Loved none in the world so well as Lucentio. 

Tra. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind ! 
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. 

Hor. Mistake no more: I am not Licio, 

Nor a musician, as I seem to be; 

But one that scorn to live in this disguise, 
For such a one as leaves a gentleman, 
And makes a god of such a cullion: 
Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. 

Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard 
Of your entire affection to Bianca; 

And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, 

I will with you, if you be so contented, 

Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. 
Hor. See, how they kiss and court! 

centio, 

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow 

Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, 

As one unworthy all the former favours 

That I have fondly flatter’d her withal. 

Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, 
Never to marry with her though she would entreat; 
Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court him! 

Hor. Would all the world but he had quite for- 

sworn! 
For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, 
I will be married to a wealthy widow, 
Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me 
As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard. 
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. 
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, 
Shall win my love: and so I take my leave, 
In resolution as I swore before. [ Batt. 

Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace 
As “longeth to a lover’s blessed case! 

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love, 
And have forsworn you with Hortensio. 

Bian. Tranio, you jest: but have you both for- 

sworn me ? 

Tra. Mistress, we have. ih 

Luc. Then we are rid of Licio. 

Tra. I’ faith, he ll have a lusty widow now, 
That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day. 

Bian. God give him joy! 

Tra. Ay, and he ’ll tame her. 

Bian. 


Now, tell me, 


Signior Lu- 


He says so, Tranio. 
203 


ACT IV. 


Tra. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. 
Bian. The taming-school! what, is there such a 
place ? 
Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master; 
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, 
To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. 


Enter Biondello. 


Bion. O master, master, I have watch’d so long 
That I am dog-weary: but at last I spied 
An ancient angel coming down the hill, 
Will serve the turn. 
Tra. What is he, Biondello ? 
Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, 
I know not what; but formal in apparel, 
In gait and countenance surely like a father. 
Luc. And what of him, Tranio ? 
Tra. If he be credulous and trust my tale, 
I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, 
And give assurance to Baptista Minola, 
As if he were the right Vincentio. 
Take in your love, and then let me alone. 
[Hxeunt Lucentio and Bianca. 


Enter a Pedant. 


Ped. God save you, sir! 
Tra. \ And you, sir! you are welcome. 
Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? 
Ped. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two: 
But then up farther, and as far as Rome; 
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. 
Tra. What countryman, I pray ? 
Ped. Of Mantua. 
Tra. Of Mantua, sir? marry, God forbid! 
And come to Padua, careless of your life ? 
Ped. My life, sir! how, I pray ? for that goes hard. 
Tra. Tis death for any one in Mantua 
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? 
Your ships are stay’d at Venice, and the duke, 
For private quarrel *twixt your duke and him, 
Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly: 
*T is marvel, but that you are but newly come, 
You might have heard it else proclaim’d about. 
Ped. Alas! sir, it is worse for me than so; 
For I have bills for money by exchange 
From Florence and must here deliver them. 
Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, 
This will I do, and this I will advise you: 
First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa ? 
Ped. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, 
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. 
Tra. Among them know you one Vincentio ? 
Ped. I know him not, but I have heard of him; 
A merchant of incomparable wealth. 
Tra. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, 
In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. 
Bion. [Aside] As much as an apple doth an oyster, 
and all one. 
Tra. To save your life in this extremity, 
This favour will I do you for his sake; 
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes 
That you are like to Sir Vincentio. 
His name and credit shall you undertake, 
.And in my house you shall be friendly lodged : 
Look that you take upon you as you should; 
You understand me, sir: so shall you stay 
Till you have done your business in the city: 
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. 
Ped. O sir, Ido; and will repute you ever 
The patron of my life and liberty. 
Tru. Then go with me to make the matter good. 
This, by the way, I let you understand ; 
My father is here look’d for every day, 
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 
*Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here: 
In all these circumstances Ill instruct you: 
Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [Hxeunt. 


204 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE frIl. 


SCENE III.—A room in Petruchio’s house 


Enter Katharina and Grumio. 


Gru. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. 
Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite ap- 
What, did he marry me to famish me? [pears : 
Beggars, that come unto my father’s door, 
Upon entreaty have a present alms; 
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity: 
But I, who never knew how to entreat, 
Nor never needed that I should entreat, 
Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep, 
With oaths kept waking and with brawling fed: 
And that which spites me more than all these wants, 
He does it under name of perfect love; 
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat, 
°T were deadly sickness or else present death. 
I prithee go and get me some repast ; 
I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 
Gru. What say you to a neat’s foot ? 
Kath. ’T is passing good: I prithee let me have it. 
Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat. 
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d ? 
Kath. 1 like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me. 
Gru. I cannot tell; I fear ’t is choleric. 
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard ? 
Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 
Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 
Kath. Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest. 
Gru. Nay then, I will not: you shall have the mus- 
Or else you get no beef of Grumio. {tard, 
Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. 
Gru. Why then, the mustard without the beef. 
Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, 
[Beats him. 
That feed’st me with the very name of meat: 
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you, 
That triumph thus upon my misery! 
Go, get thee gone, I say. 


Enter Petruchio and Hortensio with meat. 


Pet. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all 
Hor. Mistress, what cheer ? [amort ? 
Kath. Faith, as cold as can be. 
Pet. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. 
Here, love; thou see’st how diligent I am 
To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee: 
Iam sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. 
What, nota word? Nay, then thou lovest it not; 
And all my pains is sorted to no proof. 
Here, take away this dish. 
Kath. I pray you, let it stand. 
Pet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; 
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. 
Kath. I thank you, sir. 
Hor. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. _ 
Come, Mistress Kate, Ill bear you company. [me. 
Pet. [Aside] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest — 
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! . 
Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, 
Will we return unto thy father’s house 
And revel it as bravely as the best, : 
With silken coats and caps and golden rings, 
With ruffs and cuffs and fardingales and things; ¢ 
With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, 
With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery. ; 


7 
: 
What, hast thou dined ? The tailor stays thy leisure, 
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 
Enter Tailor. . 


Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ; 
Lay forth the gown. 


Enter Haberdasher. 
What news with you, sir? 
Hab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. 
Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; 


S “AI PV—AARUHS AHL AO ONINVIL 


‘ITL OUSD 


ig? 


, 


if 
at 


i 
hh 


fi. ® 


NZ 


} 
i 


yy 
YMG 
YX 
“QU 
= 


a 


\\ 


{RO 


apie? ip 


ACT IV. 


A velvet dish: fie, fie! *tis lewd and filthy: 
Why, *tis a cockle or a walnut-shell, 
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap: 
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. 

Kath. ‘le have to bigger: this doth fit the time, 
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. 

Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, 
And not till then. 

Hor. | Aside] That will not be in haste. 

rath. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak ; 

And speak I will; Iam no child, no babe: 
Your betters have endured me say my mind, 
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 


My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, 
- Or else my heart concealing it will break, 


And rather than it shall, I will be free 
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 

Pet. Why, thou say’st true; it isa paltry cap, 
A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie: 

I love thee well, in that thou likest it not. 

Kath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; 
And it I will have, or I will have none. 

[Hxit Haberdasher. 

Pet. Thy gown ? why,ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. 
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here ? 
What’s this? asleeve? ’tis like a demi-cannon: 
What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart ? 
Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, 
Like to a censer in a barber’s shop: 

Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? 

Hor. | Aside] I see she’s like to have neither cap 

nor gown. 

Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well, 
According to the fashion and the time. 

Pet. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d, 
I did not bid you mar it to the time. 

Go, hop me over every kennel home, 
For you shall hop without my custom, sir: 
Ill none of it: hence! make your best of it. 

Kath. I never saw a better-fashion’d gown, 
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commend- 
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. __[able: 

PS true; he means to make a puppet of 

ee 


Tai. She says your worship means to make a 
puppet of her. 
Pet. O monstrous arrogance! 


Thou liest, thou 
thread, thou thimble ! 


- Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail, 


Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! 
Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread ? 
Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant: 
Or I shall so be-meet thee with thy yard 
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou livest ! 
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown. 
Tai. Your worship is deceived; the gown is made 
Just as my master had direction: 
Grumio gave order how it should be done. 
Gru. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff. 
Tat. But how did you desire it should be made? 
Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. 
Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? 
Gru. Thou hast faced many things. 
Tai. I have. 
Gru. Face not me: thou hast braved many men; 
brave not me; I will neither be faced nor braved. 
I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown, 
pr did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou 
iest. 
Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to tes- 
Pet. Read it. [tify. 
Gru. The note lies in’s throat, if he say I said so. 
Tai. [Reads] ‘ Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown :’ 
Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, 
sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death 
with a bottom of brown thread: I said a gown. 
Pet. Proceed. 


THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE IV. 


Tai. [Reads] * With a small compassed cape :’ 

Gru. I confess the cape. . 

Tai. [Reads] *‘ With a trunk sleeve :’ 

Gru. I confess two sleeves. 

Tai. [Reads] *‘ The sleeves curiously cut.’ 

Pet. Ay, there’s the villany. 

Gru. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I 
commanded the sleeves should be cut out and 
sewed up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, 
though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. 

Tat. This is true that I say: an I had thee in 
place where, thou shouldst know it. 

Gru. I am for thee straight: take thou the bill, 
give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. __[odds. 

Hor. God-a-mercy,Grumio! then he shall have no 

Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. 

Gru. You are i’ the right, sir: *tis for my mis- 

Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. [tress. 

Gru. Villain, not for thy life: take up my mis- 
stress’ gown for thy master’s use! 

Pet. Why, sir, what ’s your conceit in that? [for: 

Gru. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think 
Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! 

O, fie, fie, fie! [paid. 

Pet. [Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor 
Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. 

Hor. Tailor, Ill pay thee for thy gown to-morrow : 
Take no unkindness of his hasty words: 

Away! I say; commend me to thy master. 
[Hait Tailor. 

Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your 
Even in these honest mean habiliments: [father’s 
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; 

For ‘tis the mind that makes the body rich; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 

What is the jay more precious than the lark, 
Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 

Or is the adder better than the eel, 

Because his painted skin contents the eye ? 

O, no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse 
For this poor furniture and mean array. 

If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me; 

And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith, 
To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. 

Go, call my men, and let us straight to him; 
And bring our horses unto Long-iane end ; 
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. 
Let ’s see; I think ’t is now some seven o’clock, 
And well we may come there by dinner-time. 

Kath. I dare assure you, sir, ’t is almost two: 
And ’t will be supper-time ere you come there. 

Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to horse: 

Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, 
You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone: 
I will not go to-day; and ere I do, 

It shall be what o’clock I say it is. 

Hor. [Aside] Why, so this gallant will command 

the sun. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Padua. 


Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like 
Vincentio. 


Tra. Sir, this is the house: please it you that I 
call ? 

Ped. Ay, what else? and but I be deceived 
Signior Baptista may remember me, 
Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, 
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. 

Tra. ’T is well; and hold your own, in any case, 
With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. 

Ped. I warrant you. 


Enter Biondello. 


But, sir, here comes your boy; 
’T were good he were school’d. 
205 


Before Baptista’s house. 


ACD SEY. 
Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, 
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you: 
Imagine ‘t were the right Vincentio. 
Bion. Tut, fear not me. 
Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista ? 
Bion. I told him that your father was at Venice, 
And that you look’d for him this day in Padua. 
Tra. Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to 
drink. 
Here comes Baptista: set your countenance, sir. 


Enter Baptista and Lucentio. 


Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [you of: 
[Zo the Pedant] Sir, this is the gentleman I told 
I pray you, stand good father to me now, 
Give me Bianca for my patrimony. 

Ped. Soft, son! 
Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua 
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio 
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause 
Of love between your daughter and himself: 
And, for the good report I hear of you 
And for the love he beareth to your daughter 
And she to him, to stay him not too long, 
I am content, in a good father’s care, 
To have him match’d; and if you please to like 
No worse than I, upon some agreement 
Me shall you find ready and willing 
With one consent to have her so bestow’d; 
For curious I cannot be with you, 
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. 

ap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say: 

Your plainness and your shortness please me well. 
Right true it is, your son Lucentio here 
Doth love my daughter and she loveth him, 
Or both dissemble deeply their affections: 
And therefore, if you say no more than this, 
That like a father you will deal with him 
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, 
The match is made, and all is done: 
Your son shall have my daughter with consent. 

Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know 
We be aflfied and such assurance ta’en [best 
As shall with either part’s agreement stand ? 

Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know, 
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants: 
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still; 

And happily we might be interrupted. 

Tra. 'Then at my lodging, an it like you: 

There doth my father he; and there, this night, 
We ’ll pass the business privately and well. 

Send for your daughter by your servant here; 
My boy shall fetch the scrivenerx presently. 

The worst is this, that, at so slender warning, 
You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. 

Bap. It likes me well. Biondello, hie you home, 
And bid Bianca make her ready straight ; 

And, if you will, tell what hath happened, 
Lucentio’s father is arrived in Padua, 
And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. 
Bion. I pray the gods she may with all my heart! 
Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. 
[Hxit Bion. 
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ? 
Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer: 
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. 

Bap. I follow you. 

[Hxeunt Tranio, Pedant, and Baptista. 


Tte-enter Biondello. 

Bion. Cambio! 

Luc. What sayest thou, Biondello ? 

Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon 

Luc. Biondello, what of that ? [you ? 

Bion. Faith, nothing; but has left me here be- 
hind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs 
and tokens. 


206 


| ‘ 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


aT 
SCENE V. 


Tue. I pray thee, moralize them. 

Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with 
the deceiving father of a deceitful son. — 

Luc. And what of him? | ' 

Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to 
the supper. 

Tuc. And then? 

Bion. The old priest of Saint Luke’s church is at 
your command at all hours. 

Luc. And what of all this ? 

Bion. I cannot tell; expect they are busied about 
a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, 
‘cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum:’ to the 
church; take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient 
honest witnesses : 

If this be not that you look for, I have no more to 
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [say, 

Luc. Hearest thou, Biondello ? 

Bion. I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married 
in an afternoon as she went to the garden for 
parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir: and 
so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go 
to Saint Luke’s, to bid the priest be ready to come 
against you come with your appendix. [ Exit. 

Luc. I may, and will, if she be so contented : 
She will be pleased ; then wherefore should I doubt ? 
Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her: 

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. [wit. 


SCENE V.— A public road. 


Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and 
Servants. 


Pet. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward 
our father’s. 
Good Lord, how Laie and goodly shines the moon! 
Kath. The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight 
now. 
Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. 
Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 
Pet. Now, by my mother’s son, and that ’s myself, 
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, 
Or ere I journey to your father’s house. 
Go on, and fetch our horses back again. 
Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d ! 
Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go. 
Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, 
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please: 
An if you please to call it a rush-candle, 
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. 
Pet. I say it is the moon. 
Kath. I know it is the moon. 
Pet. Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun. 
‘ath. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun: 
But sun it is not, when you say it is not; 
And the moon changes even as your mind. 
What you will have it named, even that it is; 
And so it shall be so for Katharine. 
Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won. 
Pet. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should 
And not unluckily against the bias. [ruu, 
But, soft! company is coming here. 


Enter Vincentio. 


[To Vincentio] Good morrow, gentle mistress: where 
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, [away ? 
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? 
Such war of white and red within her cheeks! 
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, 
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? 
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. 
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake. 

Hor. A’ will make the man mad, to make a 
woman of him. 

Kath. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and 
Whither away, or where is thy abode ? [sweet, 
Happy the parents of so fair a child; 


4 
ACT Vv. 


Happier the man, whom favourable stars 
Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! [mad: 
Pet. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not 
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d, 
And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is. 
Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, 
That have been so bedazzled with the sun 
That everything I look on seemeth green: 
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; 
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. 
Pet. Do, good old grandsire; and withal make 
known 
Which way thou travellest: if along with us, 
We shall be joyful of thy company. 
Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, 
That with your strange encounter much amazed me, 
My name is call’d Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa; 
And bound I am to Padua; there to visit 
A son of mine, which long I have not seen. 
Pet. What is his name? 
Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. 
Pet. Happily met; the happier for thy son. 


P 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


SCENE I. 


——: 


And now by law, as well as reverend age, 
I may entitle thee my loving father: 
The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, 
Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, 
Nor be not grieved: she is of good esteem, 
Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth; 
Beside, so qualified as may beseem 
The spouse of any noble gentleman. 
Let me embrace with old Vincentio, 
And wander we to see thy honest son, 
Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. 
Vin. But is this true ? or is it else your pleasure, 
Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest 
Upon the company you overtake ? 
Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. 
Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof ; 
For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. 
[Hxeunt all but Hortensio. 
Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. 
Have to my widow! and if she be froward, 
Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be praia eh 
eit. 


Pe LV 


SCENE I.— Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. 


Gremio discovered. Enter behind Biondello, Lu- 
centio, and Bianca. 

Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is 
ready. 

Luc. I fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need 
thee at home; therefore leave us. 

Bion. Nay, faith, I ll see the church o’ your back ; 
and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can. 

[Hxeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello. 
Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. 


Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, Gru- 
mio, with Attendants. 


Pet. Sir, here ’s the door, thisis Lucentio’s house : 
My father’s bears more toward the market-place ; 
Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. 

Vin. You shall not choose but drink before you 


0: 
I flint I shall command your welcome here, 
And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. 
[| Knocks. 

Gre. They ’re busy within; you were best knock 

louder. 
Pedant looks out of the window. 

Ped. What’s he that knocks as he would beat 
down the gate? 

Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir ? 

Ped. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. 

Vin. What if a man bring him a hundred pound 
or two, to make merry withal ? 

Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he 
shall need none, so long as I live. 

Pet. Nay, lL told you your son was well beloved 
in Padua. Do you hear, sir? ‘To leave frivolous 
circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio 
that his father is come from Pisa and is here at the 
door to speak with him. 

Ped. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua 
and here looking out at the window. 

Vin. Art thou his father ? 

wee: Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe 

e 


2 

Pet. [To Vincentio] Why, how now, gentleman! 
why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another 
man’s name. 

Ped. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a’ means to 
cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. 


Re-enter Biondello. 


Bion. I have seen them in the church together : 
God send ’em good ed But who is here ? 
mine old master Vincentio! now we are undone 
and brought to nothing. 

Vin. [Seeing Biondello] Come hither, crack hemp. 

Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. [got me ? 

Vin. Come hither, yourogue. What, have you for- 

Bion. Forgot you! no, sir: I could not forget you, 
for I never saw you before in all my life. 

Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never 
see thy master’s father, Vincentio ? 

Bion. What, my old worshipful old master? yes, 
marry, sir: see where he looks out of the window. 

Vin. Is’t so, indeed ? [Beats Biondello. 

Bion. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will 
murder me. [ Exit. 

Ped. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! 

[Hatt from above. 

Pet. Prithee, Kate, let ’s stand aside and see the 
end of this controversy. [ They retire. 


Re-enter Pedant below; Tranio, Baptista, and 
Servants. 


Tra. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my ser- 
vant ? 

Vin. What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O 
immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! 
a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! 
O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the 
good husband at home, my son and my servant 
spend all at the university. 

Tra. How now! what’s the matter ? 

Bap. What, is the man lunatic ? 

Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by 
your habit, but your words show you a madman. 
Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and 
gold ? I thank my good father, I am able to main- 
tain it. | Bergamo 

Vin. Thy father! O villain! he is a sail-maker im 

Bap. You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, 
what do you think is his name ? 

Vin. His name! as if I knew not his name: I 
have brought him up ever since he was three years 
old, and his name is Tranio. ; 

Ped. Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio, 
and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, 
Signior Vincentio. 

207 


ACT V. 


Vin. Lucentio! O,he hath murdered his master! 
Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke’s name. 
O,my son,my son! Tell me, thou villain, where 
is my son Lucentio ? 

Tra. Call forth an officer. 


Enter one with an Officer. 


Carry this mad knave to the gaol. 
I charge you see that he be forthcoming. 

Vin. Carry me to the gaol! 

Gre. Stay, officer: he shall not go to prison. 

Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go 
to prison. 

Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be 
cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is 
the right Vincentio. 

Ped. Swear, if thou darest. 

Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. 

Tra. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lu- 
centio. 

Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. 

Bap. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! 

Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abused: O 
monstrous villain! 


Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. 


Bion. O! we are spoiled and — yonder he is: deny 
him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. 
Luc. [Kneeling] Pardon, sweet father. 
Vin. Lives my sweet son ? 
[Exeunt Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant, 
as fast as may be. 
Bian. Pardon, dear father. 
Bap. How hast thou offended ? 
Where is Lucentio? 
Uc. Here’s Lucentio, 
Right son to the right Vincentio; 
That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, 
While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne. 
moe: Here’s packing, with a witness, to deceive 
us all! 
Vin. Where is that damned villain Tranio, 
That faced and braved me in this matter so ? 
Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio ? 
Bian. Cambio is changed into Lucentio. 
Luc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love 
Made me exchange my state with Tranio, 
While he did bear my countenance in the town; 
And happily I have arrived at the last 
Unto the wished haven of my bliss. 
What Tranio did, myself enforced him to; 
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. 
Vin. 171) slit the villain’s nose, that would have 
sent me to the gaol. 
Bap. But do you hear, sir? have you married my 
daughter without asking my good will? 
Vin. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go 
to: but I will in, to be revenged for this Manas 2 
eit. 
Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this sna 
ait. 
Luc. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not 
frown. | Hxeunt Lucentio and Bianca. 
Gre. My cake is dough; but I’ll in among the 


rest, . 

Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast. [ zit. 
Kath. Husband, let ’s follow, to see the end of this 
Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. [ado. 
Kath. What, in the midst of the street ? 

Pet. What, art thou ashamed of me ? 

Kath. No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. 

Pet. Why,then let ’s home again. Come, sirrah, 
let ’s away. 

Kath. Nay, I will give theea kiss: now pray thee, 
love, stay. 

Pet. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate: 

Better once than never, for never too late. [Ezeunt. 


208 


| } 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


Father Baptista, 


SCENE II. 


SCENE II.— Padua. Lucentio’s house. 


Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lu- 
centio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, 
and Widow, Tranio, Biondello, and Grumio: the 
Servingmen with Tranio bringing in a banquet. 


Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: 
And time it is, when raging war is done, 
To smile at scapes and perils overblown. 
My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, 
While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. 
Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina, 
And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, 
Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: 
My banquet is to close our stomachs up, 
After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; 
For now we sit to chat as well as eat. 
Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! 
Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. 
Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. 
sib For both our sakes, I would that word were 
rue. 
Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. 
Wid. Then never trust me, if I be afeard. 
Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my 
I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. [sense : 
Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns 
Pet. Roundly replied. [round. 
Kath. Mistress, how mean you that ? 
Wid. Thus I conceive by him. 
Pet. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that ? 
Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. 
Pet. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good 
widow. [round:’ 
Kath. ‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns 
I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. 
Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, 
Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe: 
And now you know my meaning. 
Kath. A very mean meaning. 
Wid. Right, I mean you. 
Kath. And I am mean indeed, respecting you. 
Pet. To her, Kate! 
Hor. To her, widow! [down. 
Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her 
Hor. That’s my office. 
Pet. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad! 
[Drinks to Hortensio. 
Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks ? 
Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. 
Bian. Head, and butt! an hasty-witted body ; 
Would say your head and butt were head and horn. 
Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you ? 
Bian. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I ll 
sleep again. un, 
Pet. Nay, that you shall not: since you have be- 
Have at you for a bitter jest or two! 
Bian. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush; 
And then pursue me as you draw your bow. 
You are welcome all. 
[Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow. 
Pet. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio, 
This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not; 
Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. 
Tra. O,sir, Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound, 
Which runs himself and catches for his master. 
Pet. A good swift simile, but something currish. 
Tra. ’T is well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: 
’T is thought your deer does hold you at a bay. 
Bap. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now. 
Tne. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. 
Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here? 
Pet. A’ has a little eall’d me, I confess; 
And, as the jest did glance away from me, 
’T is ten to one it maim’d you two outright. 
Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, 
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 


ACT V. 


Pet. Well, I say no: and therefore for assurance 
Let ’s each one send unto his wife; _ 
And he whose wite is most obedient 
To come at first when he doth send for her, 
Shall win the wager which we will propose. 
Hor. Content. What is the wager ? 
Luc. Twenty crowns. 
Pet. Twenty crowns! 
I ‘il venture so much of my hawk or hound, 
But twenty times so much upon my wife. 
Luc. A hundred then. 


Hor. Content. 

Pet. A match! ’tis done. 
Hor. Who shall begin ? 

Lue That will I. 


Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 
Bion. I go. 
Bap. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes. 
Luc. 1’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself. 


[ Exit. 


Re-enter Biondello. 


How now! what news ? 
Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word 
That she is busy and she cannot come. 
Pet. How! she is busy and she cannot come! 
Js that an answer ? 
Gre. Ay, and a kind one too: 
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. 
Pet. I hope, better. 
Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife 
To come to me forthwith. [ Hauit Bion. 
Pet. O, ho! entreat her! 
Nay, then she must needs come. 
Hor. T am afraid, sir, 
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. 


Re-enter Biondello. . 


Now, where ’s my wife ? 

Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: 
She will not come; she bids you come to her. 

Pet. Worse and worse; she will not come! Ovile, 
Intolerable, not to be endured! 
Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; 
Say, I command her come to me. 

Hor. I know her answer. 

Pet. What ? 


[Hxit Grunio. 


Hor. She will not. 
Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. 
Bap. Now,by my holidame,here comes Katharina! 


Re-enter Katharina. 


Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? 
Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife ? 
Kath.. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. 
Pet. Go, fetch them hither: if they deny to come, 
Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands: 
Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. 
[| Hxit Katharina. 
Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. 
Hor. And so it is: I wonder what it bodes. 
Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love and quiet life, 
And awful rule and right supremacy ; 
And, to be short, what not, that ’s sweet and happy ? 
Bap. Now, fair befal thee, good Petruchio! 
The wager thou hast won; and I will add 
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; 
Another dowry to another daughter, 
For she is changed, as she had never been. 
Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet 
And show more sign of her obedience, 
Her new-built virtue and obedience. 
See where she comes and brings your froward wives 
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. 


Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow. 


Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not: 
Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot. 


14 


Dene TAMING OF THE SHEL W. 


SCENE II, 


Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, 
Till I be brought to such a silly pass! 

Bian. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this ? 

Luc. 1 would your duty were as foolish too: 


|The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 


Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time. 
Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my duty. 
Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these head- 

strong women 

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 
Wid. Come, come, you ’re mocking: we will have 

no telling. 
Pet. Come on, I say; and first begin with her. 
Wid. She shall not. 
Pet. I say she shall: and first begin with her. 
soaks Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind 
row, 

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: 

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, 

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, 

And in no sense is meet or amiable. 

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, 

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; 

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. 

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, 

And for thy maintenance commits his body 

To painful labour both by sea and land, 

To watch the night in storms, the day 1n cold, 

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; 

And craves no other tribute at thy hands 

But love, fair looks and true obedience; 

Too little payment for so great a debt. 

Such duty as the subject owes the prince 

Even such a woman oweth to her husband; 

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 

And not obedient to his honest will, 

What is she but a foul contending rebel 

And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? 

I am ashamed that women are so simple 

To offer war where they should kneel for peace, 

Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, 

When they are bound to serve, love and obey. 

Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, 

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, 

But that our soft conditions and our hearts 

Should well agree with our external parts ? 

Come, come, you froward and unable worms! 

My mind hath been as big as one of yours, 

My heart as great, my reason haply more, 

To bandy word for word and frown for frown ; 

But now I see our lances are but straws, 

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, 

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are 

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, 

And place your hands below your husband’s foot: 

In token of which duty, if he please, 

My hand is ready; may it do him ease. 

Pet. Why, there ’s a wench! Come on, and kiss 
me, Kate. 

Luc. Well, go 
ha’t. 

Vin. ’Tis a good hearing when children are to- 
ward. [ward. 

Luc. But a harsh hearing when woman are {ro- 

Pet. Come, Kate, we ’ll to bed. 

We three are married, but you two are sped. 

[To Luc.] ’T was I won the wager, though you hit 

the white; 

And, being a winner, God give you good night! 

[Hxeunt Petruchio and Katharina. 
Hor. Now, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst 


thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt 


shrew. 
Luc. "Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be 
tamed so. [ Exeunt. 


209 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


King of France. 

Duke of Florence. 

Bertram, Count of Rousillon. 
Lafeu, an old lord. 

Parolles, a follower of Bertram. 


Steward, ! servants to the Countess of 
Clown, j| Rousillon. 
A Page. 


Countess of Rousillon, mother to Bertram. 


Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess. 
An old Widow of Florence. 

Diana, daughter to the Widow. 

Violenta, } neighbours and friends to the 
Mariana, Widow. 


Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine. 


SCENE — Rousillon ; Paris ; Florence ; Marseilles. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page L.] 


nd Oa Ram 6 


SCENE I1.— Rousillon. The Count’s palace. 


Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, He- 
lena, and Lafeu, all in black. 


Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a 
second husband. 

Ber. And Lin going, madam, weep o’er my father’s 
death anew: but I must attend his majesty’s com- 
mand, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in sub- 
jection. 

Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, 
madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is 
at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue 
to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where 
it wanted rather than lack it where there is such 
abundance. [ment ? 

Count. What hope is there of his majesty’s amend- 

Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam ; 
under whose practices he hath persecuted time 
with hope, and finds no other advantage in the pro- 
cess but only the losing of hope by time. 

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father,— 
O, that ‘had’! how sad a passage ’t is! — whose 
skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it 
stretched so far, would have made nature immor- 
tal, and death should have play for lack of work. 
Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think 
it would be the death of the king’s disease. [madam ? 

Laf. How called you the man you speak of, 

Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and 
it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon. 

Laf. He was excellent indeed, madam: the king 
very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourn- 
ingly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, 
if knowledge could be set up against mortality. 

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes 

Laf. A fistula, my lord. [of? 

Ber. 1 heard not of it before. 

Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was this 
gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon ? 

Count. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed 
to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good 
that her education promises; her dispositions she 
inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where 
an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there 
commendations go with pity; they are virtues 
and traitors too: in her they are the better for 
their simpleness; she derives her honesty and 
achieves her goodness. 

210 


Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her 


Count. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season 
her praise in. The remembrance of her father 
never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her 
sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No 
more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be 
rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it. 
Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. 
Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the 
dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. 
Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the 
excess makes it soon mortal. 
Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. ; 
Laf. How understand we that ? [father 
Count. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy 
In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue 
Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness 
Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, 
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 
Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, 
But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more 
will, 
That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, 
Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; 
*T is an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, 
Advise him. 
af. He cannot want the best 
That shall attend his love. 
Count. Heaven bless him! Farewell, can 
wit. 
Ber. [To Helena] The best wishes that can be 
forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be 
comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make 
much of her. 
Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the 
credit of your father. | inert Bertram and Lafeu. 
Hel. O, were that all! I think not on my father; 
And these great tears grace his remembrance more 
Than those I shed for him. What was he like? 
I have forgot him: my imagination 
Carries no favour in ’t but Bertram’s. 
I am undone: there is no living, none, 
If Bertram be away. ’T were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star 
And think to wed it, he is so above me: 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 


ACT I. 


The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: 

The hind that would be mated by the lion 

Must die for love. ’T was pretty, though a plague, 
To see him every hour; to sit and draw 

Ilis arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 

In our heart’s table; heart too capable 

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: 

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy 

Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here ? 


Enter Parolles. 


[Aside] one that goes with him: I love him for his 
sake ; 

And yet I know him a notorious liar, 

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; 

Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him, 

That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones 

Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see 

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 

Par. Save you, fair queen! 

Hel. And you, monarch! 

ers INO: 

Hel. And no. 

Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? 

Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: 
let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to vir- 
ginity; how may we barricado it against him ? 

Par. Keep him out. 

Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though 
valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us 
some warlike resistance. 

Par. There is none: man, sitting down before 
you, will undermine you and blow you up. 

Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers 
and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how 
virgins might blow up men! 

Par. Virginity being blown down, man will 
quicklier be blown up; marry, in blowing him 
down again, with the breach yourselves made, you 
lose your city. It is not politic in the common- 
wealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of vir- 
ginity is rational increase and there was never vir- 
gin got till virginity was first lost. That you were 
made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by 
being once lost may be ten times found; by being 
ever kept, it is ever lost: ’tis too cold a companion ; 
away with ’t. 

Hel. I will stand for ’t a little, though therefore 
[ die a virgin. 

Par. There’s little can be said in ’t; tis against 
the rule of nature. To speak on the part of vir- 
ginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most 
infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is 
a virgin: virginity murders itself; and should be 
buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a 
desperate offendress against nature. Virginity 
breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself 
to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own 
stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, 
made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in 
the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but 
lose by *t: out with ’t! within ten year it will make 
itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the prin- 
cipal itself not much the worse; away with ’t! 

Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own 
liking ? 

Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that 
ne’er it likes. °T isa commodity will lose the gloss 
with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off 
with ’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of re- 
quest. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her 
cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: 
just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear 
not now. Your date is better in your pie and your 
porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, 
your old virginity, is like one of our French with- 
ered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a 


ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE II. 


withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 
’tis a withered pear: will you anything with it ? 

Hel. Not my virginity yet... 

There shall your master have a thousand loves. 
A mother and a mistress and a friend, 

A phoenix, captain and an enemy, 

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, 

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear ; 

His humble ambition, proud humility, 

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world 

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms, 

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he— 
I know not what he shall. God send him well! 
The court ’s a learning place, and he is one— 

Par. What one, i’ faith ? 

Hel. That I wish well. ’Tis pity — 

Par. Whats pity ? 

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in ’t, 
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, 
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 

Might with effects of them follow our friends, 
And show what we alone must think, which never 
Returns us thanks. 

Enter Page. 

Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for ee 

it. 

Par. Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember 
thee, I will think of thee at court. 

Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a 
charitable star. 

Par. Under Mars, I. 

Hel. I especially think, under Mars. 

Par. Why under Mars ? 

Hel. The wars have so kept you under that you 
must needs be born under Mars. 

Par. When he was predominant. 

Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather. 

Par. Why think you so ? 

Hel. You go so much backward when you fight. 

Par. That’s for advantage. 

Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the 
safety: but the composition that your valour and 
fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I 
like the wear well. 

Par. Iam so full of businesses, I cannot answer 
thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the 
which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, 
so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel and 
understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; 
else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine 
ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou 
hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, 
remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, 
and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell. [itt. 

Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull 
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 
What power is it which mounts my love so high, 
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? 
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 

To join like likes and kiss like native things. 
Impossible be strange attempts to those 

That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose 
What hath been cannot be: who ever strove 

To show her merit, that did miss her love ? 

The king’s disease—my project may deceive me, 
But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me. 


[ Exit. 
SCENH II.— Paris. The king’s palace. 
Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, 
with letters, and divers Attendants. 


King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears ; 
Have fought with equal fortune and continue 


A braving war. 


211 


ACT TI. 


First Lord. So *t is reported, sir. 

King. Nay, ’tis most credible; we here receive it 
A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, 
With caution that the Florentine will move us 
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend 
Prejudicates the business and would seem 
To have us make denial. 

First Lord. His love and wisdom, 
Approved so to your majesty, may plead 
For amplest credence. 

king. He hath arm’d our answer, 
And Florence is denied before he comes: 

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see 
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave 
To stand on either part. 

Sec. Lord. It well may serve 
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 
For breathing and exploit. 

King. What ’s he comes here ? 


Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 


First Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good 
Young Bertram. [lord, 
King. Youth,thou bear’st thy father’s face ; 
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, 
Hath well composed thee. Thy father’s moral parts 
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris. 
Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty’s. 
King. I would I had that corporal soundness now, 
As when thy father and myself in friendship 
First tried our soldiership! He did look far 
Into the service of the time and was 
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long; 
But on us both did haggish age steal on 
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me 
To talk of your good father. In his youth 
He had the wit which I can well observe 
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest 
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted 
Ere they can hide their levity in honour: 
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness 
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, 
His equal had awaked them, and his honour, 
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 
Exception bid him speak, and at this time 
His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him 
He used as creatures of another place 
And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, 
Making them proud of his humility, 
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man 
Might be a copy to these younger times; 
Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now 
But goers backward. 
Ber. His good remembrance, sir, 
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; 
So in approof lives not his epitaph 
As in your royal speech. [say — 
King. Would I were with him! He would always 
Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words 
He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them, 
To grow there and to bear,— Let me not live,’— 
This his good melancholy oft began, 
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, 
When it was out,— Let me not live,’ quoth he, 
‘ After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff 
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are 
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies 
Expire before their fashions. This he wish’d: 
I after him do after him wish too, 
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, 
I quickly were dissolved from my hive, 
To give some labourers room. 
Sec. Lord. You are loved, sir; 
They that least lend it you shall lack you first. 
dking. I fill a place, I know ’t. How long is’t, 
count, 
212 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE IIlf. 


Since the physician at your father’s died ? 
He was much famed. 
Ber. Some six months since, my lord. 
King. If he were living, I would try him yet. 
Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out 


/ With several applications: nature and sickness 


Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count; 
My son ’s no dearer. 
Ber. Thank your majesty. 


[Exeunt. Flourish. 
SCENE III. — Rousillon. 


Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. 


Count. I will now hear; what say you of this gen- 
tlewoman ? 

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your 
content, I wish might be found in the calendar of 
my past endeavours; for then we wound our mod-. 
esty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, 
when of ourselves we publish them. 

Count. What does this knave here? Get you 
gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you L 
do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; 
for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and 
have ability enough to make such knaveries yours. 

Clo. ’Tis not unknown to you, madam, Iam a poor 

Count. Well, sir. [fellow. 

Clo. No, madam, ’t is not so well that I am poor, 
though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may 
have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, 
Isbel the woman and I will do as we may. 

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar ? 

Clo. I do beg your good will in this case. 

Count. In what case ? 

Clo. In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no 
heritage: and I think I shall never have the bless- 
ing of God till I have issue 0’ my body; for they 
say barnes are blessings. 

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry. 

Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I am 
driven on by the fiesh; and he must needs go that 
the devil drives. 

Count. Is this all your worship’s reason ? 

Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, 
such as they are. 

Count. May the world know them ? 

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as 
you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do 
marry that I may repent. 

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness. 

Olo. I am out o’ friends, madam; and I hope to 
have friends for my wife’s sake. 

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. 

Clo. You’re shallow, madam, in great friends: 
for the knaves come to do that for me which I am 
aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team 
and gives me leave to in the crop; if 1 be his cuck- 
old, he’s my drudge: he that comforts my wife is 
the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cher- 
ishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; 
he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, 
he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could 
be contented to be what they are, there were no 
fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan 
and old Poysam the papist, howsome’er their hearts 
are severed in religion, their heads are both one; 
pee may joul horns together, like any deer i’ the 

erd. 

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and 
calumnious knave ? 

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth 
the next way: 

For I the ballad will repeat, 
Which men full true shall find; 

Your marriage comes by destiny, 
Your cuckoo sings by Kind. 


The Count’s palace. 


ACT I. 


— 


Count. Get you gone, sir; Ill talk with you more 
anon. 

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid 
Helen come to you: of her I am to speak. 

Cowit. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak 
with her; Helen, I mean. 

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, 

Why the Grecians sacked Troy ? 
Fond done, done fond, 

Was this King Priam’s joy ? 
With that she sighed as she stood, 
With that she sighed as she stood, 

And gave this sentence then; 
Among nine bad if one be good, 
Among nine bad if one be good, 

There ’s yet one good in ten. 

Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the 
song, sirrah. 

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is 
a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve 
the world so all the year! we’ld find no fault with 
the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, 
quoth a’! An we might have a good woman born 
but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 
*t would mend the lottery well: a man may draw 
his heart out, ere a’ pluck one. 

Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I 
command you. 

Clo. That man should be at woman’s command, 
and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puri- 
tan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice 
of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I 
am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to 
come hither. [ Exit. 

Count. Well, now. 

Stew. [know, madam, you love your gentlewoman 
entirely. 

Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to 
me; and she herself, without other advantage, may 
lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: 
there is more owing her than is paid; and more 
shall be paid her than she 71] demand. 

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than 
I think she wished me: alone she was, and did 
communicate to herself her own words to her own 
ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched 
not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved 
your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that 
had put such difference betwixt their two estates; 
Love no god, that would not extend his might, only 
where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, 
that would suffer her poor knight surprised, with- 
out rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. 
This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sor- 
row that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I 
held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; 
sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns 
you something to know it. 

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep 
it to yourself; many likelihoods informed me of 
this before, which hung so tottering in the balance 
that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray 
you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I 
thank you for your honest care: I will speak with 
you further anon. [Hxit Steward. 


Enter Helena. 


Even so it was with me when I was young: 

If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn 
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong ; 

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; 
It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, 
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth: 
By our remembrances of days foregone, 
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. 
Her eye is sick on ’t: I observe her now. 

Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ? 


ALLS WELE THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE III. 


Count. You know, Helen, 
I am a mother to you. 

fel. Mine honourable mistress. 

Count. Nay, a mother: 
Why not a mother? When I said ‘a mother,’ 
Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ‘ mother,’ 
That you start at it? Isay, Iam your mother; 
And put you in the catalogue of those 
That were enwombed mine: ’t is often seen 
Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds 
A native slip to us from foreign seeds: 

You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, 
Yet I express to you a mother’s care: 
God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood 
To say Iam thy mother? What’s the matter, 
That this distemper’d messenger of wet, 
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye ? 
Why ? that you are my daughter ? 
Hel That I am not. 


Count. I say, I am your mother. 
Hel. Pardon, madam; 
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother: 
I am from humble, he from honour’d name; 
No note upon my parents, his all noble: 
My master, my dear lord he is; and I 
His servant live, and will his vassal die: 
He must not be my brother. 
Count. Nor I your mother ? 
Hel. You are my mother, madam; would you 
were,— 
So that my lord your son were not my brother,— 
Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, 
I care no more for than I do for heaven, 
So I were not his sister. Can ’t no other, 
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother? flaw: 
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in- 
God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 
So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again? 
My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see 
The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears’ head: now to all sense ’tis gross 
You love my son; invention is ashamed, 
Against the proclamation of thy passion, 
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true; 
But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks 
Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes 
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours 
That in their kind they speak it: only sin 
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is ’t so? 
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; 
If it be not, forswear ’t: howe’er, I charge thee, 
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 
To tell me truly. 
Hel. Good madam, pardon me! 
Count. Do you love my son? 


Fel. Your pardon, noble mistress! 
Count. Love you my son? ; 
Fel Do not you love him, madam ? 


Count. Go not about; my love hath in ’t a bond, 
Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose 
The state of your affection; for your passions 
Have to the full appeach’d. 

Fel. Then, I confess, 
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, 
That before you, and next unto high heaven, 

I love your son. 

My friends were poor, but honest; so ’s my love: 
Be not offended; for it hurts not him 

That he is loved of me: I follow him not 

By any token of presumptuous suit ; , 
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ; 
Yet never know how that desert should be. 
I know [I love in vain, strive against hope ; 
Yet in this captious and intenible sieve 

I still pour in the waters of my love 
And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like, 


213 


ACT trL. 


Religious in mine error, I adore 
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
Let not your hate encounter with my love 
For loving where you do: but if yourself, 
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, 
Did ever in so true a fiame of liking 
Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian 
Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity 
To her, whose state is such that cannot choose 
But lend and give where she is sure to lose; 
That seeks not to find that her search implies, 
But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies! 
Count. Had you not lately an intent,— speak 
To go to Paris ? [truly, 
Hel. Madam, I had. 
Count. Wherefore ? tell true. 
Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. 
You know my father left me some prescriptions 
Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading 
And manifest experience had collected 
For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me 
In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, 
As notes whose faculties inclusive were 
More than they were in note: amongst the rest, 
There is a remedy, approved, set down, 
To cure the desperate languishings whereof 
The king is render’d lost. 
Count. 


This was your motive 
For Paris, was it? speak. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE I. 


Hel. My lord your son made me to think of this; 
Else Paris and the medicine and the king 
Had from the conversation of my thoughts 
Haply been absent then. 
Count. But think you, Helen, 
If you should tender your supposed aid, 
He would receive it ? he and his physicians 
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him, 
They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit 
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 
Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off 
The danger to itself ? 
Hel. There ’s something in’t, 
More than my father’s skill, which was the greatest 
Of his profession, that his good receipt 
Shall for my legacy be sanctified 
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your 
honour 
But give me leave to try success, I ld venture 
The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure 
By such a day and hour. 
Count. Dost thou believe ’t ? 
Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly. [love, 
Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and 
Means and attendants and my loving greetings 
To those of mine in court: I ’ll stay at home 
And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt: 
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this, 
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 
[ Hceunt. 


Wan a1 BD Bal BS 


SCENE I. — Paris. 


Flourish of cornets. Enter the King, attended with divers 
young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war ; Ber- 
tram, and Parolles. 


King. Farewell, young lords; these warlike prin- 
ciples [well: 
Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, fare- 
Share the advice betwixt you: if both gain, all 
The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis received, 
And is enough for both. 
First Lord. *T is our hope, sir, 
After well enter’d soldiers, to return 
And find your grace in health. 
King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart 
Will not confess he owes the malady 
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords; 
Whether I live or die, be you the sons 
Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy,— 
Those bated that inherit but the fall 
Of the last monarchy,—see that you come 
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when 
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, 
That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell. 
Sec. Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your 
majesty ! 
King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them: 
They say, our French lack language to deny, 
If they demand: beware of being captives, 
Before you serve. 
Both. Our hearts receive your warnings. 
King. Farewell. Come hither to me. 
[ Hxit, attended. 
First Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay 


The King’s palace. 


behind us! 
Par. ’T is not his fault, the spark. 
Sec. Lord. O, ’tis brave wars! 


Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars. 
Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with 
‘Too young’ and ‘the next year’ and ‘’tis too 
early.’ 
214 


Par. An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away 
bravely. 

Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, 
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, 

Till honour be bought up and no sword worn 
But one to dance with! By heaven, I’llsteal away. 

First Lord. There’s honour in the theft. 

Par. Commit it, count. 

Sec. Lord. I am your accessary ; and so, farewell. 

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured 

First Lord. Farewell, captain. [body. 

Sec. Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles! 

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. 
Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: 
you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one 
Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of 
war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very 
sword entrenched it: say to him, I live; and ob- 
serve his reports for me. 

First Lord. We shall, noble captain. 

[EHxeunt Lords. 

Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! what will 

Ber. Stay: the king. [ye do? 


Re-enter King. Bertram and Parolles retire. 


Par. [To Ber.| Use a more spacious ceremony to 
the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within 
the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to 
them: for they wear themselves in the cap of the 
time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and 
move under the influence of the most received star ; 
and though the devil lead the measure, such are to 
be followed: after them, and take a more dilated 
farewell. 

Ber. And I will do so. 

Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most 
sinewy sword-men. [Hxeunt Bertram and Parolles. 


Enter Lafeu. 


Laf. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for 
King. Ill fee thee to stand up. [my tidings. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE I. 


Lay. Then here’s a man stands, that has brought King. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful : 


his pardon. 
I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy, 
And that at my bidding you could so stand up. 
King. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, 
And ask’d thee mercy for ’t. [thus ; 


Laf. Good faith, across: but, my good lord, ’tis | 


Will you be cured of your infirmity ? 

King. No. 

Laf. O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? 
Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if [medicine 
My royal fox could reach them: I have seen a 
That ’s able to breathe life into a stone, 

Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary 
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch 
Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, 
To give great Charlemain a pen in ’s hand 
And write to her a love-line. 
King. What ‘ her’ is this ? 
Laf. Why, Doctor She: my lord, there’s one 
arrived, 
If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour, 
If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke 
With one that, in her sex, her years, profession, 
Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more 
Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her, 
For that is her demand, and know her business ? 
That done, laugh well at me. 

King. Now, good Lafeu, 
Bring in the admiration; that we with thee 
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine 
By wondering how thou took’st it. 

Laf. Nay, I’ll fit you, 
And not be all day neither. | Hott. 

King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. 


Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena. 


Laf. Nay, come your ways. 
King. This haste hath wings indeed. 
Laf. Nay, come your ways; 

This is his majesty; say your mind to him: 

A traitor you do look like; but such traitors 

His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid’s uncle, 

That dare leave two together; fare you well. [xit. 
King. Now, fair one, does your business follow us ? 
Hel. Ay, my good lord. 

Gerard de Narbon was my father ; 

In what he did profess, well found. 
King. I knew him. 
Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards 

Knowing himisenough. On’sbedofdeath [him; 

Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, 

Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, 

And of his old experience the only darling, 

He bade me store up, as a triple eye, 

Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have so; 

And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d 

With that malignant cause wherein the honour 

Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, 

I come to tender it and my appliance 

With all bound humbleness. 
King. We thank you, maiden; 

But may not be so credulous of cure, 

When our most learned doctors leave us and 

The congregated college have concluded 

That labouring art can never ransom nature 

From her inaidible estate: I say we must not 

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, 

To prostitute our past-cure malady 

To empirics, or to dissever so 

Our great self and our credit, to esteem 

A senseless help when help past sense we deem. 
Hel. My duty then shall pay me for my pains: 

{ will no more enforce mine office on you; 

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts 

A modest one, to bear me back again. ~ 


Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give 
As one near death to those that wish him live: 
But what at full I know, thou know’st no part, 
a ae all my peril, thou no art. 
Hel. What I can do can do no hurt to try, 
Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy. 
He that of greatest works is finisher 
Oft does them by the weakest minister: ° 
So holy writ in babes hath judgmentshown, [flown 
When judges have been babes; great floods have 
From simple sources, and great seas have dried 
When miracles have by the greatest been denied. 
Oft expectation fails and most oft there 
Where most it promises, and oft it hits 
Where hope is coldest and despair most fits. [maid;: 
Ising. I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind 
Thy pains not used must by thyself be paid: 
Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. 
Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d: 


| It is not so with Him that all things knows 


As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; 

But most it is presumption in us when 

The help of heaven we count the act of men. 

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent ; 

Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. 

I am not an impostor that proclaim 

Myself against the level of mine aim; 

But know I think and think I know most sure 

My art is not past power nor you past cure. 
cing. Art thou so confident ? within what space 

Hopest thou my cure ? 

Hel. The great’st grace lending grace, 
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, 

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp 

Moist Hesperus hath quench’d his sleepy lamp, 
Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass 
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, 
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, 
Health shall live free and sickness freely die. 

King. Upon thy certainty and confidence 
What darest thou venture ? 

Hel. Tax of impudence, 
A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame 
Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden’s name 
Sear’d otherwise; nay, worse —if worse— extended 
With vilest torture let my life be ended. [speak 

King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth 
His powerful sound within an organ weak: 

And what impossibility would slay 

In common sense, sense saves another way. 
Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate 
Worth name of life in thee hath estimate, 
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all 

That happiness and prime can happy call: 
Thou this to hazard needs must intimate 
Skill infinite or monstrous desperate. 
Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, 
That ministers thine own death if I die. 

Hel. If I break time, or flinch in property 
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, 

And well deserved: not helping, death ’s my fee; 
But, if I help, what do you promise me ? 

King. Make thy demand. 

Fel. But will you make it even ? 

King. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven. 

Hel. Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand 
What husband in thy power I will command: 
Exempted be from me the arrogance 
To choose from forth the royal blood of France, 
My low and humble name to propagate 
With any branch or image of thy state; 

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know 
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow. 

King. Here is my hand; the premises observed. 

Thy will by my performance shall be served ; 


215 


ACT AE. 


So make the choice of thy own time, for I, 

Thy resolved patient, on thee still rely. 

More should I question thee, and more I must, 

Though more to know could not be more to trust, 

From whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest 

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest. 

Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed 

As high as word, my deed shall match thy meed. 
[Flourish. Exeunt. 


SCENE II. — Rousillon. 


Enter Countess and Clown. 


Count. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the 
height of your breeding. 

Clo. I will show myself highly fed and lowly 
taught: I know my business is but to the court. 

Count. To the court! why, what place make you 
special, when you put off that with such contempt ? 
But to the court! 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any 
manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that 
cannot make a leg, put off ’s cap, kiss his hand and 
say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; 
and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not 
for the court; but for me, I have an answer will 
serve all men. {all questions. 

Count. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits 

Clo. It is like a barber’s chair that fits all but- 
tocks, the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the 
brawn buttock, or any buttock. 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions ? 

Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an at- 
torney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, 
as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for 
Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail 
to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding 
quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the 
friar’s mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin. 

Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness 
for all questions ? 

Clo. From below your duke to beneath your con- 
stable, it will fit any question. 

Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous 
size that must fit all demands. 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the 
learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all 
that belongs to’t. Ask me if Lam a courtier: it 
shall do you no harm to learn. 

Count. To be young again, if we could: I will be 
a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your 
answer. I pray you, Sir, are you a courtier ? 

Clo. O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. 
More, more, a hundred of them. you. 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves 

Clo. O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me. 

Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this 
homely meat. [you. 

Clo. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant 

Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. 

Clo. O Lord, sir! spare not me. 

Count. Do you ery, ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whip- 
ping, and ‘spare not me’? Indeed your ‘O Lord, 
sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping: you would 
answer very well to a whipping, if you were but 
bound to ’t. 

Clo. I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O 
Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not 
serve ever. 

Count. I play the ndble housewife with the time, 
To entertain ’t so merrily with a fool. 

Clo. O Lord, sir! why, there ’t serves well again. 

Count. An end, sir; to your business. Give Ellen 
And urge her to a present answer back: [this, 
Commend me to my kinsmen and my son: 

This is not much. 
Clo. Not much commendation to them. 


216 


The Count’s palace. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE III. 


Count. Not much employment for you: you un- 
derstand me? 
Clo. Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs. 

Count. Haste you again. [ Exeunt severally. 


SCENE III. — Paris. 


Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 


Laf. They say miracles are past; and we have 
our philosophical persons, to make modern and fa- 
miliar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence 
is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing our- 
selves into seeming knowledge, when we should 
submit ourselves to an unknown fear. f 

Par. Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder 
that hath shot out in our latter times. 

Ber. And so ’tis. 

Laf. To be relinquished of the artists, — 

Par. So I say. 

Laf. Both of Galen and Paracelsus. 

Par. So I say. 

Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fellows, — 

Par. Right; so I say. 

Laf. That gave him out incurable, — 

Par. Why, there ’tis; so say I too. 

Laf. Not to be helped, — 

Par. Right; as ’t were, a man assured of a— 

Laf. Uneertain life, and sure death. 

Par. Just, you say well; so would I have said. 

Laf. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world. 

Par. It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, 
you shall read it in—what do ye call there ? 

Laf. A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly 
actor. 

Par. That’s it; I would have said the very same. 

Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier: fore me, 
I speak in respect — 

Par. Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is 
the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most 
facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be 

Laf. Very hand of heaven. [the — 

Par. Ay, so I say. 

Laf. In a most weak — [pausing] and debile min- 
ister, great power, great transcendence: which 
should, indeed, give us a further use to be made 
than alone the recovery of the king, as to be— 
[ pausing] generally thankful. 

Par. I would have said it; you say well. 
comes the king. 


Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. 
Lafeu and Parolles retire. 


Laf. Lustig, as the Dutchman says: Ill like a 
maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: 
why, he’s able to lead her a coranto. 

Par. Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen ? 

Laf. Fore God, I think so. 

King. Go, call before me all the lords in court. 
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side: 

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense 
Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive 

The confirmation of my promised gift, 

Which but attends thy naming. 


The King’s palace. 


Here 


Enter three or four Lords. 


Fair maid, send forth thine eyes: this youthful 
Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, [parcel 
O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice 
I have to use: thy frank election make ; [sake. 
Thou hast power to choose, and they none to for- 
Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress 
Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one! 
Laf. 1’ld give bay Curtal and his furniture, 
My mouth no more were broken than these boys’, 
And writ as little beard. 
King. Peruse them well: 
Not one of those but had a noble father. 


ACT II. 


Hel. Gentlemen, 

Heaven hath through me restored the king to health. 
All. We understand it, and thank heaven for you. 
Hel. Iam a simple maid, and therein wealthiest, 

That I protest I simply am a maid. 

Please it your majesty, I have done already: 

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, [fused, 

‘We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be re- 

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever; 

We'll ne’er come there again.’ 

King. Make choice; and, see, 
Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me. 

Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, 

And to imperial Love, that god most high, 

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit ? 
First Lord. And grant it. 

Hel. Thanks, sir; all the 

rest is mute. 

Loaf. I had rather be in this choice than throw 
ames-ace for my life. 

Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, 
Before I speak, too threateningly replies: 

Love make your fortunes twenty times above 

Her that so wishes and her humble love! 

Sec. Lord. No better, if you please. 

Fel. My wish receive, 
Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave. 

Laf. Do all they deny her? An they were sons 
of mine, I’d have them whipped; or I would send 
them to the Turk, to make eunuchs of. 

Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take; 
I ’ll never do you wrong for your own sake: 
Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed 
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed! 

Laf. These boys are boys of ice, they ’1] none have 
her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the 
French ne’er got ’em. 

Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too good, 
To make yourself a son out of my blood. 

Fourth Lord. Fair one, I think not so. 

Laf. There ’s one grape yet; I am sure thy father 
drunk wine: but if thou be’st not an ass, I am a 
youth of fourteen; I have known thee already. 

Hel. [To Bertram] I dare not say I take you; but 
Me and my service, ever whilst I live, [I give 
Into your guiding power. This is the man. 

King. Why,then, young Bertram, takeher; she’s 

thy wife. [highness, 

Ber. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your 
In such a business give me leave to use 
The help of mine own eyes. 

King. Know’st thou not, Bertram, 
What she has done for me? 

Ber. Yes, my good lord ; 
But never hope to know why I should marry her. 

King. Thou know’st she has raised me from my 

sickly bed. 

Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down 
Must answer for your raising ?_ I know her well: 
She had her breeding at my father’s charge. 

A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain 

Rather corrupt me ever! [which 
King. ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the 

Tecan build up. Strange is it that our bloods, 

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, 

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off 

In differences so mighty. If she be 

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest, 

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislikest 

Of virtue for the name: but do not so: 

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 

The place is dignified by the doer’s deed : 

Where great additions swell’s,and virtue none, 

It is a dropsied honour. Good alone 

Is good without a name. Vileness is so: 

The property by what it is should go, 

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; 


ALL’S WHLL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE III. 


In these to nature she’s immediate heir, 
And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn, 
Which challenges itself as honour ’s born 
And is not like the sire: honours thrive, 
When rather from our acts we them derive 
Than our foregoers: the mere word ’s a slave 
Debosh’d on every tomb, on every grave 
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb 
Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb 
Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said ? 
If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 
I can create the rest: virtue and she 
Is her own dower; honour and wealth for me. 
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t. 
King. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst 
strive to choose. 
Hel. That you are well restored, my lord, I’m glad: 
Let the rest go. 
King. My honour’s at the stake; which to defeat, 
I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, 
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift; 
That dost in vile misprision shackle up 
My love and her desert; that canst not dream, 
We, poising us in her defective scale, 
Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know, 
It is in us to plant thine honour where 
We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt: 
Obey our will, which travails in thy good: 
Believe not thy disdain, but presently 
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right 
Which both thy duty owes and our power claims ; 
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever 
Into the staggers and the careless lapse 
Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate 
Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 
Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer. 
Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit 
My fancy to your eyes: when I consider 
What great creation and what dole of honour 
Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late 
Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now 
The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, 
Is as ’t were born so. 
King. Take her by the hand, 
And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise 
A counterpoise, if not to thy estate 
A balance more replete. 
er. I take her hand. 
King. Good fortune and the favour of the king 
Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony 
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, 
And be perform’d to-night: the solemn feast 
Shall more attend upon the coming space, 
Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her, 
Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err. 
[Hxeunt all but Lafeu and Parolles. 
Laf. [Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur ? a word 
Par. Your pleasure, sir? [with you. 
Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his 
recantation. 
Par. Recantation! My lord! my master! 
Laf. Ay; is it not a language I speak ? 
Par. A most harsh one, and not to be understood 
without bloody succeeding. My master! 
Laf. Are youcompanion to the Count Rousillon ? 
Par. To any count, to all counts, to what is man. 
Laf. To what is count’s man: count’s master is 
of another style. [too old. 
Par. Youare too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are 
Laf. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to 
which title age cannot bring thee. 
Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do. 
Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a 
pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent 
of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the 
bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me 
from believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. 


217 


ACT II. 


I have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I 
care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking 
up; and that thou ’rt scarce worth. thee,— 

Par. Hadst thou not the privilegeof antiquity upon 

Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest 
thou hasten thy trial; which if— Lord have mercy 
on thee fora hen! So, my good window of lattice, 
fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I 
look through thee. Give me thy hand. [nity. 

Par. My lord, you give me most egregious indig- 

Daf. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy 

Par. I have not, my lord, deserved it. [of it. 

Laf. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will 
not bate thee a scruple. 

Par. Well, I shall be wiser. 

Laf. Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to 
pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st 
bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what 
it is to be proud of thy bondage. I havea desire to 
hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowl- 
edge, that I may say in the default, he is a man IL 
know. [vexation. 

Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable 

Laf. 1 would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and 
my poor doing eternal: for doing Lam past; as I 
will by thee, in what motion age will give me 
leave. [ Exit. 

Par. Well, thou hast ason shall take this disgrace 
off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must 
be patient; there is no fettering of authority. Ill 
beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any 
convenience, an he were double and double a lord. 
Ill have no more pity of his age than I would have 
of— Ill beat him, an if I could but meet him again. 


Re-enter Lafeu. 


Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; 
there’s news for you: you have a new mistress. 

Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship 
to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is 
my good lord: whom I serve above is my master. 

Laf. Who? God? 

Par. Ay, sir. 

Laf. The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost 
thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion ? dost make 
hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? Thou 
wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. 
By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, 
I “Id beat thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, 
and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast 
created for men to breathe themselves upon thee. 
me, This is hard and undeserved measure, my 
ord. 

Laf. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for 
picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a 
vagabond and no true traveller: you are more saucy 
with lords and honourable personages than the com- 
mission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. 
You are not worth another word, else I ’ld call you 
knave. I leave you. - [Evit. 

Par. Good, very good; it is so then: good, very 
good; let it be concealed awhile. 


Re-enter Bertram. 


Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever! 

Par. What’s the matter, sweet-heart ? [Sworn, 

Ber. Although before the solemn priest I have 
I will not bed her. 

Par. What, what, sweet-heart ? 

Ber. O my Parolles, they have married me! 
I ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her. 

Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits 
The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars! 
_ Ber. There’s letters from my mother: what the 
pi hg is, I know not yet. 

a 


r. Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my | aay Pas drown the brim. 
Cbs 


boy, to the wars! 
218 


ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE IV. 


He wears his honour in a box unseen, 

That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, 
Spending his manly marrow in her arms, 

Which should sustain the bound and high curvet 
Of Mars’s fiery steed. ‘To other regions 

France is a stable; we that dwell in ’t jades; 
Therefore, to the war! 

Ber. It shall be so: Ill send her to my house, 
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, 
And.wherefore I am fled; write to the king 
That which I durst not speak: his present gift 
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, 

Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife 
To the dark house and the detested wife. 

Par. Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure ? 

Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise me. 
I’l] send her straight away: to-morrow 
I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow. 

Par. Why, these balls bound ; there ’s noise in it. 

’T is hard: 
A young man married is a man that ’s marr’d: 
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go: 
The king has done you wrong: but, hush, ’t is so. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Paris. 


Enter Helena and Clown. 


Hel. My mother greets me kindly: is she well ? 

Clo. She is not well; but yet she has her health: 
she ’s very merry ; but yet she is not well: but thanks 
be given, she’s very well and wants nothing i’ the 
world; but yet she is not well. 

Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail, that 
she’s not very well ? 

Clo. Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two 
things. 

Hel. What two things ? 

Clo. One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God 
send her quickly! the other, that she’s in earth, 
from whence God send her quickly! 


Enter Parolles. 


Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady ! 

Hel. I hope, sir, 1 have your good will to have 
mine own good fortunes. 

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on; and 
to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave, 
how does my old lady ? 

Clo. So that you had her wrinkles and I her 
money, I would she did as you say. 

Par. Why, I say nothing. 

Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a 
man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing: to 
say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and 
to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; 
which is within a very little of nothing. 

Par. Away! thou’rt a knave. 

Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave 
thou ’rt a knave; that ’s, before me thou ’rt a knave: 
this had been truth, sir. {thee. 

Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found 

Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir ? or were you 
taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable ; 
and much fool may you find in you, even to the 
world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter. 

Par. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. 
Madam, my lord will go away to-night ; 

A very serious business calls on him. 

The great prerogative and rite of love, fedge; 
Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowl. 
But puts it off to a compell’d restraint; [sweets, 
Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with 
Which they distil now in the curbed time, 

To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy 


The king’s palace. 


What’s his will else? 


~wieg 


ACT III. 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE I. 


Par. That you will take your instant leave o’ the 


king, 

And make this haste as your own good proceeding, 
Strengthen’d with what apology you think 
May make it probable need. 

Hel. What more commands he ? 

Par. That, having this obtain’d, you presently 
Attend his further pleasure. 

Hel. In every thing I wait upon his will. 

Par. I shall report it so. 

[ Hxit Parolles. 


Hel. I pray you. 
Come, sirrah. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Paris. 


Enter Lafeu and Bertram. 

Laf. But [hope your lordship thinks not him a 
soldier. 

Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof. 

Laf. You have it from his own deliverance. 

Ber. And by other warranted testimony. 

Laf. Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark 
for a bunting. 

Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in 
knowledge and accordingly valiant. 

Laf. Ihave then sinned against his experience 
and transgressed against his valour; and my state 
that way is dangerous, since I cannot. yet find in my 
heart to repent. Here he comes: I pray you. make 
us friends; I will pursue the amity. 


The king’s palace. 


Enter Parolles. 


Par. [To Bertram] These things shall be done, 
sir. 

Laf. EER you, sir, who’s his tailor ? 

Pars soir 2 
_ Laf. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, ’s a good 
workman, avery good tailor. 

Ber. [Aside to Par.] Is she gone to the king ? 

Par. She is. 

Ber. Will she away to-night ? 

Par. As you’ll have her. 

Ber. [have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, 
Given order for our horses; and to-night, 

When I should take possession of the bride, 
End ere I do begin. 

Laf. A good traveller is something at the latter 
end of a dinner; but one that lies three thirds and 
uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings 
with, should be once heard and thrice beaten. God 
save you, captain. 

Ber. Is there any unkindness between my lord 
and you, monsieur ? 

Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into 
my lord’s displeasure. 

Laf. You have made shift to run into ’t, boots 
and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the cus- 
tard; and out of it you ’ll run again, rather than 
suffer question for your residence. 

Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord. 

Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at 
*s prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe 
this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; 


VW OU Bh 
SCENE I1.—Fflorence. The Duke’s palace. 


Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, «itended ; 
the two Frenchmen, with a troop of soldiers. 
Duke. So that from point to point now have you 
The fundamental reasons of this war [hea 
Whose great decision hath much plood let Borhiuk 
And more thirsts after. 


the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not 
in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of 
them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, 
monsieur: I have spoken better of you than you 
have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must 
do good against evil. [ Exit. 

Par. An idle lord, I swear. 

Ber. I think so. 

Par. Why, do you not know him ? 

Ber. Yes, 1 do know him well,and common speech 
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog. 


Enter Helena. 


Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, 
Spoke with the king and have procured his leave 
For present parting; only he desires 
Some private speech with you. 

Ber. I shall obey his will. 
You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does 
The ministration and required office 
On my particular. Prepared I was not 
For such a business; therefore am I found 
So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you 
That presently you take your way for home; 

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you. 

For my respects are better than they seem 

And my appointments have in them a need 

Greater than shows itself at the first view 

To you that know them not. This to my mother: 
[Giving a letter. 

”T will be two days ere I shall see you, so 

I leave you to your wisdom. 

Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, 
But that I am your most obedient servant. 

Ber. Come, come, no more of that. 

Fel. And ever shall 
With true observance seek to eke out that 
Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d 
To equal my great fortune. 

Ber. Let that go: 

My haste is very great: farewell; hie home. 

Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon. 

Ber. Well, what would you say ? 

Hel, 1 am not worthy of the wealth I owe, 

Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is; 
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal 
What law does vouch mine own. 

What would you have? 

Te Something; and scarce so much: nothing, 

indeed. 
I would not tell you what I would, my lord: 
Faith, yes; 
Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 

Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse. 

Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. 

Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ? ” Fare- 

well. | Exit Helena. 
Go thou toward home; where I will never come 
Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum. 
Away, and for our flight. 


On": Bravely, coragio! 
[ Hxeunt. 
ark 
First Lord. Holy seems the quarrel 


Upon your grace’s part; black and fearful 
On the opposer. [France 
Duke. Therefore we marvel much our cousin 
Would in so just a business shut his bosom 
Against our borrowing prayers. 
Sec. Lord. Good my lord, 
The reasons of our state I cannot yield, 


219 


ACT TIT. 


But like a common and an outward man, 
That the great figure of a council frames 
By self-unable motion: therefore dare not 
Say what I think of it, since I have found 
Myself in my incertain grounds to fail 
As often as I guess’d. 

Duke. Be it his pleasure. 

First Lord. But I am sure the younger of our na- 
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day _ [ture, 
Come here for physic. 

Duke. Welcome shall they be: 
And all the honours that can fly from us 
Shall on them settle. You know your places well; 
When better fall, for your avails they fell: 
To-morrow to the field. [ Flourish. 


SCENE II.— Rousillon. 


Enter Countess and Clown. 


Count. It hath happened all as I would have had 
it, save that he comes not along with her. 

Olo. By my troth, I take my young lord to bea 
very melancholy man. 

Count. By what observance, I pray you? 

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; 
mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; 
pick his teeth and sing. I know aman that had 
this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a 
song. 

ount. Let me see what he writes, and when he 
means to come. [Opening a letter. 

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: 
our old ling and our Isbels 0’ the country are noth- 
ing like your old ling and your Isbels 0’ the court: 
the brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin 
to love, as an old man loves money, with no stom- 

Count. What have we here ? [ach. 

Clo. E’en that you have there. [ Exit. 

Count. [Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law : 
she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I 
have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to 
make the ‘not’ eternal. You shall hear Iam run 
away: know it before the report come. If there be 
breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long dis- 
tance. My duty to you. 

Your unfortunate son, 
BERTRAM. 
This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, 
To fiy the favours of so good a king; 
To pluck his indignation on thy head 
By the misprising of a maid too virtuous 
For the contempt of empire. 


Exeunt. 


The Count’s palace. 


Re-enter Clown. 


Olo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within be- 
tween two soldiers and my young lady! 

Count. What is the matter ? 

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, 
some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon 
as I thought he would. 

Count. Why should he be killed ? 

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear 
he does; the danger is in standing to’t; that’s 
the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. 
Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I 
only hear your son was run away. [ Haxit. 


Enter Helena and two Gentlemen. 


First Gent. Save you, good madam. 
Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. 
Sec. Gent. Do not say so. [men, 
Count. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentle- 
I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, 
That the first face of neither, on the start, [you? 
Can woman me unto’t: where is my son, I pray 
Sec. Gent. Madam, he’s gone to serve the duke 
of Florence: 


220 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE II. 


We met him thitherward ; for thence we came, 


And, after some dispatch in hand at court, 

Thither we bend again. [port. 
Hel. Look on his letter, madam: here ’s my pass- 

[Reads] When thou canst get the ring upon my 

finger which never shall come off, and show me a 

child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then 

call me husband: but in such a ‘then’ I write a 

This is a dreadful sentence. [‘ never.’ 
Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? 
First Gent. Ay, madam; 

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains. 
Count. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer ; 

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 

Thou robb’st me of a moiety: he was my son; 

But I do wash his name out of my blood, 


| And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he ? 


Sec. Gent. Ay, madam. 
Count. And to be a soldier ? 
Sec. Gent. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe’t, 
The duke will lay upon him all the honour 
That good convenience claims. 
Count. Return you thither ? 
First Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing 
of speed. [in France. 
Hel. [Reads] Till I have no wife, I have nothing 


°*T is bitter. 
Count. Find you that there ? 
Hel. Ay, madam. 
First Gent. "Tis. but the boldness of his hand, 
haply, which his heart was not consenting to. 
Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife! 
There ’s nothing here that is too good for him 
But only she; and she deserves a lord 
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon 
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him ? 
First Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman 
Which I have sometime known. 
Count. Parolles, was it not ? 
First Gent. Ay, my good lady, he. ness. 
Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked- 
My son corrupts a well-derived nature 
With his inducement. 
First Gent. Indeed, good lady, 
The fellow has a deal of that too much, 
Which holds him much to have. 
Count. You’re welcome, gentlemen. 
I will entreat you, when you see my son, 
To tell him that his sword can never win 
The honour that he loses: more I ’ll entreat you 
Written to bear along. 
Sec. Gent. We serve you, madam, 
In that and all your worthiest affairs. 
Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. 
Will you draw near ? 
[Hxeunt Countess and Gentlemen. 
Hel.‘ Till T haveno wife, I have nothing in France.’ 
Nothing in France, until he has no wife! 
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France; 
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is ’t I 
That chase thee from thy country and expose 
Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
Of the none-sparing war? and is it I 
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers, 
That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 
Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air, - 
That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. 
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; 
Whoever charges on his forward breast, 
I am the caitiff that do hold him to ’t; 
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 
His death was so effected: better ’t were 
I met the ravin lion when he roar’d 
With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’t were 
That all the miseries which nature owes 


ACT III. 


Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousil- 

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, {lon, 

As oft it loses all: I will be gone; 

My being here it is that holds thee hence: 

Shall I stay here to do ’t? no, no, although 

The air of paradise did fan the house 

And angels ofticed all: I will be gone, 

That pitiful ramour may report my flight, 

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day! 

For with the dark, poor thief, I 711 steal away 
Hits 


SCENE III.—Florence. Before the Duke’s palace. 


Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, 
Parolles, Soldiers, Drum and Trumpets. 


Duke. The general of our horse thou art; and we, 
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence 
Upon thy promising fortune. 

Ber. Sir, it is 
A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet 
We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake 
To the extreme edge of hazard. 

Duke. Then go thou forth ; 
And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm, 

As thy auspicious mistress! 
Ber. This very day, 
Great Mars, I put myself into thy file: 
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove 
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [ Hceunt. 


SCENE IV.— Rousillon. 


Enter Countess and Steward. 


Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her ? 
Might you not know she would do as she has done, 
By sending me a letter? Read it again. 

Stew. [Reads] 

Tam Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone: 

Ambitious love hath so in me offended, 

That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon, 

With sainted vow my faults to have amended. 
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war 

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie: 
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far 

His name with zealous fervour sanctify : 

His taken labours bid him me forgive ; 

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth 
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, 

Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth: 
He is too good and fair for death and me; 

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free. 

Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest 

words! 
Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much, 
As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, 
I could have well diverted her intents, 
Which thus she hath prevented. 

Stew. Pardon me, madam: 
If I had given you this at over-night, 

She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes, 
Pursuit would be but vain. 

Count. What angel shall 
Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive, 
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear 
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath 
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, 

To this unworthy husband of his wife; 

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth 

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief, 
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 
Dispatch the most convenient messenger: 

When haply he shall hear that she is gone, 

He will return; and hope I may that she, 
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again, 

Led hither by pure love: which of them both 

Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense 


The Count’s palace. 


ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE VY. 
To make distinction: provide this messenger : 

My heart is heavy and mine age is weak ; 

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Florence. Without the walls. A tucket 
afar off. 


Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana,Violenta, 
and Mariana, with other Citizens. 


Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach the 
city, we shall lose all the sight. 

Dia. They say the French count has done most 
honourable service. 

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their great- 
est commander; and that with his own hand he 
slew the duke’s brother. [ Tucket.] We have lost our 
labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you 
may know by their trumpets. 

Mar. Come, let ’s return again, and suffice our- 
selves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed 
of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her 
name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty. 

Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have 
been solicited by a gentleman his companion. 

Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: 
a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the 
young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their prom- 
ises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these en- 
gines of lust, are not the things they go under: 
many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the 
misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the 
wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade 
succession, but that they are limed with the twigs 
that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise 
you further; but I hope your own grace will keep 
you where you are, though there were no further 
danger known but the modesty which is so lost. 

Dia. You shall not need to fear me. 

Wid. I hope so. 


Enter Helena, disguised like a Pilgrim. 


Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie 
at my house; thither they send one another: I ’ll 
question her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are 
you bound ? 

Hel. To Saint Jaques le Grand. 

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you ? 
Wid. At the Saint Francis here beside the port. 
Hel. Is this the way ? 

Wid. Ay, marry, is ’t. [A march afar.] Hark 

you! they come this way. 

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, 

But till the troops come by, 

I will conduct you where you shall be lodged; 

The rather, for I think I know your hostess 

As ample as myself. 

Fel. Is it yourself ? 

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. 

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure. 

Wid. You came, I think, from France ? 

Hel. I did so. 

Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of yours 
That has done worthy service. 

el. His name, I pray you. 

Dia. The Count Rousillon: know you such a one? 

Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him: 
His face I know not. 

Dia. Whatsome’er he is, 

He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France, 

As ’tis reported, for the king had married him 

Against his liking: think you it is so? 

Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady. 

Dia. There is a RN ase that serves the count 
Reports but coarsely of her. 

Hel. What ’s his name ? 

Dia. Monsieur Parolles. 


221 


ACT III. 


Hel. O, I believe with him, 
in argument of praise, or to the worth 
Of the great count himself, she is too mean 
To have her name repeated: all her deserving 
Is a reserved honesty, and that 
I have not heard examined. 

Dia. Alas, poor lady! 

’T is a hard bondage to become the wife 
Of a detesting lord. 

Wid. I warrant, good creature, wheresoe’er she is, 
Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do 
A shrewd turn, if she pleased. [her 

Hel. How do you mean ? 
May be the amorous count solicits her 
In the unlawful purpose. 

Wid. He does indeed ; 

And brokes with all that can in such a suit 
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid: 
But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard 
In honestest defence. 
Mar. The gods forbid else! 
Wid. So, now they come: 


Drum and Colours. 


Enter Bertram, Parolles, and the whole army. 
That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son; 
That, Escalus. 
Hel. Which is the Frenchman ? 
Dia. He; 
That with the plume: ’tis a most gallant fellow. 
I would he loved his wife: if he were honester 
He were much goodlier: is ’t not a handsome gentle- 
Hel. I like him well. man ? 
Dia. ’T is pity he is not honest: yond ’s that same 
knave 
That leads him to these places: were I his lady, 
I would poison that vile rascal. 
Hel. Which is he ? 
Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs: why is he 
melancholy ? 
Hel. Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle. 
Par. Lose our drum! well. 
Mar. He’s shrewdly vexed at something: look, 
he has spied us. 
Wid. Marry, hang you! 
Marv. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier ! 
[Hxeunt Bertram, Parolles, and army. 
Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will 
bring you 
Where you shall host: of enjoin’d penitents 
There ’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound, 
Already at my house. 
Hel. I humbly thank you: 
Please it this matron and this gentle maid 
To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking 
Shall be for me; and, to requite you further, 

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin 
Worthy the note. 
Both. We'll take your offer kindly. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE VI.— Camp before Florence. 


Enter Bertram and the two French Lords. 

Sec. Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to ’t; let 
him have his way. 

First Lord. If your lordship find him not a hild- 
ing, hold me no more in your respect. 

Sec. Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble. 

Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him ? 

Sec. Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct 
knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him 
as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an 
infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, 
the owner of no one good quality worthy your lord- 
ship’s entertainment. 
222 


~ 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE VI. 


First Lord. It were fit you knew him; lest, re- 
posing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he 
might at some great and trusty business in a main 
danger fail you. 

Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to 
try him. 

First Lord. None better than to let him fetch off 
his drum, which you hear him so confidently under- 
take to do. 

Sec. Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will 
suddenly surprise him; such I will have, whom I 
am sure he knows not from the enemy: we will 
bind and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose 
no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of 
the adversaries, when we bring him to our own 
tents. Be but your lordship present at his exami- 
nation: if he do not, for the promise of his life 
and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to 
betray you and deliver all the intelligence in his 
power against you, and that with the divine forfeit 
of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in 
any ab 

First Lord. O, for the love of laughter, let him 
fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for ’t: 
when your lordship sees the bottom of his success 
in ’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of 
ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s 
entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. 


Here he comes. 
Enter Parolles. 


Sec. Lord. [Aside to Ber.] O, for the love of laugh- 
ter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him 
fetch off his drum in any hand. 

Ber. How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely 
in your disposition. 

First Lord. A pox on’t, let it go; *tis but a drum. 

Par. ‘Butadrum’! is’t ‘but adrum’? A drum 
so lost! There was excellent command,—to charge 
in with our horse upon our Own wings, and to rend 
our own soldiers! 

First Lord. That was not to be blamed in the 
command of the service: it was a disaster of war 
that Cesar himself could not have prevented, if he 
had been there to command. 

Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our suc- 
cess: some dishonour we had in the loss of that 
drum; but it is not to be recovered. 

Par. It might have been recovered. 

Ber. It might; but it is not now. 

Par. It is to be recovered: but that the merit of 
service is seldom attributed to the true and exact 
performer, I would have that drum or another, or 
‘hic jacet.’ 

Ber. Why, if you have a stomach, to ’t, monsieur : 
if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring 
this instrument of honour again into his native 
quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise and go 
on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: 
if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak 
of it, and extend to you what further becomes 
his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your 
worthiness. 

Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it. 

Ber. But you must not now slumber in it. 

Par. I°ll about it this evening: and I will pres- 
ently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in 
my certainty, put myself into my mortal prepara- 
tion; and by midnight look to hear further from me. 

Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are 
gone about it ? 

Par. I know not what the success will be, my 
lord; but the attempt I vow. 

Ber. I know thou’rt valiant; and, to the possi- 
bility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. 
Farewell. 

Par. I love not many words. [ Exit. 

Sec. Lord. No more than a fish loves water. Is 


ACT [V. 


ALLS WELIL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE I. 


not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confi- 
dently seems to undertake this business, which he 
knows is not to be done; damns himself to do and 
dares better be damned than to do’t ? 

First Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as 
we do: certain it is, that he will steal himself into 
«a man’s favor and for a week escape a great deal of 
discoveries; but when you find him out, you have 
him ever after. 

Ber. Why, do you think he will make no deed at 
all of this that so seriously he does address himself 
unto ? 

Sec. Lord. None in the world; but return with 
an invention and clap upon you two or three prob- 
able lies: but we have almost embossed him; you 
shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is not for 
your lordship’s respect. 

First Lord. We’ll make you some sport with the 
fox ere we case him. He was first smoked by the 
old lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, 
tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you 
shall see this very night. 

Sec. Lord. I must go look my twigs: he shall be 

caught. 

Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me. 

Sec. Lord. As’t please your lordship: Ill leave 

you. [ Hxit. 
Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and show 


you 
The lass I spoke of. 
First Lord. But you say she’s honest. 
Ber. That’s all the fault: I spoke with her but 
once 
And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her, 
By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind, 
Tokens and letters which she did re-send; 
And this is all Ihave done. She’s a fair creature: 
Will you go see her ? 
First Lord. With all my heart, ad 
[ Exeunt. 


SCENE VII.— Florence. The Widow’s house. 


Enter Helena and Widow. 


- Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, 
I know not how I shall assure you further, 
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. 
Wid. Though my estate be fallen, | was well born, 
Nothing acquainted with these businesses ; 


And would not put my reputation now 
In any staining act. 

Hel. Nor would I wish you. 
First, give me trust, the count he is my husband, 
And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken 
Is so from word to word; and then you cannot, 
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow, 

Err in bestowing it. : 

Wid. I should believe you; 

For you have show’d me that which well approves 
You ’re great in fortune. 

Hel. Take this purse of gold, 

And let me buy your friendly help thus far, 
Which I will over-pay and pay again  [daughter, 
When [ have found it. The count he wooes your 
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, 
Resolved to carry her: let her in fine consent, 
As we’ll direct her how ’t is best to bear it. 
Now his important blood will nought deny 
That she ll demand: a ring the county wears, 
That downward hath succeeded in his house 
From son to son, some four or five descents 
Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds 
In most rich choice; yet in his idle fire, 

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, 
Howe’er repented after. 
id. Now I see 

The bottom of your purpose. 

Hel. You see it lawful, then: it is no more, 
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won, 
Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter; 
In fine, delivers me to fill the time, 

Herself most chastely absent: after this, 
To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns 
To what is past already. 

Wid. I have yielded: 
Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, 
That time and place with this deceit so lawful 
May prove coherent. Every night he comes 
With musics of all sorts and songs composed 
To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us 
To chide him from our eaves; for he persists 
As if his life lay on ’t. 

Hel. Why then to-night 
Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, 
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed 
And lawful meaning in a lawful act, 
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact : 


But let ’s about it. [ Exeunt. 


AGGIE TNis 


SCENE I.— Without the Florentine camp. 


Enter Second French Lord, with five or six other 
Soldiers in ambush. 


Sec. Lord. He can come no other way but by this 
hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak 
what terrible language you will: though you un- 
derstand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must 
not seem to understand him, unless some one among 
us whom we must produce for an interpreter. 

First Sold. Good captain, let me be the inter- 
preter. 

Sec. Lord. Art not acquainted with him? knows 
he not thy voice? 

First Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 

Sec. Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to 
speak to us again ? . 

First Sold. E’en such as you speak to me. 

Sec. Lord. He must think ussome band of strangers 
i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now he hatha 
smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we 
must every one be a man of his own fancy, not to 


} purpose ? 


know what we speak one to another; so we seem to 
know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs’ 
language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for 
you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But 
couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a 
sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges. 


Enter Parolles. 


Par. Ten o’clock: within these three hours ’t will 
be time enough to go home. What shall I say I 
have done? It must be a very plausive invention 
that carries it: they begin to smoke me; and dis- 
graces have of late knocked too often at my door. 
i find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart 
hath the fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, 
not daring the reports of my tongue. —- 

Sec. Lord. This is the first truth that e’er thine 
own tongue was guilty of. 

Par. What the devil should move me to under- 
take the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant 
of the impossibility, and knowing [ had no such 
I must give myself some hurts, and say 

992 


ae 


AGT INV 


I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carry 
it; they will say, ‘Came you off with so little?’ and 
ereat ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the 
instance ?. Tongue, | must put you into a butter- 
woman’s mouth and buy myself another of Bajazet’s 
mule, if you prattle me into these perils. 
Sec. Lord. Is it possible he should know what he 
is, and be that he is? 
Par. I would the cutting of my garments would 
serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword. 
Sec. Lord. We cannot afford you so. 
Par. Or the baring of my beard; and to say it 
was in stratagem. 
Sec. Lord. ’T would not do. 
Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was 
stripped. 
Sec. Lord. Hardly serve. 
Par. Though I swore I leaped from the window 
of the citadel — 
Sec. Lord. How deep ? 
Par. Thirty fathom. 
Sec. Lord. Three great oaths would scarce make 
that be believed. 
Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy’s: I 
would swear I recovered it. 
Sec. Lord. You shall hear one anon. 
Par. A drum now of the enemy’s,— 
[Alarum within. 
Sec. Lord. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. 
All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, 
cargo. 
Par. O, ransom, ransom! do not hide mine eyes. 
[ They seize and blindfold him. 
First Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos. 
Par. I know you are the Muskos’ regiment: 
And I shall lose my life for want of language: 
If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 
Italian, or French, let him speak to me; I ’ll 
Discover that which shall undo the Florentine. 
First Sold. Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, 
and can speak thy tongue. Kerelybonto, sir, betake 
thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy 


dulche. 
Sec. Lord. Oscorbidulchos volivorco. [yet ; 
First Sold. The general is content to spare thee 
And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on 
'To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform 
Something to save thy life. 
Par. O, let me live! 
And all the secrets of our camp Ill show, 
Their force, their purposes; nay, I ’ll speak that 
Which you will wonder at. 
First Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ? 
Par. If I do not, damn me. 
_ First Sold. Acordo linta. 
Come on; thou art granted space. 
[EHait, with Parolles guarded. A short 
alarum within. 
Sec. Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my 
brother, [muffled 
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him 
‘Till we do hear from them. 
Sec. Sold. Captain, I will. 
Sec. Lord. A’ will betray us all unto ourselves: 
Inform on that. 
Sec. Sold. So I will, sir. 
Sec. Lord. Till then Ill keep him dark and safely 
lock’d. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—Florence. The Widow’s house. 


Enter Bertram and Diana. 


Ber. They told me that your name was Fontibell. 
Dia. No, my good lord, Diana. 


224 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE II. 


Ber. Titled goddess ; 
And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul, 

In your fine frame hath love no quality ? 

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, 
You are no maiden, but a monument: 

When you are dead, you should be such a one 
As you are now, for you are cold and stern ; 
And now you should be as your mother was 
When your sweet self was got. 

Dia. She then was honest. 

Ber. So should you be. 

Dia. No: 
My mother did but duty; such, my lord, 

As you owe to your wife. 
Ber. No more 0’ that; 
I prithee, do not strive against my vows; 
I was compell’d to her; but I love thee 
By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever 
Do thee all rights of service. 

Dia. Ay, SO you serve us 
Till we serve you; but when you have our roses, 
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves 
And mock us with our bareness. 

Ber. How have I sworn! 

Dia. ’T isnot the many oaths that makes the truth, 
But the plain single vow that is vow’d true. 
What is not holy, that we swear not by, [me 
But take the High’st to witness: then, pray you, tell 
If I should swear by God’s great attributes, 
I loved you dearly, would you believe my oaths, 
When I did love you ill? This has no holding, 
To swear by him whom I protest to love, 
That I will work against him: therefore your oaths 
Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d, 
At least in my opinion. 

Ber. Change it, change it; 
Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy; 
And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts 
That you do charge men with. Stand no more off, 
But give thyself unto my sick desires, 
Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever 
My love as it begins shall so persever. 

Dia. I see that men make ropes in such a searre 
That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring. 

Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power 
To give it from me. 

Dia. Will you not, my lord ? 

Ber. It is an honour ‘longing to our house, 
Bequeathed down from many ancestors; 

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 
In me to lose. 

Dia. Mine honour’s such a ring: 
My chastity ’s the jewel of our house, 
Bequeathed down from many ancestors; 
Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 
In me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom 
Brings in the champion Honour on my part, 
Against your vain assault. 

Gi, Here, take my ring: 
My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 
And I ’ll be bid by thee. [ber-window: 

Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my cham- 
I ’ll order take my mother shall not hear. 

Now will I charge you in the band of truth, 
When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed, 
Remain there but an hour, nor speak tome: [them 
My reasons are most strong; and you shall know 
When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: 
And on your finger in the night I 71] put 
Another ring, that what in time proceeds 
May token to the future our past deeds. 
Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won 
A wife of me, though there my hope be done. 
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing 


thee. [ Exit. 
Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven 
> You may so in the end. [and me! 


ACT IV. 


My mother told me just how he would woo, 
As if she sat in’s heart; she says all men 
Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me 
When his wife ’s dead; therefore Ill lie with him 
When Iam buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, 
Marry that will, I live and die a maid: 
Only in this disguise I think ’t no sin 
To cozen him that would unjustly win. 


SCENE III.— The Florentine camp. 


Enter the two French Lords and some two or 
three Soldiers. 

First Lord. You have not given him his mother’s 
letter ? 

Sec. Lord. I have delivered itan hour since: there 
is something in ’t that stings his nature; for on the 
reading it he changed almost into another man. 

First Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon 
him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a 


[ Haxit. 


ady. 

Sec. Lord. Especially he hath incurred the ever- 
lasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned 
his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you 
a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you. 

First Lord. When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, 
and I am the grave of it. 

Sec. Lord. He hath perverted a young gentle- 
woman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown ; 
and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her 
honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, 
oe thinks himself made in the unchaste composi- 

ion. 

First Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion! as we 
are ourselves, what things are we! 

Sec. Lord. ‘Merely our own traitors. And as in 
the common course of all treasons, we still see them 
reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred 
ends, so he that in this action contrives against his 
own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself. 

First Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us, to be 
trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not 
then have his company to-night ? 

Sec. Lord. Not till after midnight ; for he is dieted 
to his hour. 

First Lord. That approaches apace; I would 
gladly have him see his company anatomized, that 
he might take a measure of his own judgments, 
wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit. 

Sec. Lord. We will not meddle with him till he 
come; for his presence must be the whip of the other. 

First Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of 
these wars ? 

Sec. Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace. 

First Lord. Nay,I assure you, a peace concluded. 

Sec. Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then ? 
will he travel higher, or return again into France ? 

First Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are 
not altogether of his council. 

Sec. Lord. Let it be forbid, sir; so should I bea 
_ great deal of his act. 

First Lord. Sir, his wife some two months since 
fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to 
Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking 
with most austere sanctimony she accomplished ; 
and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature 
became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan 
of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven. 

Sec. Lord. How is this justified ? 

First Lord. The stronger part of it by her own 
letters, which makes her story true, even to the 
point of her death: her death itself, which could 
not be her office to say is come, was faithfully con- 
firmed by the rector of the place. 

Sec. Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence ? 

First Lord. Ay, and the particular confirmations, 
point from point, to the full arming of the verity. 

15 


ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE IIIf. 


ee Lord. I am heartily sorry that he ’ll be glad 
of this. 

First Lord. How mightily sometimes we make us 
comforts of our losses! 

Sec. Lord. And how mightily some other times | 
we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity 
that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at 
home be encountered with a shame as ample. 

First Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled 
yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be 
proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our 
crimes would despair, if they were not cherished 
by our virtues. 

Enter a Messenger. 
How now! where’s your master ? 

Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom 
he hath taken a solemn leave: his lorship will next 
morning for France. The duke hath offered him 
letters of commendations to the king. 

Sec. Lord. They shall be no more than needful 
there, if they were more than they can commend. 

First Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the 
king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. 


Enter Bertram. 


How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight ? 

Ber. I have to-night dispatched sixteen busi- 
nesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of 
success: L have congied' with the duke, done my 
adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for 
her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; en- 
tertained my convoy; and between these main par- 
cels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the last 
was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet. 

Sec. Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and 
this morning your departure hence, it requires haste 
of your lordship. 

Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing 
to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dia- 
logue between the fool and the soldier? Come, 
bring forth this counterfeit module, has deceived 
me, like a double-meaning prophesier. 

Sec. Lord. Bring him forth: has sat i’ the stocks 
all night, poor gallant knave. 

Ber. No matter; his heels have deserved it, in 
usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry 
himself ? 

Sec. Lord. I have told your lordship already, the 
stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would 
be understood ; he weeps like a wench that had shed 
her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan, 
whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of 
his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his 
setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath 
confessed ? 

Ber. Nothing of me, has a’? 

Sec. Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall be 
read to his face: if your lordship be in ’t, as I believe 
you are, you must have the patience to hear it. 


Enter Parolles guarded, and First Soldier. 


Ber. A plague upon him! muffled! he can say 
nothing of me: hush, hush ! 

First Lord. Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa. 

First Sold. He calls for the tortures: what will 
you say without ’em? 

Par. I will confess what I know without con- 
straint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no 

First Sold. Bosko chimurcho. [more. 

First Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco. 

First Sold. You are a merciful general. Our 
general bids you answer to what I shall ask you 
out of a note. 

Par. And truly, as I hope to live. ‘ 

First Sold. [Reads] ‘First demand of him how 
pany horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to 
that : 


225 


ACT TV. 


Par. Five or six thousand; but very weak and 
unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the 
commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation 
and credit and as I hope to live. 

First Sold. Shall I set down your answer so ? 

Par. Do: I'll take the sacrament on ’t, how and 
which way you will. 

Ber. All’s one to him. 
slave is this! 

First Lord. You ’re deceived, my lord: this is 
Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,—that was 
his own phrase,—that had the whole theoric of war 
in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the 
chape of his dagger. 

‘Sec. Lord. I will never trust a man again for 
keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can have 
every thing in him by wearing his apparel neatly. 

First Sold. Well, that ’s set down. 

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said,—I will 
Pe ie thereabouts, set down, for Ill speak 

ruth. 

First Lord. He’s very near the truth in this. 

Ber. But Icon him no thanks for ’t, in the nature 
he delivers it. 

Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say. 

First Sold. Well, that ’s set down. 

Par. [humbly thank you, sir: a truth ’s a truth, 
the rogues are marvellous poor. 

First Sold. [Reads] ‘Demand of him, of what 
strength they are a-foot.? What say you to that ? 

Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this pres- 
ent hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a 
hundred and fifty ; Sebastian,so many; Corambus, 
so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lod- 
owick, and Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; 
mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, 
two hundred and fifty each: so that the muster-file, 
rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fif- 
teen thousand poll; half of the which dare not 
shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they 
shake themselves to pieces. 

Ber. What shall be done to him ? 

First Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. 
Demand of him my condition, and what credit I 
have with the duke. 

First Sold. Well, that’s set down. [Reads] ‘ You 
shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain 
be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation 
is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and 
expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were 
not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to 
corrupt him toa revolt.’ What say you to this? 
what do you know of it ? 

Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the particu- 
lar of the inter’gatories: demand them singly. 

First Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain ? 

Par. I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in 
Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the 
shrieve’s fool with child,—a dumb innocent, that 
could not say him nay. 

Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though 
Acai his brains are forfeit to the next tile that 

alls. 

First Sold. Well, is this captain in the duke of 
Florence’s camp ? 

Par. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy. 

First Lord. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall 
hear of your lordship anon. 

First Sold. What is his reputation with the duke ? 

Par. The duke knows him for no other but a 
poor officer of mine; and writ to me this other day 
to turn him out 0’ the band: I think I have his letter 
in my pocket. 

First Sold. Marry, we ’1] search. 

Par. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is 
there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other let- 
ters in my tent. 


What a past-saving 


226 


ALLTL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE IIIf. 


First Sold. Here ’tis; here’s a paper: shall Iread 
it to you? 

Par. I do not know if it be it or no. 

Ber. Our interpreter does it well. 

First Lord. Excellently. 

First Sold. [Reads] ‘Dian, the count’s a fool, 

and full of gold,’— 

Par. That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an 
advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one 
Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count 
Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very 
ruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again. 

First Sold. Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour. 

Par. My meaning in ’t, I protest, was very honest, 
in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young 
count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is 
a whale to virginity and devours up all the fry it 

Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue ! [finds. 

First Sold. [Reads] ‘When he swears oaths, bid 

him drop gold, and take it; 
After he scores, he never pays the score: 

Half won is match well made; match, and well 

make it; 
He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before; 

And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this, 

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss: 

For count of this, the count ’s a fool, I know it, 
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. 
Thine, as he vowed to thee in thine ear, 

PAROLLES.’ 

Ber. He shall be whipped through the army with 
this rhyme in’s forehead. 

Sec. Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the 
manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier. 

Ber. I could endure any thing before but a cat, 
and now he’s a cat to me. 

First Sold. I perceive, sir, by the general’s looks, 
we shall be fain to hang you. 

Par. My life, sir, in any case: not that I am 
afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I 
would repent out the remainder of nature: let me 
live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or any where, 
so I may live. 

First Sold. We’ll see what may be done, so you 
confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain 
Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with 
the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty ? 

Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: 
for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he 
professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he 
is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with such 
volubility, that you would think truth were a fool: 
drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine- 
drunk ; and in his sleep he does little harm, save to 
his bed-clothes about him; but they know his con- 
ditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more 
to say, sir, of his honesty: he has every thing that 
an honest man should not have; what an honest 
man should have, he has nothing. 

First Lord. I begin to love him for this. 

Ber. For this description of thine honesty? A 
pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat. 

First Sold. What say you to his expertness in war ? 

Par. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the Eng- 
lish tragedians; to belie him, I will not, and more 
of his soldiership I know not ; except, in that coun- 
try he had the honour to be the officer at a place 
there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling 
of files: I would do the man what honour I can, 
but of this I am not certain. 

First Lord. He hath out-villained villany so far, 
that the rarity redeems him. 

Ber. A pox on him, he’s a cat still. 

First Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, [ 
need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt. 

Par. Sir, for a quart d’écu he will sell the fee- 
simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it: and 


a —— 


ACT IV. 


cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual 
succession for it perpetually. [Dumain ? 

First Sold. What’s his brother, the other Captain 

Sec. Lord. Why does he ask him of me ? 

First Sold. What ’s he ? 

Par. E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether 
so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great 
deal in evil: he excels his brother for a coward, yet 
his brother is reputed one of the best that is: ina 
retreat he outruns any lackey ; marry, in coming on 
he has the cramp. 

First Sold. If your life be saved, will you under- 
take to betray the Florentine ? [Rousillon. 

Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count 

First Sold. I’l1 whisper with the general, and 
know his pleasure. 

Par. [Aside] L711 no more drumming; a plague of 
all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to 
beguile the supposition of that lascivious young 
boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet 
who would have suspected an ambush where I was 
taken ? 

First Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must 
die: the general says, you that have so traitorously 
discovered the secrets of your army and made such 
pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can 
serve the world for no honest use; therefore you 
must die. Come, headsman, off with his head. 

Par. O Lord, sir, let me live,or let me see my death ! 

First Sold. That shall you, and take your leave 
of all your friends. [ Unblinding him. 
So, look about you: know you any here ? 

Ber. Good morrow, noble captain. 

Sec. Lord. God bless you, Captain Parolles. 

First Lord. God save you, noble captain. 

Sec. Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to my 
Lord Lafeu? Iam for France. 

First Lord. Good captain, will you give me a copy 
of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the 
Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward, 
I’ld compel it of you: but fare you well. 

[| Hxeunt Bertram and Lords. 

First Sold. You are undone, captain, all but your 
scarf; that has a knot on’t yet. 

Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot? 

First Sold. If you could find out a country where 
but women were that had received so much shame, 
you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, 
sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you 
there. [ Exit, with Soldiers. 

Par. Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great, 
*T would burst at this. Captain Ill be no more; 
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 
As captain shall: simply the thing I am 
Shall make melive. Who knows himself a braggart, 
Let him fear this, for it will come to pass 
That every braggart shall be found an ass. 

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live 

Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive! 

There ’s place and means for every man aves 
vit. 


Ill after them. 
SCENE IV.— Florence. The Widow’s house. 


Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana. 


Hel. That you may well perceive I have not 
wrong’d you, 
One of the greatest in the Christian world 
Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’t is needful, 
Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel: 
Time was, I did him a desired office, 
Dear almost as his life; which gratitude 
Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth, 
And answer, thanks: I duly am inform’d 
His grace is at Marseilles; to which place 
We have convenient convoy. You must know, 
IT am supposed dead: the army breaking, 


ALI’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE V. 


My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding, 
And by the leave of my good lord the king, 
We’ll be before our welcome. 

Wid. Gentle madam, 
You never had a servant to whose trust 
Your business was more welcome. 

Fel. Nor you, mistress, 
Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour 
To recompense your love: doubt not but heaven 
Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower, 
As it hath fated her to be my motive 
And helper to a husband. But, O strange men! 
That can such sweet use make of what they hate, 
When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts 
Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play 
With what it loathes for that which is away. 

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana, 
Under my poor instructions yet must suffer 
Something in my behalf. 

Dia. Let death and honesty 
Go with your impositions, I am yours 
Upon your will to suffer. 

Hel, Yet, I pray you: 

But with the word the time will bring on summer, 
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; 

Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us: 
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL: Still the fine’s the 


crown ; 
Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— Rousillon. 


Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown. 


Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt- 
taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would 
have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a 
nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been 
alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more 
advanced by the king than by that red-tailed humble- 
bee I speak.of. 

Count. I would I had not known him; it was the 
death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever 
nature had praise for creating. If she had par- 
taken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans 
of a mother, I could not have owed her a more 
rooted love. 

Laf. ’T was a good lady, ’t was a good lady: we 
may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such 
another herb. 

Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of 
the salad, or rather, the herb of grace. 

Laf. They are not herbs, you knave; they are 
nose-herbs. 

Clo. 1am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have 
not much skill in grass. 

Laf. Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave 
or a fool? 

Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knaye 
at a man’s. 

Laf. Your distinction ? 

Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife and do 
his service. Sa: 

Laf. So you were a knave at his service, indeed. 

Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to 
do her service. 

Lay. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave 
and fool. 

Clo. At your service. 

Laf. No, no, no. 

Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve 
as great a prince as you are. 

af. Who’s that ? a Frenchman ? : 

Clo. Faith, sir, a’ has an English name; but his 
fisnomy is more hotter in France than there. 

Laf. What prince is that ? 


227 


The Count’s palace. 


AC TO WS 


Clo. The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of 
darkness; alias, the devil. 

Laf. Hold thee, there ’s my purse: I give thee not 
this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest 
of; serve him still. 

Olo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always 
loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever 
keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the 
world; let his nobility remain in ’s court. Iam for 
the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be 
too little for pomp toenter: some that humble them- 
selves may: but the many will be too chill and tender, 
and they ‘ll be for the flowery way that leads to the 
broad gate and the great fire. 

Lat. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; 
and [ tell thee so before, because I would not fall 
out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well 
looked to, without any tricks. 

Clo. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall 
be jades’ tricks; which are their own right by the 
law of nature. [ Hxit. 

Laf. A shrewd knave and an unhappy. 

Count. So he is. My lord that’s gone made him- 
self much sport out of him: by his authority he 
remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his 
sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs 
where he will. 

Laf. I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was 
about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s 
death and that my lord your son was upon his re- 
turn home, I moved the king my master to speak in 
the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority 
of them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious 
remembrance, did first propose: his highness hath 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE II. 


promised me to do it: and, to stop up the displeas- 
ure he hath conceived against your son, there is no 
fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it ? 

Count. With very much content, my lord; and I 
wish it happily effected. 

Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, 
of as able body as when he numbered thirty: he 
will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him 
that in such intelligence hath seldom failed. 

Count. It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see him 
ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here 
to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain 
with me till they meet together. 

Laf. Madam, [ was thinking with what manners 
I might safely be admitted. 

Count. You need but plead your honourable 
privilege. 

Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; 
but I thank my God it holds yet. 


Re-enter Clown. 


Clo. O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with 
a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar 
under ’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly 
patch of velvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile 
and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare. 

Laf. A scar nobly got, or a noble sear, is a good 
livery of honour; so belike is that. 

Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face. 

Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long 
to talk with the young noble soldier. 

Clo. Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate 
fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow 
the head and nod at every man. [ Exeunt. 


NEG TE VS 


SCENE I.— Marseilles. A street. 


Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two At- 
tendants. 


Hel. But this exceeding posting day and night 
Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it: 
But since you have made the days and nights as one, 
To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, 

Be bold you do so grow in my requital 
As nothing can unroot you. In happy time; 


Enter a Gentleman. 


This man may help me to his majesty’s ear, 
If he would spend his power. God save you, sir. 

Gent. And you. 

Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France. 

Gent. 1 have been sometimes there. 

Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen 
From the report that goes upon your goodness; 
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions, 
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to 
The use of your own virtues, for the which 
I shall continue thankful. 

Gent. What’s your will? 

Hel. That it will please you 
To give this poor petition to the king, 

And aid me with that store of power you have 
To come into his presence. 

Gent. The king ’s not here. 

Hel. Not here, sir! 

Gent. Not, indeed: 
He hence removed last night and with more haste 
Than is his use. 

Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains! 

Hel. ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL yet, 
Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. 

I do beseech you, whither is he gone? 


228 


Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; 
Whither I am going. 
Hel. I do beseech you, sir, 
Since you are like to see the king before me, 
Commend the paper to his gracious hand, 
Which I presume shall render you no blame 
But rather make you thank your pains for it. 
I will come after you with what good speed 
Our means will make us means. 
Gent. This I’) do for you. 
Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, 
Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again. 
Go, go, provide. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Rousillon. Before the Count’s palace. 


Enter Clown, and Parolles, following. 


Par. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu 
this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known 
to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher 
clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune’s 
mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong dis- 
pleasure. 

Clo. Truly, fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish 
if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will 
henceforth eat no fish of fortune’s buttering. 
Prithee, allow the wind. 

Par. Nay, you need, not to stop your nose, sir; I 
spake but by a metaphor. 

Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will 
stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. 
Prithee, get thee further. 

Par, Fray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 

Clo. Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from for- 
tune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, 
here he comes himself. 


‘HIT 9U9DS “A WV—"TTIAM SANA LVHL TIAA S. T1TV 


Pa 


A, 
<_ = = 


= 
AS 


so Oe 


t} 


| 


| | 
it 


[PAE 


i 


| 


: 


YZ 
Le = 


ee 


AR i 
ih } 
i i 


+ 


i s iN eh aoe Bits 
ave | oe ff pith else 5 
Nyt Pp eeras yo ona oo sae 


Yyy 
YY 
19,6 


Ie 


i 


i 


tl 


li 
l 


iia 
\ h 
WR r thy 


ACT VY. 


Enter Lafeu. 


Here is a purr of fortune’s, sir, or of fortune’s cat, 
—but not a musk-cat,—that has fallen into the 
unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, 
is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as 
you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingen- 
ious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress 
in my similes of comfort and leave him to your lord- 
ship. [ Hat. 

Par. My lord, 1 am a man whom fortune hath 
cruelly scratched. 

Laf. And what would you have metodo? ’Tis 
too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you 
played the knave with fortune, that she should 
scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would 
not have knaves thrive long under her? There’sa 
quart d’écu for you: let the justices make you and 
fortune friends: I am for other business. [word. 

Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one single 

Laf. You beg a single penny more: come, you 
shall ha’t; save your word. 

Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. 

Laf. You beg more than ‘ word,’ then. Cox my 
passion! give me your hand. How does your drum ? 

Par. O my good lord, you were the first that 
found me! [thee. 

Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that lost 

Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some 
grace, for you did bring me out. 

Laf. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon 
me at once both the office of God and the devil ? 
One brings thee in grace and the other brings thee 
out. [Trumpets sound.| The king’s coming; I know 
by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; 
I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool 
and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow. 

Par. I praise God for you. 


SCENE III.— Rousillon. 


Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two 
French Lords, with Attendants. 


King. We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem 
Was made much poorer by it: but your son, 

As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know 
Her estimation home. 

Count. ’T is past, my liege; 
And I beseech your majesty to make it 
Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth; 
When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, 
O’erbears it and burns on. 

King. My honour’d lady, 
I have forgiven and forgotten all; 

Though my revenges were high bent upon him, 
And watch’d the time to shoot. 

Laf. This I must say, 
But first I beg my pardon, the young lord 
Did to his majesty, his mother and his lady 
Offence of mighty note; but to himself 
The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife 
Whose beauty did astonish the survey 
Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive, 
Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve 
Humbly call’d mistress. 

King. Praising what is lost 
Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither ; 
Weare reconciled, and the first view shall kill 
All repetition: let him not ask our pardon; 

The nature of his great offence is dead, 

And deeper than oblivion we do bury 

The incensing relics of it: let him approach, 
A stranger, no offender; and inform him 

So ’tis our will he should. 

Gent. I shall, my liege. [Hvit. 

king. What says he to your daughter ? Have you 

spoke ? 


[ Hxeunt. 


The Count’s palace. 


ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE III. 


Laf. All that he is hath reference to your high- 


ness. 
King. Then shall we have a match. I have let- 
ters sent me 
That set him high in fame. 


Enter Bertram. 
Laf. He looks well on ’t. 
King. Iam not a day of season, 
For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail 
In me at once: but to the brightest beams 
Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth ; 
The time is fair again. 


Ber. i My high-repented blames, . 
Dear sovereign, pardon to me. 
King. All is whole; 


Not one word more of the consumed time. 
Let ’s take the instant by the forward top; 
For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees 
The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time 
Steals ere we can effect them. You remember 
The daughter of this lord ? 
Ber. Admiringly, my liege, at first 
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart 
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue 
Where the impression of mine eye infixing, 
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, 
Which warp’d the line of every other favour ; 
Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen ; 
Extended or contracted all proportions 
To a most hideous object: thence it came 
That she whom all men praised and whom myself, 
Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye 
The dust that did offend it. 
King. Well excused: 
That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away 
From the great compt: but love that comes too late, 
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, 
To the great sender turns a sour offence, 
Crying, ‘ That ’s good that’s gone.’ Our rash faults 
Make trivial price of serious things we have, 
Not knowing them until we know their grave: 
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, 
Destroy our friends and after weep their dust: 
Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, 
While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon. 
Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her. 
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: 
The main consents are had; and here we ’ll stay 
To see our widower’s second marriage-day. 
Count. Which better than the first, O dear heaven, 
Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse! __[bless! 
Laf. Come on, my son,in whom my house’s name 
Must be digested, give a favour from you 
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, 
That she may quickly come. [Bertram gives a ring. 
By my old beard, 
And every hair that’s on ’t, Helen, that’s dead, 
Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, 
The last that e’er I took her leave at court, 
I saw upon her finger. 
Ber. Hers it was not. 
ring. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, 
While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to ’t. 
This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen, 
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 
Necessitied to help, that by this token [her 
I would relieve her. Had you that craft, to reave 
Of what should stead her most ? ‘ 
Ber. My gracious sovereign, 
Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, 
The ring was never hers. 
Count. Son, on my life, 
I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it 
At her life’s rate. ; 
Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. | 
Ber. You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it: 
229 


ACT V. 


In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, 
Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name 
Of her that threw it: noble she was, and thought 
I stood engaged: but when I had subscribed 
To mine own fortune and inform’d her fully 
I could not answer in that course of honor 
As she had made the overture, she ceased 
In heavy satisfaction and would never 
Receive the ring again. 
King. Plutus himself, 
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, 
Hath not in nature’s mystery more science 
Than [have in this ring: ’t was mine, ’t was Helen’s, 
Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know 
That you are well acquainted with yourself, 
Confess ’t was hers, and by what rough enforcement 
You got it from her: she call’d the saints to surety 
That she would never put it from her finger 
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, 
Where you have never come, or sent it us 
Upon her great disaster. 
Ber. She never saw it. 
Kting. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine 
honour ; 
And makest conjectural fears to come into me, 
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove 
That thou art so inhuman,—’t will not prove so; — 
And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly, 
And she is dead; which nothing, but to close 
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe, 
More than to see this ring. Take him away. 
[Guards seize Bertram. 
_My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, 
Shall tax my fears of little vanity, 
Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him! 
We’ll sift this matter further. 
Ber. If you shall prove 
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy 
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, 
Where yet she never was. [ Exit, guarded. 
King. Lam wrapp’d in dismal thinkings. 


Enter a Gentleman. 


Gent. ; Gracious sovereign, 
Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not: 
Here’s a petition from a Florentine, 

Who hath for four or five removes come short 
To tender it herself. I undertook it, 
Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech 
Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know 

Is here attending: her business looks in her 
With an importing visage; and she told me, 

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern 

Your highness with herself. 

King. [Reads] Upon his many protestations to 
marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say 
it, he won me. Nowis the Count Rousillon a wid- 
ower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s 
paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no 
leave, and I follow him to his country for justice: 
grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise 
a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. 

DIANA CAPILET. 

Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and 
toll for this: Ill none of him. | [Lafeu, 

king. The heavens have thought well on thee, 
To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors: 
Go speedily and bring again the count. 

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, 
Was foully snatch’d. 


Count. Now, justice on the doers! 


fte-enter Bertram, guarded. 
King. I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to 


you 
And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, 
Yet you desire to marry. 


230 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 


SCENE III. 


Enter Widow and Diana. 


What woman’s that ? 
Dia. Tam, my lord, a wretched Florentine, 
Derived from the ancient Capilet: 
My suit, as I do understand, you know, 
And therefore know how far I may be pitied. [our 
Wid. Lam her mother, sir, whose age and hon- 
Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 
And both shall cease, without your remedy. 
Kking. Come hither, count; do you know these 
women ? 
Ber. My lord, [neither can nor will deny [ther ? 
But that I know them: do they charge me fur- 
Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your wife ? 
Ber. She’s none of mine, my lord. 
Dia. If you shall marry, 
You give away this hand, and that is mine; 
You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; 
You give away myself, which is known mine; 
For I by vow am so embodied yours, 
That she which marries you must marry me, 
Either both or none. 
Laf. Your reputation comes too short for my 
daughter; you are no husband for her. 
Ber. My lord, this isa fond and desperate creature, 
Whom sometime I have laugh’d with: let your 
highness 
Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour 
Than for to think that I would sink it here. 
King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to 
friend 
Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour 
Than in my thought it lies. 
Dia. Good my lord, 
Ask him upon his oath, if he does think 
He had not my virginity. ~ 
King. What say’st thou to her? 
Ber. She ’s impudent, my lord, 
And was a common gamester to the camp. 
Dia. He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so, 
He might have bought me at a common price: 
Do not believe him. O, behold this ring, 
Whose high respect and rich validity 
Did lack a parallel; yet for all that 
He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, 
If I be one. 
Count. He blushes, and ’tis it: 
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem, 
Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue, © 
Hath it been owned and worn. ‘This is his wife; 
That ring ’s a thousand proofs. 
King. Methought you said 
You saw one here in court could witness it. 
Dia. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce 
So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles. 
Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man be he. 
King. Find him, and bring him hither. 
[Hxit an Attendant. 
Ber. What of him? 
He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave, 
With all the spots 0’ the world tax’d and debosh’d ; 
Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth. 
Am I or that or this for what he ’ll utter, 
That will speak any thing ? 
King. She hath that ring of yours. 
Ber. I think she has: certain it is I liked her, 
And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth: 
She knew her distance and did angle for me, 
Madding my eagerness with her restraint, 
As all impediments in fancy’s course 
Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine, 
Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace, 
Subdued me to her rate: she got the ring; 
And I had that which any inferior might 


| At market-price have bought. 


Dia. IT must be patient 


rer 


or v. 


You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife, 
May justly diet me. I pray you yet; 
Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband; 
Send for your ring, I will return it home, 
And give me mine again. 
ers I have it not. 
King. What ring was yours, I pray you? 
Dia. Sir, much like 
The same upon your finger. [late. 
King. Know you this ring? this ring was his of 
Dia. And this was it I gave him, being abed. 
King. The story then goes false, you threw it him 
Out of a casement. 
Dia. J have spoke the truth. 


Enter Parolles. 


Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers. 

King. You boggle shrewdly, every feather starts 
Is this the man you speak of ? [you. 

Dia. Ay, my lord. 

King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge 
Not fearing the displeasure of your master, [you, 
Which on your just proceeding Ill keep off, 

By him and by this woman here what know you ? 

Par. So please your majesty, my master hath been 
an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him, 
which gentlemen have. 

King. Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this 
woman ? 

Par. Faith, sir, he did love her; but how? 

King. How, I pray you? [woman. 

Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a 

King. How is that ? 

Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not. 

Iting. As thou art a knave, and no knave. What 
an equivocal companion is this! [mand. 

Par. lama poor man, and at your majesty’s com- 

Laf. He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty 
orator. 

Dia. Do you know he promised me marriage ? 

Par. Faith, I know more than Ill speak. 

King. But wilt thou not speak all thou knowest ? 

Par. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go be- 
tween them, as I said; but more than that, he loved 
her: for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of 
Satan and of Limbo and of Furies and I know not 
what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time 
that I knew of their going to bed, and of other mo- 
tions, aS promising her marriage, and things which 
would derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will 
not speak what I know. 

King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou 
canst say they are married: but thou art too fine in 
shy evidence; thereforestand aside. Thisring, you 
Say, Was yours ? 

Dia. Ay, my good lord. 

King.. Where did you buy it? or who gave it you ? 

Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it. 
King. Who lent it you? 
Dia. It was not lent me neither. 
King. Where did you find it, then ? 
Dia. I found it not. 
King. If it were yours by none of all these ways, 
How could you give it him ? 

Dia. I never gave it him. 

Laf. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord; she 
goes off and on at pleasure. 

Kking. Thisring was mine; I gave it his first wife. 

Dia. It might be yours or hers, for aught I know. 

King. Take her away; I do not like her now; 
To prison with her: and away with him. 


Mites Whi THAT ENDS WHLL, 


SCENE III. 


Unless thou tell ’st me where thou hadst this ring, 
Thou diest within this hour. 
Dia. I’ never tell you. 

King. Take her away. | 

Dia. I’ll put in bail, my liege 

King. I think thee now some common customer 

Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’t was you. 

King. Wherefore hast thou accused him all this 

while ? 

Dia. Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty: 
He knows I am no maid, and he ’Il swear to’t; 
Ill swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 

Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life; 

I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife. 
King. She does abuse our ears: to prison with her. 
Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir: 

[Hxit Widow. 

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for, 

And he shall surety me. But for this lord, 

Who hath abused me, as he knows himself, 

Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him: 

He knows himself my bed he hath defiled ; 

And at that time he got his wife with child: 

Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick: 

So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick: 

And now behold the meaning. 


Re-enter Widow, with Helena. 


King. Is there no exorcist 
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes ? 
Is ’t real that I see? 
Fel. No, my good lord; 
T is but the shadow of a wife you see, 
The name and not the thing. 
er. Both, both. O, pardon! 
Hel. O my good lord, when I was like this maid, 
I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring; 
And, look you, here’s your letter; this it says: 
‘When from my finger you can get this ring 
And are by me with child,’ &c. This is done: 
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won? 
Ber. If she, my lege, can make me know this 
I ’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly. [clearly, 
Hel. If it appear not plain and prove untrue, 
Deadly divorce step between me and you! 
O my dear mother, do I see you living ? 
Laf. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon: ~ 
[To Parolles| Good Tom Drum, lend me a handker- 
cher: so, [thee: 
I thank thee: wait on me home, Ill make sport with 
Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones. 
King. Let us from point to point this story know, 
To make the even truth in pleasure flow. 
[To Diana] If thou be’st yet afresh uncropped flower, 
Choose thou thy husband, and Il] pay thy dower; 
For I can guess that by thy honest aid 
Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid. 
Of that and all the progress, more or less, 
Resolvedly more leisure shall express: 
All yet seems well; and if it end so meet, 
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. 
[ Flourish. 


EPILOGUE. 


King. The king ’s a beggar, now the play is done: 
All is well ended, if this suit be won, 
That you express content; which we will pay, 
With strife to please you, day exceeding day: 
Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts; 
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. 

[ Hxeunt, 
231 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Orsino, Duke of Illyria. 

Sebastian, brother to Viola. 

Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian. 
A Sea Captain, friend to Viola. 
Valentine, 
Curio, 

Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Olivia. 
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
Malvolio, steward to Olivia. 


gentlemen attending on the Duke. 


Fabian, 

Feste, a Clown, 
Olivia. 

Viola. 

Maria, Olivia’s woman. 


servants to Olivia. 


Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other 
Attendants. 


SCENE — A city in Illyria, and the sea-coast near tt. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LI.] 


ALOT: 


SCENE I.—The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians 
attending. 


Duke. If music be the food of love, play on; 

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, 

The appetite may sicken, and so die. 

That strain again! it had a dying fall: 

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, 

That breathes upon a bank of violets, 

Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: 

*T is not so sweet now as it was before. 

O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, 

That, notwithstanding thy capacity 

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 

Of what validity and pitch soe’er, 

But falls into abatement and low price, 

Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy 

That it alone is high fantastical. 
Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 
Duke. What, Curio ? 
Cur. The hart. 
Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: 

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 

Methought she purged the air of pestilence! 

That instant was I turn’d into a hart; 

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, 

E’er since pursue me. 


Enter Valentine. 


How now! what news from her ? 

Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted; 
But from her handmaid do return this answer: 
The element itself, till seven years’ heat, 
Shall not behold her face at ample view; 
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk 
And water once a day her chamber round 
With eye-offending brine: all this to season 
A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh 
And lasting in her sad remembrance. 

Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame 
To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft 
Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else 
That live in her; when liver, brain and heart, 
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d 
Hier sweet perfections with one self king! 
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: 


232 


Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow- 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.— The sea-coast. 


Enter Viola, a Captain, and Sailors. 


Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 

Cap. This is Illyria, lady. 

Vio. And what should I do in Illyria? 

My brother he is in Elysium. [ors ? 
Perchance he is not drown’d: what think you, sail- 

Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were saved. 

Vio. O my poor brother! and so perchance may 

he be. [chance, 

Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with 
Assure yourself, after our ship did split, 

When you and those poor number saved with you 
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 
Most provident in peril, bind himself, 
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice, 
To a strong mast that lived upon the sea; 
Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, 
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves 
So long as I could see. 
Vio. For saying so, there’s gold: 
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, 
Whereto thy speech serves for authority, 
The like of him. Know’st thou this country ? 

Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born 
Not three hours’ travel from this very place. 

Vio. Who governs here ? 

Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name. 

Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name him: 
He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now, or was so very late; 

For but a month ago I went from hence, 

And then ’t was fresh in murmur,—as, you know, 
What great ones do the less will prattle of — 
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 

Vio. Whats she ? 

Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count 
That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her 
In the protection of his son, her brother, 

Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, 
They say, she hath abjured the company 
And sight of men. 

Vio. O that I served that lady 

And might not be delivered to the world, 


ACTI. 


Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, 
What my estate is! 

Cap. That were hard to compass; 
Because she will admit no kind of suit, 

No, not the duke’s. 

Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain ; 
And though that nature with a beauteous wall 
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 
With this thy fair and outward character. 

I prithee, and Ill pay thee bounteously, 
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid 

For such disguise as haply shall become 

The form of my intent. Ill serve this duke: 
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him: 
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing 
And speak to him in many sorts of music 
That will allow me very worth his service. 
What else may hap to time I will commit; 
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be: 
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. 

Vio. I thank thee: lead me on. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENEH III. — Olivia’s house. 


Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 


Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take 
the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s 
an enemy to life. 

Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in 
earlier 0’ nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great 
exceptions to your ill hours. ~ 

Sir To. Why, let her except, before excepted. 

Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within 
the modest limits of order. 

Sir To. Confine! Ill confine myself no finer than 
I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in; 
and so be.these boots too: an they be not, let them 
hang themselves in their own straps. 

ar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: 
I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a fool- 
ish knight that you brought in one night here to be 
her wooer. 

Sir To. Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek ? 

Mar. Ay, he. 

Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in I]lyria. 

Mar. What’s that to the purpose ? 

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a 
year. 

Mar. Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these 
ducats: he’s a very fool and a prodigal. 

Sir To. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the 
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages 
word for word without book, and hath all the good 
gifts of nature. 

Mar. He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides 
that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and but 
that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust 
he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the pru- 
dent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. 

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and 
substractors that say so of him. Who are they ? 

_ Mar. They that add, moreover, he ’s drunk nightly 
in your company. 

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece: Ill 
drink to her as long as there is a passage in my 
throat and drink in Illyria: he’s a coward and a 
coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his 
brains turn o’ the toe like a parish-top. What, 
wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir An- 
drew Agueface. 


Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 


Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby 
Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew! [Belch ! 
Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenE ttt. 


Mar. And you too, sir. 

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. 

Sir And. What’s that ? 

Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better 
acquaintance. 

Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost,— 

Sir To. You mistake, knight: ‘accost’ is front 
her, board her, woo her, assail her. 

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake 
her in this company. Is that the meaning of ‘ac- 
cost’ ? 

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 

Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would 
thou mightst never draw sword again. 

Sir And. An you part so, mistress, 1 would I 
might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you 
think you have fools in hand ? 

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 

Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here’s 
my hand. 

Mar. Now, sir, ‘thought is free:’ I pray you, 
bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink. 

Sir And. Wherefore, sweet-heart ? what ’s your 

Mar. It’s dry, sir. [metaphor ? 

Sir And. Why, I think so: I am not such an ass 
but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest? 

Mar. A dry jest, sir. 

Sir And. Are you full of them? 

Mar. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: 
marry, now I let go your hand,J am barren. [Hvit. 

Sir To. O knight, thou lackest a cup of canary: 
when did I see thee so put down ? 

Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you 
see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I 
have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary 
man has: but Lam a great eater of beef, and I be- 
lieve that does harm to my wit. 

Sir To. No question. 

Sir And. An I thought that, I’ld forswear it. 
Il] ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. 

Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight ? 

Sir And. What is ‘pourquoi’? do or notdo? If 
would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that 
I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, 
had I but followed the arts! 

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head 
of hair. 

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair ? 

Sir To. Past question ; for thou seest it will not 
curl by nature. 

ne And. But it becomes me well enough, does ’t 
not: 

Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff ; 
and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her 
legs and spin it off. 

Sir And. Faith, I ll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: 
your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it’s four 
to one she ’l] none of me; the count himself here 
hard by woos her. 

Sir To. She ’I1none o’ the count: she 71] not match 
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; 
I have heard her swear ’t. Tut, there’s life in ’t, 


an. 

Sir And. Ill stay a month longer. I am a fellow 
o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in 
masques and revels sometimes altogether. 

Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshawses, 
knight ? 

Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he 
be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will 
not compare with an old man. ( 

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, 
knight ? 

Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper. 

Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to’t. 


233 


ACT I. 


Sir And. And I think I have the back-trick sim- 
ply as strong as any man in Illyria. 

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? where- 
fore have these gifts a curtain before ’em ? are they 
like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture ? why 
dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come 
home in a coranto ? My very walk should be a jig; 
I would not so much as make water but in a sink- 
a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it aworld to 
hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent con- 
stitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of 
a galliard. 

Sir And. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent 
well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about 
some revels ? 

Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not born 
under Taurus ? 

Sir And. Taurus! That’s sides and heart. 

Sir To. No,sir; it islegsand thighs. Let me see 
thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent! 

[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.—The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire. 


Val. If the duke continue these favours towards 
you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he 
hath known you but three days, and already you are 
no stranger. 

Vio. You either fear his humour or my negli- 
gence, that you call in question the continuance of 
his love; is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? 

Val. No, believe me. 

Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. 


Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 


Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 

Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. 

Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario, 
Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d 
To thee the book even of my secret soul: 
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; 
Be not denied access, stand at her doors, 
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow 
Till thou have audience. 

10. Sure, my noble lord, 

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow 
As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 

Duke. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds 
Rather than make unprofited return. 

Vio. Say Ido speak with her, my lord, what then ? 

Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love, 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: 
It shall become thee well to act my woes; 
She will attend it better in thy youth 
Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. 

Vio. I think not so, my lord. 

Duke. Dear lad, believe it; 
For they shall yet belie thy happy years, 
That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip 
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe 
Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, 
And all is semblative a woman’s part. 
1 know thy constellation is right apt 
For this affair. Some four or five attend him; 
All, if you will; for I myself am best 
When least in company. Prosper well in this, 
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, 
To call his fortunes thine. 

Vio. Ill do my best 
To woo your lady: [Aside] yet, a barful strife! 
Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Eweunt. 


SCENE V.— Olivia’s house. 


Enter Maria and Clown. 
Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, 
or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may 
234 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene v. 


enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee 
for thy absence. 

Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in 
this world needs to fear no colours. 

Mar. Make that good. 

Clo.. He shall see none to fear. 

Mar. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where 
that saying was born, of ‘I fear no colours.’ 

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary ? 

Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to 
say in your foolery. 

Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; 
and those that are fools, let them use their talents. 

Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so long 
absent ; or, to be turned away, is not that as good 
as a hanging to you ? 

Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad mar- 
riage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. 

Mar. You are resolute, then ? [points. 

Clo. Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two 

Mar. That if one break, the other will hold; or, 
if both break, your gaskins fall. 

Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy 
way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert 
as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria. 

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more oO’ that. Here 
comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were 
best. [ Kxit. 

Clo. Wit, an ’t be thy will, put me into good fool- 
ing! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very 
oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may 
pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus ? 
‘ Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.’ 


Enter Lady Olivia with Malvolio. 


God bless thee, lady! 

Oli. Take the fool away. lady. 

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the 

Oli. Go to, you’re a dry fool; I Il no more of you: 
besides, you grow dishonest. 

Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good 
counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, 
then is the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man 
mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest ; 
if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing 
that’s mended is but patched: virtue that trans- 
gresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends 
is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syl- 
logism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy ? 
As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty ’s 
aflower. The lady bade take away the fool; there- 
fore, I say again, take her away. 

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. 

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, 
cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to 
say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good ma- 
donna, give me leave to prove you a fool. 

Oli. Can you do it? 

Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. 

Oli. Make your proof. 

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna: good 
my mouse of virtue, answer me. 

Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I *l] bide 
your proof. 

Clo. Good madonna, why mournest thou ? 

Oli. Good fool, for my brother’s death. 

Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. 

Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. 

Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your 
brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the 
fool, gentlemen. 

Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth 
he not mend ? 

Mal. Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death 
shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth 
ever make the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the 


Se 


ACT I. 


better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn 
that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for 


two pence that you are no fool. 


Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 

Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such 
a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day 
with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than 
a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard 
already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to 
him, heis gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, 
that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than 
the fools’ zanies. 

Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and 
taste with a distempered appetite. ‘To be generous, 
guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those 
things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: 
there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do 
nothing but rail: nor no railing in a known discreet 
man, though he do nothing but reprove. 

Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for 
thou speakest well of fools! 


Re-enter Maria. 


Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gen- 
tleman much desires to speak with you. 

Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it ? 

Mar. I know not, madam: ’tisa fair young man, 
and well attended. 

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 

Oli. Fetch him off, Il pray you; he speaks nothing 
but madman: fie on him! [Hat Maria.] Go you, 
Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, 
or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Hazt 
Malvolio.| Now you see, sir, how your fooling 
grows old, and people dislike it. 

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy 
eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram 
with brains! for,— here he comes,— one of thy kin 
has a most weak pia mater. 


Enter Sir Toby. 


Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at 
the gate, cousin ? 

Sir To. A gentleman. 

Oli. A gentleman! what gentleman ? 

Sir To. "Tis a gentleman here —a plague 0’ 
these pickle herring! How now, sot! 

Clo. Good Sir Toby! 

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early 
by this lethargy ? 

Sir To. Lechery! 
at the gate. 

Oli. Ay, marry, what is he? 

Sir To. Let him be the devil, and he will, I care 
not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one. [Hvit. 

Oli. What ’s a drunken man like, fool ? 

Clo. Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: 
one draught above heat makes him a fool; the sec- 
ond mads him; and a third drowns him. 

Oli. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him 
sit 0’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, 
he’s drowned: go, look after him. 

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool 
shall look to the madman. [ Exit. 


I defy lechery. There’s one 


Re-enter Malvolio. 


Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will 
speak with you. I told him you were sick; he 
takes on him to understand so much, and therefore 
comes to speak with you. I told him you were 
asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that 
too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What 
is to be said to him, lady? he’s fortified against 
any denial. 

Oli. Tell him he shall not speak with me. 

Mal. Has been told so; and he says, hell stand 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 


SCENE V. 


at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the sup- 
porter to a bench, but he ’ll speak with you. 

Oli. What kind o’ man is he ? 

Mal. Why, of mankind. 

Oli. What manner of man ? 

Mal. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, 
will you or no. 

Oli. Of what personage and years is he ? 

Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young 
enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’t is a peas- 
cod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis 
with him in standing water, between boy and man. 
He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrew- 
ishly; one would think his mother’s milk were 
scarce out of him. 

Oli. Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. 

Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [ Exit. 


Re-enter Maria. 


Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face. 
Well once more hear Orsino’s embassy. 


Enter Viola, and Attendants. 


Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is 
she? [will ? 

Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your 

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable 
beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of 
the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to 
cast away my speech, for besides that it is excel- 
lently well penned, I have taken great pains to con 
it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am 
very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. 

Oli. Whence came you, sir ? 

Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, 
and that question ’s out of my part. Good gentle 
one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady 
of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. 

Oli. Are you a comedian ? 

Vio. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very 
fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are 
you the lady of the house ? 

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp 
yourself ; for what is yours to bestow is not yours 
to reserve. But this is from my commission: I 
will on with my speech in your praise, and then 
show you the heart of my message. 

Oli. Come to what is important in ’t: I forgive 
you the praise. [poetical. 

Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis 

Oli. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, 
keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, 
and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you 
than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if 
you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of 
moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. 

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir ? here lies your way. 

Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little 
longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet 
lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger. 

Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to de- 
liver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak 
your Office. 

Vio. It alone concerns yourear. I bring no over- 
ture of war,no taxation of homage: I hold the olive 
in my hand; my words areas full of peace as matter. 

Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? 
what would you ? 

Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me 
have I learned from my entertainment. What I 
am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden- 
head; to your ears, divinity, to any other’s, prof- 
anation. 

Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this 
divinity. [Hxeunt Maria and Attendants.] Now, 
sir, what is your text ? 


235 


acrt ip ZDLWELFTH NIGHT; Ok, WHAT YOU WILL. scENeE 1. 


Vio. Most sweet lady ,— 

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be 
said of it. Where lies your text ? 

Vio. In Orsino’s bosom. 

Oli. Inhisbosom! In what chapter of his bosom? 

Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his 
heart. 

Oli. O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you 
no more to say ? 

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord 
to negotiate with my face? You are now out of 
your text: but we will draw the curtain and show 
you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was 
this present: is ’t not well done? [ Unveiling. 

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 

Oli. Tis in grain, sir; °t will endure wind and 
weather. 

Vio. ’T is beauty truly bent, whose red and white 
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on: 
Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive, 

If you will lead these graces to the grave 
And leave the world no copy. 

Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will 
give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be 
inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled 
to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, 
two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, 
one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to 
praise me ? 

Vio. I see you what you are, you are too proud; 
But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 

My lord and master loves you: O, such love 

Could be but recompensed, though you were crown’d 

The nonpareil of beauty! 
li. How does he love me? 

Vio. With adorations, fertile tears, 

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 

Oli. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot 

love him: 
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, 
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ; 
In voices well divulged, free, learn’d and valiant ; 
And in dimension and the shape of nature 
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him; 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Vio. If I did love you in my master’s flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 

In your denial I would find no sense ; 
I would not understand it. 


Oli. Why, what would you? 
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house; 
Write loyal cantons of contemned love 
And sing them loud even in the dead of night; 
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills 
And make the babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out ‘ Olivia!’ O, you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 
mega should pity me! 
a 
What is your parentage ? 
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: 1 
am a gentleman. 
Oli. Get you to your lord; 
I cannot love him: let him send no more; 
Unless, perchance, you come to me again, 
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: 
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me. 
Vio. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse: 
My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; 
And let your fervour, like my master’s, be 
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [zit. 
Oli. ‘ What is your parentage ?’ 
‘ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: 
I ama gentleman.’ Ill be sworn thou art; 
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit 
Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast: soft, soft { 
Unless the master were the man. How now! 
Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections 
With an invisible and subtle stealth 
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 
What ho, Malvolio! 


Re-enter Malvolio. 


al. Here, madam, at your service. 
Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger, 

The county’s man: he left this ring behind him, 

Would I or not: tell him I’ none of it. 

Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 

Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him: 

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, 

I ’ll give him reasons for *t: hie thee, Malvolio. 
Mal. Madam, I will. [ Heit. 
Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find 

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. 

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; 

What is decreed must be, and be this so. [ Hxit. 


You might do much. 


ALO i 


SCENE I.— The sea-coast. 


Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 


Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not 
that I go with you? 

Seb. By your patience, no. Mystars shine darkly 
over me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps 
distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your 
leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad 
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. 

Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you are 
bound. 

Seb. No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is 
mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so ex- 
cellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort 
from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it 
charges me in manners the rather to express myself. 
You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is 
Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father 
was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you 
have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sis- 


236 


ter, both born in an hour: if the heavens had been 
pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, 
altered that; for some hour before you took me 
from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. 

Ant. Alas the day! 

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much 
resembled me, was yet of many accounted beauti- 
ful: but, though I could not with such estimable 
wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will 
boldly publish her; she bore a mind that envy could 
not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with 
salt water, though I seem to drown her remem- 
brance again with more. 

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. 

Seb. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. 

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let 
me be your servant. 

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, 
that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire 
it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of 
kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my 


ACTII. 


mother, that upon the least occasion more mine 
eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count 
Orsino’s court: farewell. [ Kxit. 
Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! 
I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, 
Else would I very shortly see thee there. 
But, come what may, I do adore thee so, 
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. 


SCENE II.—A street. 


Enter Viola, Malvolio following. 


Mal. Were not you even now with the Countess 
Olivia ? 

Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have 
since arrived but hither. 

Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir: you might 
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away 
yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put 
your lord into a desperate assurance she will none 
of him: and one thing more, that you be never so 
hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to 
report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so. 

Vio. She took the ring of me: I ll none of it. 

Mal. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; 
and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be 
worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, 
be it his that finds it. Exit. 

Vio. left noring with her: what means this lady? 
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! 
She made good view of me; indeed, so much, 
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue, 
For she did speak in starts distractedly. 

She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion 
Invites me in this churlish messenger. 

None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none. 

I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis, 

Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 

Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, 

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 

How easy is it for the proper-false 

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! 
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we! 

For such as we are made of, such we be. 

How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly ; 
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; 

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 

What will become of this? As Iam man, 

My state is desperate for my master’s love; 

As lam woman,—now alas the day! — 

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! 

O time! thou must untangle this, not I: 

It is too hard a knot for me to untie! [ Exit. 


SCENE III.— Olivia’s house. 


Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. 


Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed 
after midnight is to be up betimes; and ‘ diluculo 
surgere,’ thou know’st,— 

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I 
know, to be up late is to be up late. 

Sir To. A false conclusion: I hate it as an un- 
filled can. To be up after midnight and to go to 
bed then, is early: so that to go to bed after mid- 
night is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life 
consist of the four elements ? 

Sir And. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather 
consists of eating and drinking. 

Sir To. Thou ’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat 
and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine! 


[ Kavi. 


Enter Clown. 
Sir And. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. 
Clo. How now, my hearts! did you never see the 
picture of ‘ we three’ ? 


Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenettt. 


Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent 
breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such 
a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. 
In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last 
night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the 
Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’t was 
very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy 
leman: hadst it ? 

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s 
nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, 
and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. 

Sir And. Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, 
when all is done. Now, a song. 

Sir To. Come on; there is sixpence for you: let’s 
have a song. 

Sir And. There’s a testril of me too; if one 
knight give a— 

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of 
good life ? 

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 

Sir And. Ay, ay: I care not for good life. 

Clo. [Sings] 

O mistress mine, whére are you roaming ? 
O, stay and hear; your true love’s coming, 
That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 
Every wise man’s son doth know. 

Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith. 

Sir To. Good, good. 

Clo. [Sings] 

What is love? ’tis not hereafter ; 

Present mirth hath present laughter ; 
What ’s to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty ; 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 
Youth ’s a stuff will not endure. 

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. 

Sir To. A contagious breath. 

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith. 

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulecet in con- 
tagion. But shall we make the welkin dance in- 
deed ? shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that 
will draw three souls out of one weaver ? shall we 
do that? 

Sir And. An you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog 
at a catch. 

Clo. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. 

Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be, ‘Thou 


knave.’ 
Clo. ‘ Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight ? I shall 


‘| be constrained in ’t to call thee knave, knight. 


Sir And. ’T is not the first time I have constrained 
one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins ‘ Hold 
thy peace.’ 

Clo. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. 

Sir And. Good, i’ faith. Come, ba 

atch sung. 
Enter Maria. a thee 

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If 
my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio 
and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. 

Sir To. My lady ’s a Cataian, we are politicians, 
Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ‘ Three merry men 
be we.’ Am not I consanguineous? am I not of 
her blood? Tillyvally. Lady! [Sings] ‘There 
dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!’ fing. 

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight ’s in admirable fool- 

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be dis- 
posed, and so do I too: he does it with a better 
grace, but I do it more natural. 

Sir To. [Sings] * O, the twelfth day of December,’— 

Mar. For the love 0’ God, peace! 


Enter Malvolio. 


Mal. My masters, are you mad ? or what are you? 
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gab- 


237 


AGT LT, 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene tv. 


ble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make 
an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out 
your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or re- 
morse of voice? Is there no respect of place, per- 
sons, nor time in you? 

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
Sneck up! 

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My 
lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you 
as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your dis- 
orders. If you can separate yourself and your mis- 
demeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, 
an it would please you to take leave of her, she is 
very willing to bid you farewell. 

Sir To. ‘ Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs 
be gone.’ 

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. 

Clo. ‘ His eyes do show his days are almost done.’ 

Mal. Is’t even so? 

Sir To. ‘ But I will never die.’ 

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 

Mal. This is much credit to you. 

Sir To. ‘Shall I bid him go?’ 

Clo. ‘What an if you do ?’ 

Sir To. ‘Shall I bid him go, and spare not ?’ 

Clo. ‘O no, no, no, no, you dare not.’ 

Sir To. Out o’ tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more 
than a steward ? Dost thou think, because thou art 
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? 

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot 
i’ the mouth too. 

Sir To. Thou’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your 
chain with crums. A stoup of wine, Maria! 

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour 
at any thing more than contempt, you would not 
give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of 
it, by this hand. [ Hxit. 

Mar. Go shake your ears. 

Sir And. ’T were as good a deed as to drink when 
a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and 
Aen. to break promise with him and make a fool of 
1im. 

Sir To. Do’t, knight: I ll write thee a challenge; 
or 1’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of 
mouth. 

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night: 
since the youth of the count’s was to-day with my 
lady, she ismuch out of quiet. For Monsieur Mal- 
volio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him 
into a nayword, and make him a common recrea- 
tion, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight 
in my bed: I know I can do it. 

Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something 
of him. 

ake Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of pu- 
ritan. 

Ses And. O, if I thought that, I ld beat him like 
a dog! 

Sir To. What, for being a puritan ? thy exquisite 
reason, dear knight ? 

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for ’t, but I 
have reason good enough. 

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing 
constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, 
that cons state without book and utters it by great 
swarths: the best persuaded of himself,so crammed, 
as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds 
of faith that all that look on him love him; and on 
that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause 

Sir To. What wilt thou do ? [to work. 

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles 
of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape 
of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure 
of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find 
himself most feelingly personated. I can write very 
like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we 
can hardly make distinction of our hands. 


238 


Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device. 

Sir And. I have ’t in my nose too. 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou 
wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that 
she’s in love with him. 

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that 
colour. 

Sir And. And your horse now would make him 
an ass. 

Mar. Ass, I doubt not. 

Sir And. O, ’t will be admirable! 

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my 
physic will work with him. I will plant you two, 
and let the fool make a third, where he shall find 


the letter: observe his construction of it. For 
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Fare- 
well. [ Exit. 


Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. 

Sir And. Before me, she’s a good wench. 

Sir To. She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that 
adores me: what 0’ that ? 

Sir And. I was adored once too. 

Sir To. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need 
send for more money. 

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, lam a 


- foul way out. 


Sir To. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her 
not i’ the end, call me cut. 

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how 
you will. 

Sir To. Come, come, I ’ll go burn some sack; ’tis 
too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, 
knight. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The Duke’s palace. 


Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. 


Duke. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, 
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, [friends. 
That old and antique song we heard last night: 
Methought it did relieve my passion much, 

More than light airs and recollected terms 
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times: 
Come, but one verse. 

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that 
should sing it. 

Duke. Who was it? 

Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the 
lady Olivia’sfather took much delight in. He is 
about the house. 

Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. 

[Exit Curio. Music plays. 
Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, 
In the sweet pangs of it remember me; 
For such as I am all true lovers are, 
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, 
Save in the constant image of the creature 
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune ? 

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat 
Where Love is throned. 

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : 

My life upon ’t, young though thou art, thine eye 
Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves: 
Hath it not, boy ? 

Vio. A little, by your favour. 

Duke. What kind of woman is ’t ? 
10. Of your complexion 

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, 

i’ faith ? 

Vio. About your years, my lord. [take 

Duke. Too old, by heaven: let still the woman 
An elder than herself: so wears she to him, 

So sways she level in her husband’s heart: 
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, 
Than women’s are. 


=a 


Se peas aa 


ACT II. 


Vio. I think it well, my lord. 
Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, 
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent ; 
For women are as roses, whose fair flower 
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. 
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; 
To die, even when they to perfection grow! 


Re-enter Curio and Clown. 


Duke. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. 
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; 
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun 
And the free maids that weave their thread with 


Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, [bones 
And dallies with the innocence of love, 
Like the old age. 

Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 

Duke. Ay; prithee, sing. [ Music. 


SONG. 


Clo. Come away, come away, death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
O, prepare it! 
My part of death, no one so true 
Did share it. 


Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
On my black coffin let there be strown; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 
Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there! 


Duke. There ’s for thy pains. 

Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 

Duke. 1°11 pay thy pleasure then. 

Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one 
time or another. 

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. 

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and 
the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, 
for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of 
such constancy put to sea, that their business 
might be every thing and their intent every where; 
for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of 
nothing. Farewell. [Eeit. 

Duke. Let all the rest give place. 

[Curio and Attendants retire. 

Once more, Cesario, 
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty: 
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, 
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; 
The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, ~ 
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; 
But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems 
That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. 

Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 

Duke. 1 cannot be so answer’d. 

Vio. Sooth, but you must. 
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, 

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; 
You tell her so; must she not then be answer’d ? 

Duke. There is no woman’s sides 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart 
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. 
Alas, their love may be call’d appetite, 

No motion of the liver, but the palate, 
That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt; 
But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene vy. 


~ 


And can digest as much: make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Vi Ay, but I know — 


i0. 
Duke. What dost thou know ? 
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe: 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter loved a man, 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, ’ 
I should your lordship. 
Duke. And what’s her history ? 
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, 
But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, 
And with a green and yellow melancholy 
She sat like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more: but indeed 
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? 
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, 
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. 
Sir, shall I to this lady ? 
Duke. Ay, that’s the theme. 
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, 
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt. 


SCENE V.— Olivia’s garden. 


Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 


Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. 

Fab. Nay, 1’ll come: if I lose a scruple of this 
sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. 

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the 
niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable 
shame ? 

Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought 
He out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting 

ere. 

Sir To. To anger him we’ll have the bear again ; 
and we will fool him black and blue: shall we not, 
Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. 

Sir To. Here comes the little villain. 


Enter Maria. 


How now, my metal of India! 

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio’s 
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i’ the 
sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this 
half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; 
for I know this letter will make a contemplative 
idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie 
thou there [throws down a letter|; for here comes 
the trout that must be caught with tickling. [H7zit. 


Enter Malvolio. 


Mal. ’Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria 
once told me she did affect me: and I have heard 
herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it 
should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses 
me with a more exalted respect than any one else 
that follows her. What should I think on ’t ? 

Sir To. Here’s an overweening rogue! 

Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare 
turkey-cock of him : how he jets under his advanced 
plumes! 

Sir And. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue! 

Sir To. Peace, I say. 

Mal. To be Count Malvolio! 

Sir To. Ah, rogue! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace! 

Mal. There is example for’t; the lady of the 
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! 


239 


ACT II. 


Fab. O, peace! now he’s deeply in: look how 
imagination blows him. 

Mal. Having been three months married to her, 
sitting in my state,— 

Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! 

Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branched 
velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where 
I have left Olivia sleeping,— 

Sir To. Fire and brimstone! 

Fab. O, peace, peace! 

Mal. And then to have the humour of state; and 
after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know 
my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask 
for my kinsman Toby,— 

Sir To. Bolts and shackles! 

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. 

Mal. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, 
make out for him: I frown the while; and per- 
chance wind up my watch, or play with my— some 
rich jewel. ‘Toby approaches; courtesies there to 

Sir To Shall this fellow live ? [me,— 

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with 
cars, yet peace. 

Mal. L extend my hand to him thus, quenching 
Eee ap smile with an austere regard of con- 

rol,— 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the 
lips then ? 

Mal. Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having 
cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of 

Sir To. What, what ? [speech ,’— 

Mal. ‘ You must amend your drunkenness.’ 

Sir To. Out, scab! [plot. 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our 

Mal. ‘ Besides, you waste the treasure of your 
time with a foolish knight,’— 

Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you. 

Mal. ‘One Sir Andrew,’— [fool. 

Sir And. I knew ’t was I; for many do call me 

Mal. What employment have we here ? 

[Taking up the letter. 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of humours inti- 
mate reading aloud to him! 

Mal. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be 
her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s; and thus makes 
she her great P’s. Itis,in contempt of question, 
her hand. 

a: Her O©’s, her U’s and her T’s: why 

at t 

Mal. [Reads] ‘ To the unknown beloved, this, and 
my good wishes:’—her very phrases! By your 
leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, 
with which she uses to seal: ’tismy lady. To whom 
should this be ? 

Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 

Mal. [Reads] 

Jove knows I love: 
But who? 
Lips, do not move; 
No man must know. 
‘No man must know.’ What follows? the num- 
bers altered! ‘Noman must know:’ if this should 
be thee, Malvolio ? 

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock! 

Mal. [Reads] 

I may command where I adore; 
But silence, like a Lucrece knife, 

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore: 
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. 

Fab. A fustian riddle! 

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 

Mal. ‘M,O, A, 1, doth sway my life.’ Nay, but 
first, let me see, let me see, let me see. 

Fab. What dish 0’ poison has she dressed him! 

ae To. And with what wing the staniel checks 
at i 
240 


TWELFTH NIGHT; Ok, WHAT YOU WILL. 


SCENE V. 


Mal. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, 
she may command me: I serve her; she is my lady. 
Why, this is evident to any formal capacity ; there 
is no obstruction in this: and the end,—what should 
that alphabetical position portend? If I could 
make that resemble something in me,— Softly! M, 


? b) J 

ee To. O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold 
scent. 

Fab. Sowter will cry upon ’t for all this, though 
it be as rank as a fox. [name. 

Mal. M,—Malvolio; M,—why, that begins my 

Fab. Did not I say he would work it out ? the cur 
is excellent at faults. 

Mal. M,—but then there is no consonancy in the 
sequel; that suffers under probation: A should fol- 
low, but O does. 

Fab. And O shall end, I hope. [ery O! 

Sir To. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him 

Mal. And then I comes behind. 

Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you 
might see more detraction at your heels than for- 
tunes before you. 

Mal. M,O, A, I; this simulation is not as the for- 
mer: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to 
me, for every one of these letters are in my name. 
Soft! here follows prose. 

[ Reads] ‘If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my 
stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of great- 
ness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, 
and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy 
Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit 
embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou 
art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear 
fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser- 
vants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put 
thyself into the trick of singularity: she thus ad- 
vises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who com- 
mended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee 
ever cross-gartered: Isay, remember. Go to, thou 
art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see 
thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not 
worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She 
that would alter services with thee, 

THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.’ 
Daylight and champain discovers not more: this is 
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, 
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaint- 
ance, I will be point-devise the very man. I do not 
now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for 
every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. 
She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she 
did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this 
she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of 
injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. 
I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, 
stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even 
with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars 
be praised! Here is yet a postscript. 
[Reads] ‘ Thou canst not choose but know who I am. 
If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy 
smiling; thy smiles become thee well; therefore in 
my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.’ 

Jove, I thank thee: I willsmile; I will do every- 
thing that thou wilt have me. [ Hxit. 

Fab. JI will not give my part of this sport for a 
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device. 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her but 
such another jest. 

Sir And. Nor I neither. 

Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 


Re-enter Maria. 


Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot 0’ my neck? 
Sir And. Or 0’ mine either ? 


AG EE TV 
ie hii TEL Ped bee Mn dis 
| Ii Nt | iit! ih 


SS Sg norte 


é 
qr 
re 
7 
4 
ar 
A 
Q 
L 
2 
fe) 
a 
I 
> 
4 
d 
e) 
G 
s 
ie 
> 
a 
wo 
re) 
o 
D 
0 


RIA) 
i 
\ . = fe : ; 
Lee 
MAP? CC® 
LL IAD LY 


me ACT III. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 


SCENE I. 


Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and 
become thy bond-slave ? 

Sir And. I’ faith, or I either ? 

Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, 
e when the image of it leaves him he must run 
mad. 

Mar. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him ? 

Sir To. Like aqua-vitze with a midwife. 

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, 
inark his first approach before my lady: he will come 


to her in yellow stockings, and ’t is a colour she ab- 
hors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and 
he will smile upon her, which will now be so un- 
suitable to her disposition, being addicted to a mel- 
ancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him 
into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow 
me. 

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excel- 
lent devil of wit! 


Sir And. I ll make one too. [ Hxeunt. 


be OAS Dei Gia 00 Be 


SCENE I.— Olivia’s garden. 


Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor. 


Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou 
live by thy tabor ? 

Clo. No, sir, I live by the church. 

Vio. Art thou a churchman ? 

Clo. No such matter, sir: I do live by the church ; 
for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand 
by the church. 

Vio. So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, 
if abeggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by 
thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church. 

Clo. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sen- 
tence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how 
quickly the wrong side may be turned outward ! 

Vio. Nay, that’s certain: they that dally nicely 
with words may quickly make them wanton. 

Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no 
name, sir. 

Vio. Why, man? 

Clo. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally 
with that word might make my sister wanton. But 
indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgraced 

Vio. Thy reason, man ? them. 

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without 
words; and words are grown so false, I am loath 
to prove reason with them. 

Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest 
for nothing. 

Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in 
my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that 
be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make 
you invisible. 

Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool ? 

Clo. No, indeed, sir, the Lady Olivia has no folly: 
she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and 
fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to her- 
rings; the husband’s the bigger: I am indeed not 
her fool, but her corrupter of words. 

Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. 

Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like 
the sun, it shines every where. I would be sorry, 
sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master 
as With my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom 
there. 

Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, Ill no more 
with thee. Hold, there ’s expenses for thee. 

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, 
send thee a beard! 

Vio. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost 
sick for one; [Aside] though I would not have it 
grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? 

Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ? 

Vio. Yes, being kept together and put to use. 

Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, 
to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. 

Vio. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged. 

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, beg- 
ging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My 
jJady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence 


16 


you come; who you are and what you would are 

out of my welkin, I might say ‘element,’ but the 

word is Over-worn. Exit. 
Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool ; 

And to do that well craves a kind of wit: 

He must observe their mood on whom he jests, 

The quality of persons, and the time, 

And, like the haggard, check at every feather 

That comes before his eye. This is a practice 

As full.of labour as a wise man’s art: 

For folly that he wisely shows is fit; 

But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit. 


Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. 


Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 

Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. 

Vio. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur. 

Sir And. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours. 

Sir To. Will you encounter the house? my niece 
is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. 

Vio. Iam bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she 
is the list of my voyaye. 

Sir To. Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion. 

Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than 
I understand what you mean by bidding me taste 

Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. [my legs. 
_ Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance. 
But we are prevented. 


Enter Olivia and Maria. 


Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain 
odours on you! 

Sir And. That youth’s a rare courtier: ‘ Rain 
odours ;’ well. 

Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your 
own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 

Sir And.‘ Odours,’‘ pregnant’ and ‘ vouchsafed :’ 
Il get ’em all three all ready. 

Oli. Let the garden-door be shut, and leave me 
to my hearing. [Hxeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and 
Maria.) Give me your hand, sir. 

Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service. 

Oli. What is your name? 

Vio. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. 

Oli. My servant, sir! ’T was never merry world 
Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment : 

You ’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth. [yours: 

Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be 
Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. 

Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, 
Would they were blanks, rather than fill’d with me! 

Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts 
On his behalf. 

Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you, 

I bade you never speak again of him: 

But, would you undertake another suit, 

I had rather hear you to solicit that 

saa music from the spheres. 
i0. 

Oli. Give me leave, beseech you. 

241 


Dear lady,— 
I did send, 


AGT Wits 


After the last enchantment you did here, 

A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse 

Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you: 

Under your hard construction must I sit, 

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 

Which you knew none of yours: what might you 
think ? 

Have you not set mine honour at the stake 

And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts 

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your 
receiving 

Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom, 

Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak. 


Vio. I pity you. 

Oli. That ’s a degree to love. 

Vio. No, not a grize; for tis a vulgar proof, 
That very oft we pity enemies. 

Oli. Why, then, methinks ’t is time to smile again. 
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! 

If one should be a prey, how much the better 

To fall before the lion than the wolf! 

[Clock strikes. 

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. 

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you: 

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, 

Your wife is like to reap a proper man: 

There lies your way, due west. 

Vio. Then westward-ho! 
Attend your ladyship! 
Youll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? 

Oli. Stay: 

I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me. __[are. 
Vio. That you do think you are not what you 
Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you. 

Vio. Then think you right: Iam not what I am. 

Oli. I would you were as I would have you be! 

Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am ? 

I wish it might, for now I am your fool. 

Oli. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
In the contempt and anger of his lip! 

A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon 

Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is 

Cesario, by the roses of the spring, [noon. 

By maidhood, honour, truth and everything, 

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 

Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. 

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, 

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; 

But rather reason thus with reason fetter, 

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 
Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 

- I have one heart, one bosom and one truth, 

And that no woman has; nor never none 

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 

And so adieu, good madam: never more 

Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. [move 
Oli. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst 

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. 


| Exeunt. 
SCENE II.— Olivia’s house. 


Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 
Sir And. No, faith, I ll not stay a jot longer. 


[sition 
Grace and good dispo- 


Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. | 
Fab. You must needs yield your reason, Sir | 


Andrew. 

Sir And. Marry,I saw your niece do more favours 
to the count’s serving-man than ever she bestowed 
upon me; I saw ’t i’ the orchard. 

Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? tell 
me that. 

Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 

Kab. This was a great argument of love in her 
toward you. 

Sir And. ’Slight, will you make an ass 0’ me? 

fab. 1 will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths 
of judgment and reason. 

242 


b 


= 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene tt. 


Sir To. And they have been grand-jurymen since 
before Noah was a sailor. 

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your 
sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dor- 
mouse valour, to put. fire in your heart, and brim- 
stone in your liver. Youshould then have accosted 
her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from 
the mint, you should have banged the youth into 
dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and 
this was balked: the double gilt of this opportu- 
nity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed 
into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will 
hang like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, unless 
you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either 
of valour or policy. 

Sir And. An’t be any way, it must be with val- 
our; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist 
as a politician. 

Sir To. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon 
the basis of valour. Challenge me the count’s youth 
to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my 
niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there 
is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in 
man’s commendation with woman than report of 
valour. 

Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. 

ir And. Will either of you bear me a challenge 
to him ? 

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst 
and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be elo- 
quent and full of invention: taunt him with the 
license of ink: if thou thou’st him some thrice, it 
shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in 
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big 
enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em 
down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in 
thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no 
matter: about it. 

Sir And. Where shall I find you ? 

Sir To. We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go. 

[Exit Sir Andrew. 

Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby. 

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad, some two 
thousand strong, or so. 

Fab. We shall have a rare letter 
you ’ll not deliver ’t ? 

Sir To. Never trust me, then; and by all means 
stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and 
wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, 
if he were opened, and you find so much blood in 
his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, Ill eat the 
rest of the anatomy. 

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his 
visage no great presage of cruelty. 


from him: but 


Enter Maria. 


Sir To. Look, where the youngest wren of nine 
comes. 

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh 
yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull 
Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for 
there is no Christian, that means to be saved by 
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible 
passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. 

Sir To. And cross-gartered ? 

Mar. Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps 
a school i’ the church. I have dogged him, like his 
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter 
that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his 
face into more lines than is in the new map with 
the augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen 
such a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurl- 
ing things at him. I know my lady will strike 
him: if she do, hell smile and take ’t for a great 
favour. 

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. 

[ Hxeunt. 


me ACT Itl. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene ry. 


SCENH III.—A street. 


Enter Sebastian and Antonio. 
Seb. IT would not by my will have troubled you; 
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, 
I will no further chide you. 


Ant. I could not stay behind you: my desire, _ 


More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 

And not all love to see you, though so much 

As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, 

But jealousy what might befall your travel, 

Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, 

Unguided and unfriended, often prove 

Rough and unhospitable: my willing love, 

The rather by these arguments of fear, 

Set forth in your pursuit. 

Seb. ; My kind Antonio, 

I can no other answer make but thanks, 

And thanks; and ever . . . oft good turns 

Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay: 

But, were my worth as is my conscience firm, 

You should find better dealing. What’s to do? 

Shall we go see the reliques of this town ? 

Ant. To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging. 
Seb. Iam not weary, and ’tis long to-night: 

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 

With the memorials and the things of fame 

That do renown this city. 

nt. Would you ‘ld pardon me; 

I do not without danger walk these streets: 

Once, in a sea-fight, ’gainst the count his galleys 

I did some service; of such note indeed, 

That were I ta’en here it would scarce be answer’d. 
Seb. Belike you slew great number of his people. 
Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody nature; 

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel 

Might well have given us bloody argument. 

It might have since been answer’d in repaying 

What we took from them; which, for traffic’s sake, 

Most of our city did: only myself stood out; 

For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 

I shall pay dear. 

Seb. Do not then walk too open. 
Ant. It doth not fitme. Hold,sir, here’smy purse. 

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 

Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, 

Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge 

With viewing of the town: there shall you have me. 
Seb. Why I your purse ? 

Ant. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy 
You have desire to purchase; and your store, 

I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 

Seb. Ill be your purse-bearer and leave you 

For an hour. | 
Ant. To the Elephant. 
Seb. Idoremember. [Exeuwnt. 


SCENE IV .— Olivia’s garden. 


Enter Olivia and Maria. 


Oli. I have sent after him: he says he ’ll come; 
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him ? 
For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or bor- 
I speak too loud. [row’d. 
Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil, 
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes: 
Where is Malvolio ? 

Mar. He’s coming, madam; but in very strange 
manner. He is, sure, possessed, madam. 

Oli. Why, what’s the matter ? does he rave ? 

Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but smile: 
your ladyship were best to have some guard about 
ak if he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in’s 
wits. 

Oli. Go call him hither. 

mad as he, 

If sad and merry madness equal be. 


[Hxit Maria.] ILamas 


Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio. 


How now, Malvolio! 

Mal. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 

Oli. Smilest thou ? 

I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 

Mal. Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make 
Some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering ; 
but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is 
with me as the very true sonnet is, ‘ Please one, 
and please all.’ 

Oli. Why, how dost thou, man? what is the 
matter with thee? 

Mal. Not black in my mind, though yellow in 
my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands 
shall be executed: I think we do know the sweet 
Roman hand. 

Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? [thee. 

Mal. To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I’ll come to 

Oli. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so 
and kiss thy hand so oft ? 

Mar. How do you, Malvolio? [daws. 

Mal. At your request! yes; nightingales answer 

Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous bold- 
ness before my lady ? 

Mal. ‘ Be not afraid of greatness:’ ’t was well writ. 

Oli. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? 

Mal. ‘Some are born great,’— 

Oli. Ha! 

Mal. ‘Some achieve greatness,’— 

Oli. What sayest thou ? 

Mal. ‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’ 

Oli. Heaven restore thee! [stockings,’— 

Mal. ‘Remember who commended thy yellow 

Oli. Thy yellow stockings! 

Mal. ‘ And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’ 

Oli. Cross-gartered ! € SO; 

Mal. ‘Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to 

Oli. Am I made? 

Mal. ‘ If not, let me see thee a servant still.’ 

Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness. 


Enter Servant. 


Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count 
Orsino’s is returned: I could hardly entreat him 
back: he attends your ladyship’s pleasure. 

Oli. 1711 come to him. [Hxit Servant.] Good 
Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my 
cousin Toby ? Letsome of my people havea special 
care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the 
half of my dowry. [Hxeunt Olivia and Maria. 

Mal. O,ho! do you come near me now? no worse | 
man than Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs 
directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, 
that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites 
me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ 
says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with 
servants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of 
state; put thyself into the trick of singularity; ’ 
and consequently sets down the manner how; as, 
a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in 
the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have 
limed her; but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make 
me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘ Let 
this fellow be looked to:’ fellow! not Malvolio, nor 
after my degree, but fellow. Why every thing ad- 
heres together, that no dram of a scruple,no scruple 
of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe 
circumstance — What can be said? Nothing that 
can be can come between me and the full prospect 
of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, 
and he is to be thanked. 


Re-enter Maria, with Sir Toby and Fabian. 


Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity ? 
If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Le- 
gion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. 


ACTITII. 


Fab. Here he is, here he is. 
sir? how is’t with you, man? , 

Mal. Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my pri- 
vate: go off. 

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within 
him! did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays 
you to have a care of him. 

Mal. Ah,ha! does she so? 

Sir To. Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal 
gently with him: let me alone. How do you, Mal- 
volio? how is’t with you? What, man! defy the 
devil: consider, he’s an enemy to mankind. 

Mal. Do you know what you say ? 

Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how 
he takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched! 

Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. 

Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow 
morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him 
for more than I ’ll say. 

Mal. How now, mistress! 

Mar. O Lord! 

Sir To. Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the 
way: do you not see you move him? let me alone 
with him. 

Fab. No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the 
fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. 

Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost 
thou, chuck ? 

Mal. Sir! 

Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What,man! 
*t is not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: 
hang him, foul collier! 

Mar. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, 
get him to pray. 

Mal. My prayers, minx! [liness. 

Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of god- 

Mal. Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shal- 
low things: I am not of your element: you shall 
know more hereafter. [ Hacit. 

Sir To. Is’t possible ? 

Fab. If this were played upon a stage now, I 
could condemn it as an improbable fiction. 

Sir To. His very genius hath taken the infection 
of the device, man. 

Mar. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take 
air and taint. 

Fab. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. 

Mar. The house will be the quieter. 

Sir To. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room 
and bound. My niece is already in the belief that 
he’s mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure 
and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of 
breath, prompt us to have mercy on him: at which 
time we will bring the device to the bar and crown 
thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see. 


How is’t with you, 


Enter Sir Andrew. 


Fab. More matter for a May morning. 

Sir And. Here’s the challenge, read it: I war- 
rant there ’s vinegar and pepper in ’t. 

Fab. Is’t so saucy ? : 

Sir And. Ay, is’t, I warrant him: do but read. 

Sir To. Give me. [Reads] ‘ Youth, whatsoever 
thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.’ 

Fab. Good, and valiant. 

Sir To. | Reads] *‘ Wonder not, nor admire not in 
thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee 
no reason for ’t.’ 

Fab. A good note; that keeps you from the blow 
of the law. 

Sir To. | Reads] ‘Thou comest to the lady Olivia, 
and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest 
in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge 
thee for.’ [less. 

Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense — 

Sir To. [Reads] ‘I will waylay thee going home; 
where if it be thy chance to kill me,’— 

244 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenetyv. — 


Fab. Good. 
Sir To. [Reads] ‘ Thou killest me likea rogue and 
a Villain.’ rood 


od. 
Fab. Still you keep o’ the windy side of nee: 
Sir To. [Reads] ‘ Fare thee well; and God have 
mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy 
upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to 
thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy 
sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.’ If this 
letter move him not, his legs cannot: Ill give ’t him. 
Mar. You may have very fit occasion for ’t: he 
is now in some commerce with my lady, and will 
by and by depart. 


Sir To. Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at - 


the corner of the orchard like a bum-baily: so soon 
as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou drawest, 
swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terri- 
ble oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged 
off, gives manhood more approbation than ever 
proof itself would have earned him. Away! 

Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. [Hvit. 

Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: for the 
behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to 
be of good capacity and breeding; his employment 
between his lord and my niece confirms no less: 
therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, 
will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it 
comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his 
challenge by word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a 
notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, 
as I know his youth will aptly receive it, into a most 
hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetu- 
osity. This will so fright them both that they will 
kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. 


Re-enter Olivia, with Viola. 


Fab. Here he comes with your niece: give them 
way till he take leave, and presently after him. 

Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some hor- 
rid message for a challenge. 

[Hxeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria. 

Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of stone 
And laid mine honour too unchary out: 
There ’s something in me that reproves my fault; 
But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 
That it but mocks reproof. [bears 

Vio. With the same ’haviour that your passion 
Goes on my master’s grief. 

Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’t is my picture ; 
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; 
And I beseech you come again to-morrow. 
What shall you ask of me that I ’ll deny, 
That honour saved may upon asking give? 

Vio. Nothing but this; your true love for my 

master. 

Oli. How with mine honour may I give him that 
Which I have given to you? 

Vio. .L will acquit you. 

Oli. Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well: 
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. [Hzit. 


Re-enter Sir Toby and Fabian. 


Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee. 
Vio. And you, sir. 


Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee tot: ~ 


of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, 
I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, 
bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard- 
end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, 
for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly. 

Vio. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath 
any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free 
and clear from any image of offence done to any 
man. 

Sir To. You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you: 
therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake 
you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him 


—- 
. a 


ACT III. 


TWHKLFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. screneEtv. 


what youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish 
man withal. 

Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he? 

Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched 
rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a 
devil in private brawl; souls and bodies hath he di- 
vorced three; and his incensement at this moment 
is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but 
by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his 
word; give’t or take ’t. 

Vio. I will return again into the house and desire 
some conduct of the lady. Iam no fighter. I have 
heard of some kind of men that put quarrels pur- 
posely on others, to taste their valour: belike this is 
a man of that quirk. 

Sir To. Sir,no; his indignation derives itself out 
of a very competent injury: therefore, get you on 
and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the 
house, unless you undertake that with me which 
with as much safety you might answer him: there- 
fore, on, or strip your sword stark naked ; for med- 
dle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear 
iron about you. 

Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech 
you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the 
knight what my offence to him is: it is something 
of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. 

Sir To. I willdo so. Signior Fabian, stay you by 
this gentleman till my return. [ Heit. 

Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter ? 

Fab. I know the knight is incensed against you, 
even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the 
circumstance more. 

Vio. 1 beseech you, what manner of man is he? 

Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read 
him by his form, as you are like to find him in the 
proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most 
skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could pos- 
sibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you 
walk towards him? I will make your peace with 
him if I can. 

Vio. I shall be much bound to you for’t: I am 
one that had rather go with sir priest than sir 
knight: I care not who knows so much of my met- 
tle. [ Hxeunt. 


Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew. 


Sir To. Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have not 
seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, 
scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with 
such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable; and on 
the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit 
the ground they step on. They say he has been 
fencer to the Sophy. 

Sir And. Pox on’t, Ill not meddle with him. 

Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fa- 
bian can scarce hold him yonder. 

Sir And. Plague on’t, an I thought he had been 
valiant and so cunning in fence, I "ld have seen him 
damned ere I’ld have challenged him. Let him 
o Peco slip, and Ill give him my horse, grey 

apilet. : 

Sir To. Ill make the motion: stand here, make 
a good show on ’t: this shall end without the perdi- 
tion of souls. [Aside] Marry, Il] ride your horse as 
well as I ride you. 


_ Re-enter Fabian and Viola. 


[To Fab.] I have his horse to take up the quarrel: 
I have persuaded him the youth ’s a devil. 

fab. He is as horribly conceited of him; and 
eset and looks pale, as if a bear were at his 
heels, 

_ Sir To. [To Vio.] There ’s no remedy, sir; he will 
fight with you for ’s oath sake: marry, he had better 
bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now 
scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for 


the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not 
hurt you. 

Vio. [Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing 
would make me tell them how much IJ lack of a man. 

Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. 

Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy; 
the gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one 
bout with you; he cannot by the duello avoid it: 
but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and 
a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to’t. 

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath! 

Vio. I do assure you, ’tis against my will. 

di A 
Enter Antonio. MRA ENS 

Ant. Put up your sword. If this young gentle- 
Have done offence, I take the fault on me: [man 
If you offend him, I for him defy you. 

Sir To. You, sir! why, what are you? 

Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more 
Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for 
fine Enter Officers. Me Mes 

Fab. O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers. 

Sir To. 1711 be with you anon. , 

Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. 

Sir And. Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I prom- 
ised you, I’ll be as good as my word: he will bear 
you easily and reins well. 

First Off. This is the man; do thy office. 

Sec. Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of 
Count Orsino. 

Ant. You do mistake me, sir. [well, 

First Off. No, sir, no jot; I know your favour 
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. 
Take bim away: he knows I know him well. 

Ant. I must obey. [Zo Vio.] This comes with 

seeking you: 
But there ’s no remedy; I shall answer it. 
What will you do, now my necessity 
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me 
Much more for what I cannot do for you 
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; 
But be of comfort. 

Sec. Off. Come, sir, away. 

Ant. I must entreat of you some of that money. 

Vio. What money, sir ? 

For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, 
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, 
Out of my lean and low ability 

I’ lend you something: my having is not much; 
I ll make division of my present with you: 

Hold, there’s half my coffer. 

Ant. Will you deny me now ? 
Is ’t possible that my deserts to you 
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, 
Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
That I have done for you. 

Vio. I know of none; 

Nor know I you by voice or any feature: 

I hate ingratitude more in a man 

Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption 
Inhabits our frail blood. 

Ant. O heavens themselves ! 

Sec. Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go. [see here 

Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that you 
I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, 
Relieved him with such sanctity of love, 

And to his image, which methought did promise 
Most venerable worth, did I devotion. [away ! 

First Off. What’s thattous? The time goes by: 

Ant. But O how vile an idol proves this god! . 
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. 

In nature there ’s no blemish but the mind; 
None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind: 


245 


ACTIV. 


Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil 
Are empty trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil. 
First Off. The man grows mad: away with him! 
Come, come, sir. 

Ant. Lead me on. :; [Exit with Officers. 

Vio. Methinks his words do from such passion fly, 
That he believes himself: so do not I. 

Prove true, imagination, O, prove true, 
That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! 

Sir To. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fa- 
bian: we’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most 
sage saws. 

io. He named Sebastian: I my brother know 
Yet living in my glass; even such and so 
In favour was my brother, and he went 
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, 


| yet. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenett. 


For him I imitate: O, if it prove, 
Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in ee 
vil. 
Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and Sl a 
coward than a hare: his dishonesty appears in leay- 
ing his friend here in necessity and denying him; 
and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. 
Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, religious 


n it. 
Sir And. ’Slid, Ill after him again and beat him. 
Sir To. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy 


sword. 
Sir And. An I do not,— [ Exit. 
Fab. Come, let ’s see the event. 
Sir To. I dare lay any money ’t will be nothing 
[ Exewnt. 


i 


a CR Ta By: 


SCENE I.— Before Olivia’s house. 


Enter Sebastian and Clown. 


Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not 
sent for you ? 

Seb. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow: 

Let me be clear of thee. 

Clo. Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know 
you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid 
you come speak with her; nor your name is not 
Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. 
Nothing that is so is so. 

Seb. I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: 
Thou know’st not me. 

Clo. Vent my folly! he has heard that word of 
some great man and now applies it toa fool. Vent 
my folly! Iam afraid this great lubber, the world, 
will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy 
strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my 
lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming? 

Seb. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: 
There ’s money for thee: if you tarry longer, 

I shall give worse payment. 

Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. 
These wise men that give fools money get them- 
ss ffi lem a good report—after fourteen years’ pur- 
chase. 


Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. 

Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again ? there ’s 
for you. 

Seb. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. 
Are all the people mad ? 

Sir To. Hold, sir, or Ill throw your dagger o’er 
the house. 

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight: I would 
not be in some of your coats for two pence. [Hzxit. 

Sir To. Come on, sir; hold. 

Sir And. Nay, let him alone: I’ll go another way 
to work with him; I’ll have an action of battery 
against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though 
I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that. 

Seb. Let go thy hand. | 

Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, 
my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well 
fleshed ; come on. 

Seb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst 

thou now ? 
If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. 

Sir To. What, what? Nay,then I must have an 
ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. 


Enter Olivia. 


Oli. Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold! 
Sir To. Madam! 


. 246 


Oli. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, 
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, 
Where manners ne’er were preach’d! out of my 
Be not offended, dear Cesario. [sight ! 
Rudesby, be gone! 

|Hxeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 

I prithee, gentle friend, 

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
In this uncivil and unjust extent 
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, 
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby 
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go: 
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, 
He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 

Seb. What relish is in this ? how runs the stream ? 
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream: 

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; 
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! 

Oli. Nay, come, I prithee; would thou ’ldst be 

ruled by me! 

Seb. Madam, I will. | 

Oli. O, say so, and so be! [Hveunt. 


SCENES II.— Olivia’s house. 


Enter Maria and Clown. 


Mar. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this 
beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the 
curate : do it quickly; I ’ll call Sir Toby the Mae 

vit. 

Clo. Well, I ‘ll put it on, and I will dissemble my- 
self in ’t; and I would I were the first that ever dis- 
sembled in such a gown. Iam not tall enough to 
become the function well, nor lean enough to be 
thought a good student; but to be said an honest 
man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to 
say acareful man and a great scholar. The com- 
petitors enter. 


Enter Sir Toby and Maria. 


Sir To. Jove bless thee, master Parson. . 

Clo. Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit 
of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily 
said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘ That that is is;’ 
so I, being master Parson, am master Parson; for, 
what is ‘that’ but ‘that,’ and ‘is’ but ‘is’? 

Sir To. To him, Sir Topas. 

Clo. What, ho, I say! peace in this prison! 

Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good 

Mal. [ Within] Who calls there ? [knave. 

Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to yisit 
Malvolio the lunatic. 

Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to 
my lady. 


oo 


activ. TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scenett1. 


Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou 
this man! talkest thou nothing but of ladies ? 

Sir To. Well saia, master Parson. 

Mal. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: 
good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have 
laid me here in hideous darkness. 

Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by 
the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle 
ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy : 
sayest thou that house is dark ? 

Mal. As hell, Sir Topas. 

Clo. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as 
barricadoes, and the clearstores toward the south 
north are as lustrous as ebony ; and yet complainest 
thou of obstruction ? 

Mal. I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you, this 
house is dark. 

Clo. Madman, thou errest : I say, there is no dark- 
ness but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled 
than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Mal. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, 
though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, 
there was never man thus abused. I am no more 
mad than you are: make the trial of it in any con- 
stant question. 

Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concern- 
ing wild fowl ? 

Mal. That the soul of our grandam might haply 
inhabit a bird. 

Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 

Mal. I think nobly of the soul, and no way ap- 
prove his opinion. 

Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in dark- 
ness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere 
I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a wood- 
cock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. 
Fare thee well. 

Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas! 

Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas! 

Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. 

Mar. Thou mightst have done this without thy 
beard and gown: he sees thee not. 

Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and bring me 
word how thou findest him: I would we were well 
rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently de- 
livered, I would he were, for I am now so far in 
offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with 
any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and 
by tomy chamber. [Hzeunt Sir Toby and Maria. 

Clo. [Singing] ‘ Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, 

Tell me how thy lady does.’ 

Mal. Fool! . 


Clo. ‘ My lady is unkind, perdy.’ 

Mal. Fool! 

Clo. ‘ Alas, why is she so?’ 

Mal. Fool, I say! 

Clo. ‘She loves another ’"— Who calls, ha ? 

Mal. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at 
my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and 
paper: as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thank- 
ful to thee for ’t. 

Clo. Master Malvolio ? 

Mal. Ay, good fool. 

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits ? 

Mal. Fool, there was never man so notoriously 
abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. 

Clo. But as well? then you are mad indeed, if 
you be no better in your wits than a fool. 

Mal. They have here propertied me; keep me in 
darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all 
they can to face me out of my wits. 

lo. Advise you what you say; the minister is 
here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens re- 
store! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain 
bibble babble. 

Mal. Sir Topas! 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow. 


Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God be wi’ you, good Sir 
Topas. Marry,amen. I will, sir, I will. 

Mal. Fool, fool, fool, I say! 

Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I 
am shent for speaking to you. 

Mal. Good fool, help me to some light and some 
paper: I tell thee, Iam as well in my wits as any 
man in Illyria. 

Clo. Well-a-day that you were, sir! ; 

Mal. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, 
paper and light; and convey what I will set down 
to my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever 
the bearing of letter did. 

Clo. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are 
you not mad indeed ? or do you but counterfeit ? 

Mal. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true. 

Clo. Nay, Ill ne’er believe a madman till I see 
his brains. Iwill fetch you light and paper and ink. 

Mal. Fool, Ill requite it in the highest degree: 
I prithee, be gone. 

Clo. [Singing] I am gone, sir, 

And anon, sir, 
I’ be with you again, 
In a trice, 
Like to the old Vice, 
Your need to sustain ; 


Who, with dagger of lath, 
In his rage and his wrath, 
Cries, ah, ha! to the devil: 
Like a mad lad, 
Pare thy nails, dad; 
Adieu, good man devil. 


SCENE ITI.—Olivia’s garden. 


Enter Sebastian. 


Seb. This is the air; that is the glorious sun; 
This pearl she gave me, I do feel ’t and see ’t ; 
And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, 
Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? 
I could not find him at the Elephant: 

Yet there he was; and there I found this credit, 
That he did range the town to seek me out. 

His counsel now might do me golden service ; 

For though my soul disputes well with my sense, 
That this may be some error, but no madness, 

Yet doth this accident and fiood of fortune 

So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes 

And wrangle with my reason that persuades me 
To any other trust but that I am mad 

Or else the lady’s mad: yet, if *twere so, [lowers, 
She could not sway her house, command her fol- 
Take and give back affairs and their dispatch 
With such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing 
As I perceive she does: there ’s something in ’t 
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 


[ Exctt. 


Enter Olivia and Priest. 


Oli. Blame not this haste of mine. 
well 
Now go with me and with this holy man 
Into the chantry by: there, before him, 
And underneath that consecrated roof, 
Plight me the full assurance of your faith ; 
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace. He shall conceal it 
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, 
What time we will our celebration keep 
According to my birth. What do you say? 
Seb. 1 Il follow this good man, and go with you, 
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 
Oli. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens 
so shine, : 
That they may fairly note this act of mine! 
[| Hxeunt. 


If you mean 


247 


ACT V. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. scene t. 


ee Ve 


SCENE I.— Before Olivia’s house. 


Enter Clown and Fabian. 


Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter. 

Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another re- 

Fab. Any thing. [quest. 

Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. 

Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in recompense 
desire my dog again. 


Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Lords. 


Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends ? 

Clo. Ay, Sir: we are some of her trappings. 

Duke. I know thee well; how dost thou, my good 
fellow ? 

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the 
worse for my friends. 

Duke. ‘Just the contrary; the better for thy 

Clo. No, sir, the worse. [friends. 

Duke. How can that be? 

Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass 
of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so 
that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of 
myself, and by my friends I am abused; so that, 
conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives 
make your two affirmatives, why, then, the worse 
for my friends and the better for my foes. 

Duke. Why, this is excellent. 

Clo. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you 
to be one of my friends. 

Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me: 
there’s gold. 

Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I 
would you could make it another. 

Duke. O, you give me ill counsel. 

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this 
once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 

Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner, to be a 
double-dealer; there ’s another. 

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and 
the old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex, 
sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint 
Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three. 

Duke. You can fool no more money out of me at 
this throw: if you will let your lady know I am 
here to speak with her, and bring her along with 
you, it may awake my bounty further. 

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come 
again. I go,sir; but I would not have you to think 
that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness : 
but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I 
will awake it anon. [ Exit. 

Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. 


Enter Antonio and Officers. 


Duke. That face of his I do remember well ; 
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d 
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war: 
A bawbling vessel was he captain of, 
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable ; 
With which such scathful grapple did he make 
With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 
That very envy and the tongue of loss [ter ? 
Cried fame and honour on him. What ’s the mat- 
First Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio 
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy ; 
And this is he that did the Tiger board, 
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg: 
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, 
In private brabble did we apprehend him. 
Vio. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side; 
But in conclusion put strange speech upon me: 
1 know not what ’t was but distraction. 
Duke. Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief! 


248 


What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, 
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, 
Hast made thine enemies ? 
Ant. Orsino, noble sir, 
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me: 
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, 
Though I confess, on base and ground enough, 
Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: 
That most ingrateful boy there by your side, 
From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth 
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was: 
His life I gave him and did thereto add 
My love, without retention or restraint, 
All his in dedication; for his sake 
Did I expose myself, pure for his love, 
Into the danger of this adverse town; 
Drew to defend him when he was beset; 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
Not meaning to partake with me in danger, 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 
And grew a twenty years removed thing 
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse, 
Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 
Vio. How can this be ? 
Duke. When came he to this town ? [fore, 
Ant. To-day, my lord, and for three months be- 
No interim, not a minute’s vacancy, 
Both day and night did we keep company. 


Enter Olivia and Attendants. 


Duke. Here comes the countess: now heaven 
walks on earth. [ness : 

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are mad- 
Three months this youth hath tended upon me; 
But more of that anon. Take him aside.  [have, 

Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not 
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? ; 
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 

Vio. Madam! 

Duke. Gracious Olivia,— 

Oli. What do you say, Cesario ? Good my lord,— 

Vio. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me. 

Oli. If it be ought to the old tune, my lord, 
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
As howling after music. 

Duke. Still so cruel ? 

Oli. Still so constant, lord. 

Duke. What, to perverseness ? you uncivil lady, 
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars 
My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breathed out 
That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do? 

Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall be- 

come him. 

Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, 
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, 
Kill what I love ?—a savage jealousy 
That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this: 
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 
And that I partly know the instrument 
That screws me from my true place in your favour, 
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still ; 
But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, 
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye, 
Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite. 
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mis- 
I ’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, [chief : 
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. 

Vio. And I, most jocund, apt and willingly, 
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 

Oli. Where goes Cesario ? 

Vio. After him I love 
More than I love these eyes, more than my life, 


Fe 


ACT V. 


More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. 
If I do feign, you witnesses above 
Punish my life for tainting of my love! 
Oli. Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled! 
Vio. Who does beguile you? who does do you 
wrong : 
Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself ? is it so long ? 
Call forth the holy father. 
Duke. Come, away ! 
Oli. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay. 
Duke. Husband! 
Oli. Ay, husband: can he that deny ? 
Duke. Her husband, sirrah! 
Vio. No, my lord, not I. 
Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear 
That makes thee strangle thy propriety: 
Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up; 
Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art 
As great as that thou fear’st. 


Enter Priest. 


O, welcome, father ! 

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, 
Here to unfold, though lately we intended 
To keep in darkness what occasion now 
Reveals before ’t is ripe, what thou dost know 
Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me. 

Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love, 
Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands, 
Attested by the holy close of lips, 
Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings; 
And all the ceremony of this compact 
Seal’d in my function, by my testimony: [grave 
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my 
I have travell’d but two hours. 

Duke. O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be 
When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case ? 
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow, 
_ That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ? 
Farewell, and take her: but direct thy feet 
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 

Vio. My lord, I do protest — 

Oli. O, do not swear! 
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. 


Enter Sir Andrew. 


Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon! 
Send one presently to Sir Toby. 

Oli. What ’s the matter ? 

Sir And. He has broke my head across and has 
given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love 
of Ged, your help! I had rather than forty pound 
I were at home. 

Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we 
took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incar- 

Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ? [dinate. 

Sir And. °Od’s lifelings, here he is! You broke 
my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set 
on to do ’t by Sir Toby. 

Vio. Why do you speak to me? [never hurt you: 
You drew your sword upon me without cause; 
But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you 
have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody 
coxcomb. 

Enter Sir Toby and Clown. 
Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more : 
but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled 
you othergates than he did. 

Duke. How now, gentleman! howis’t with you? 

Sir To. That ’s all one: has hurt me, and there ’s 
the end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot ? 

Clo. O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his 
eyes were set at eight i’ the morning. 

Sir To. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures 
panyn: I hate a drunken rogue. 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 


SCENE I, 


Oli. Away withhim! Who hath made this havyoe 
with them ? 

Sir And. I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we ’ll 
be dressed together. 

Sir To. Will you help? an ass-head and a cox- 
comb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull! 

Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d 
to. [Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby, and Sir 


A. Ws 
Enter Sebastian. eee 


Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kins- 
But, had it been the brother of my blood, [man ; 
I must have done no less with wit and safety. 

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that 
I do perceive it hath offended you: 

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 

We made each other but so late ago. [persons, 

Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two 
A natural perspective, that is and is not! 

Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio! 

How have the hours rack’d and tortured me, 
Since I have lost thee! 

Ant. Sebastian are you ? 

Seb. Fear’st thou that, Antonio ? 

Ant. How have you made division of yourself ? 
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian ? 

Oli. Most wonderful! 

Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a brother; 
Nor can there be that deity in my nature, 

Of here and every where. I had a sister, 

Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d. 
Of charity, what kin are you to me? 

What countryman? what name ? what parentage ? 
_ Vio. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father ; 
Such a Sebastian was my brother too, 

So went he suited to his watery tomb: 

If spirits can assume both form and suit 

You come to fright us. 

Seb. A spirit I am indeed; 
But am in that dimension grossly clad 
Which from the womb I did participate. 

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, 
And say ‘ Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!’ 

Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 

Seb. And so had mine. [birth 

Vio. And died that day when Viola from her 
Had number’d thirteen years. 

Seb. O, that record is lively in my soul! 

He finished indeed his mortal act 
That day that made my sister thirteen years. 
Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both 
But this my masculine usurp’d attire, 
Do not embrace me till each circumstance 
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump 
That Iam Viola: which to confirm, 
I ll bring you to a captain in this town, 
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help 
I was preserved to serve this noble count. 
All the occurrence of my fortune since 
Hath been between this lady and this lord. 
Seb. [To Olivia] So comes it, lady, you have 
been mistook: 
But nature to her bias drew in that, 
You would have been contracted to a maid; 
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived, 
You are betroth’d both to a maid and man. 

Duke. Be not amazed; right noble is his plood. 
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, A 
I shall have share in this most happy wreck. [times 
[To Viola] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand 
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 

Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul 
As doth that orbed continent the fire 
That severs day from night. 


249 


ACT V. 


Duke. Give me thy hand; 
And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. 

Vio. The captain that did bring me first on shore 
Hath my maid’s garments: he upon some action 
Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit, 

A gentleman, and follower of my lady’s. 

Oli. He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither : 
And yet, alas, now Il remember me, 

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. 


Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian. 


A most extracting frenzy of mine own 
From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. 
How does he, sirrah ? 
_ Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the 
staves’s end as well as a man in his case may do: 
has here writ a letter to you; I should have given 
*t you to-day morning, but as a madman’s epistles 
are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are 
Oli. Open ’t, and read it. [delivered. 
Clo. Look then to be well edified when the fool 
delivers the madman. [Reads]’ By the Lord, mad- 
Oli. How now! art thou mad ? [am,’— 
Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your 
ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must 
li. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. [allow Vox. 
Clo. So I do, madonna; but to read his right 
wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my prin- 
cess, and give ear. 
Oii. Read it you, sirrah. [To Fabian. 
Fab. [Reads|*‘ By the Lord, madam, you wrong 
me, and the world shall know it: though you have 
put me into darkness and given your drunken cou- 
sin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses 
as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter 
that induced me to the semblance I put on; with 
the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, 
or you much shame. Think of me as you please. 
I leave my duty a little unthought of and speak out 
of my injury. THE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.’ 
Oli. Did he write this ? 
Clo. Ay, madam. 
Duke. This savours not much of distraction. 
Oli. See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither. 
. Exit Fabian. 
My lord, so please you, these things further thought 
To think me as well a sister as a wife, [on, 
One day shall crown the alliance on ’t, so please you, 
Here at my house and at my proper cost. (offer. 
Duke. Madam, I am most apt to,embrace your 
[To Viola] Your master quits you; and for your 
service done him, 
So much against the mettle of your sex, 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
And since you éall’d me master for so long, 
Here is my hand: you shall from this time be 
Your master’s mistress. 
Oli. A sister! you are she. 


Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio. 


Duke. Is this the madman ? 

4: Ay, my lord, this same. 
How now, Malvolio! 

Mal Madam, you have done me wrong, 


Notorious wrong. 
‘: Have I, Malvolio? no. 

Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that 
You must not now deny it is your hand: __ [letter. 
Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase; 

Or say ’t is not your seal, not your invention: 

You can say none of this: well, grant it then 

And tell me, in the modesty of honour, 

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, 
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you, 
To put on yellow stockings and to frown 

Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people; 

And, acting this in an obedient hope, 


250 


TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 


a lie 5 


SCENE I. 


——— 


Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, - 
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, 
And made the most notorious geck and gull 
That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why. 
Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
Though, I confess, much like the character: 
But out of question ’t is Maria’s hand. 
And now I do bethink me, it was she [ine, 
First told me thou wast mad; then camest in smil- 
And in such forms which here were presupposed 
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content: 
This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee; 
But when we know the grounds and authors of it, 
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge 
Of thine own cause. 
Fab. Good madam, hear me speak, 
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come 
Taint the condition of this present hour, 
Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not, 
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby 
Set this device against Malvolio here, 
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
We had conceived against him: Maria writ 
The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance; 
Jn recompense whereof he hath married her. 
How with a sportful malice it was follow’d, 
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge ; 
If that the injuries be justly weigh’d 
That have on both sides pass’d. 
Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee! 
Clo. Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve 
greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon 
them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir 
Topas, sir: but that’s allone. ‘ By the Lord, fool, 
Iam not mad.’ But doyouremember? ‘ Madam, 
why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you 
smile not, he’s gagged:’ and thus the whirligig of 
time brings in his revenges. 
Mal. 1711 be revenged on the whole pack of pe 
vit. 
Oli. He hath been most notoriously abused. 
Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace: 
He hath not told us of the captain yet: 
When that is known and golden time convents, 
A solemn combination shall be made 
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, 
We will not part from hence. Cesario, come ; 
For so you shall be, while you are a man; 
But when in other habits you are seen, 
Orsino’s mistress and his fanecy’s queen. 
[Exeunt all, except Clown. 
Clo. [Sings] 


When that I was and a little tiny boy, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
A foolish thing was but a toy, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 


But when I came to man’s estate, 
With hey, ho, &c. 

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their 
For the rain, &ce. [gate, 


But when I came, alas! to wive, 
With hey, ho, &c. 

By swaggering could I never thrive, 
For the rain, &c. 


But when I came unto my beds, 
With hey, ho, &e. 

With toss-pots still had drunken heads, 
For the rain, &c. 


A great while ago the world begun, 
With hey, ho, &ce. 
But that’s all one, our play is done, 


And we ’ll strive to please you every day. 
(Bait. 


Ss ft 


Ewe 
FZ PING 


RSTO RAO) RY 
Gor LES 4 pg) S cy Gy) 
- Bes di SY] GS Lie 
ORES NN ASN 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Leontes, King of Sicilia. 
Mamillius, young Prince of Sicilia. 
Camillo, 
Antigonus, | Bien 
Cleomenes, [ Four Lords of Sicilia. 
Dion, J 

Polixenes, King of Bohemia. 

Florizel, Prince of Bohemia. 
Archidamus, a Lord of Bohemia. 

Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita. 
Clown, his son. 

Autolycus, a rogue. 

A Mariner. 


A Gaoler. 

Hermione, queen to Leontes. 

Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hermione. 
Paulina, wife to Antigonus. 

Emilia, a lady attending on Hermione. 


MODES \ Shepherdesses. 
Dorcas, }j 


Other Lords and Gentlemen, Ladies, Officers, and Ser- 
vants, Shepherds, and Shepherdesses. 


Time, as Chorus. 


SCENE — Sicilia, and Bohemia. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page L1.] 


Gigs Tec 


SCENE I.— Antechamber in Leontes’ palace. 


Enter Camillo and Archidamus. 


Arch. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bo- 
hemia, on the like occasion whereon my services 
are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great 
difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. 

Cam. I think, this coming summer, the King of 
Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which 
he justly owes him. 

Arch. Wherein our entertainment shall shame us 
we will be justified in our loves; for indeed — 

Cam. Beseech you,— 

Arch. Verily, 1 speak it in the freedom of my 
knowledge: we cannot with such magnificence — 
in so rare—I know not what to say. We will give 
you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent 
of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise 
us, as little accuse us. 

Cam. You pay a great deal too dear for what’s 
given freely. 

Arch. Believe me, I speak as my understanding in- 
structs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance. 

Cam. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to 
Bohemia. They were trained together in their 
childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then 
such an affection, which cannot choose but branch 
now. Since their more mature dignities and royal 
necessities made separation of their society, their 
encounters, though not personal, have been royally 
attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving 
embassies; that they have seemed to be together, 
though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and 
embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed 
winds. The heavens continue their loves! 

Arch. I think there is not in the world either 
malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeak- 
able comfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is 
a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came 
into my note. 

Cam. I very well agree with you in the hopes of 
him: it is a gallant child; one that indeed physics 
the subject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went 
on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to 
see him a man. 


Arch. Would they else be content to die ? 

Cam. Yes; if there were no other excuse why 
they should desire to live. 

Arch. If the king had no son, they would desire 
to live on crutches till he had one. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— A room of state in the same. 


Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Po- 
lixenes, Camillo, and Attendants. 


Pol. Nine changes of the watery star hath been 
The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne 
Without a burthen: time as long again 
Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks; 
And yet we should, for perpetuity, 

Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher, 
Yet standing in rich place, I multiply 

With one ‘ We thank you’ many thousands moe 
That go before it. 

Leon. Stay your thanks awhile ; 

And pay them when you part. 

Pol. Sir, that ’s to-morrow. 
I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance 
Or breed upon our absence; that may blow 
No sneaping winds at home, to make us say 
‘This is put forth too truly :’ besides, I have stay’d 
To tire your royalty. 

Leon. We are tougher, brother, 
Than you can put us to ’t. 

Pol. No longer stay. 
Leon. One seven-night longer. 


Pol. Very sooth, to-morrow. 
Leon. We'll part the time between ’s then; and 
in that 
Ill no gainsaying. 
Pol Press me not, beseech you, so. 


There is no tongue 
world, 

So soon as yours could win me: so it should now, 

Were there necessity in your request, although 

°T were needful I denied it. My affairs 

Do even drag me homeward: which to hinder 

Were in your love a whip to me; my stay 

To you a charge and trouble: to save both, 

Farewell, our brother. 


that moves, none, none i’ the 


201 


AGT, De 


Leon. Tongue-tied our queen ? speak you. 
Her. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace 
until [sir, 
You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, 
Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure 
All in Bohemia’s well; this satisfaction 
The by-gone day proclaim’d: say this to him, 
He’s beat from his best ward. 
Leon. Well said, Hermione. 
Her. To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong: 
But let him say so then, and let him go; 
But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 
We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. 
Yet of your royal presence I ’ll adventure 
The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia 
You take my lord, Ill give him my commission 
To let him there a month behind the gest 
Prefix’d for ’s parting: yet, good deed, Leontes, 
I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind 
What lady-she her lord. Youll stay? 
Pol. No, madam. 
Her. Nay, but you will ? 
Pol. 


Her. Verily! 
You put me off with limber vows; but I, [oaths, 
Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with 
Should yet say, ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily, 

You shall not go: a lady’s ‘ Verily ’’s 

As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet? 

Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 

Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees [you ? 
When you depart, and save your thanks. How say 
My prisoner ? or my guest ? by your dread ‘ Verily,’ 
One of them you shall be. 

Pol. Your guest, then, madam : 
To be your prisoner should import offending ; 
Which is for me less easy to commit 
yes you to punish. 

er 


I may not, verily. 


: Not your gaoler, then, 
But your kind hostess. Come, Ill question you 
Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys : 
You were pretty lordings then ? 
Ol: We were, fair queen, 
Two lads that thought there was no more behind 
But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 
And to be boy eternal. 
Her. Was not my lord 
The verier wag 0’ the two ? [the sun, 
Pol. We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ 
And bleat the one at the other: what we changed 
Was innocence for innocence; we knew not 
The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d 
That any did. Had we pursued that life, 
And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d 
With stronger blood,weshould haveanswer’d heaven 
Boldly ‘ not guilty;’ the imposition clear’d 
Hereditary ours. 
Velig By this we gather 
You have tripp’d since. 
Pol. O my most sacred lady! 
Temptations have since then been born to’s; for 
In those unfledged days was my wife a girl; 
Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes 
Of my young play-fellow. 
Her. Grace to boot ! 
Of this make no conclusion, lest you say 
Your queen and I are devils: yet go on; 
The offences we have made you do we’ll answer, 
If you first sinn’d with us and that with us 
You did continue fault and that you slipp’d not 
With any but with us. 


Deon. Is he won yet ? 
Her. He’ll stay, my lord. 
Leon. At my request he would not. 


Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest 
To better purpose. 


Her. Never ? 


202 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE II. 


Leon. Never, but once. 
Her. What! have I twice said well ? when was ’t 
before ? 
I prithee tell me; cram ’s with praise and make’s 
As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongue- 
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. ess 
Our praises are our wages: you may ride’s 
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere 
With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal: 
My last good deed was to entreat his stay: 
What was my first ? it has an elder sister, 
Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace! 
But once before I spoke to the purpose: when ? 
Nay, let me have ’t; I long. 


eon. 
Three crabbed months had 
death, 

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand 
And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter 
‘Il am yours forever.’ 

Her. *T is grace indeed. 
Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice: 
The one for ever earn’d a royal husband; 
The other for some while a friend. 

Leon. [ Aside] Too hot, too hot! 
To mingle friendship far 1s mingling bloods. 
I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances; 
But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment 
May a free face put on, derive a liberty 
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, 
And well become the agent; ’t may, I grant; 
But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, 
As now they are, and making practised smiles, 
As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as *t were 
The mort o’ the deer; O, that is entertainment 
My bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius, 
Art thou my boy ? 


Why, that was when 
sour’d themselves to 


Mam. Ay, my good lord. 
Leon. I’ fecks! 
Why, that’s my bawcock. What, hast smutch’d 
thy nose ? 


They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, 
We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain: 
And yet the steer, the heifer and the calf 
Are all call’d neat.—Still virginalling 
Upon his palm !— How now, you wanton calf! 
Art thou my calf? 
Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord. 
Leon. Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots 
that I have, 
To be full like me: yet they say we are 
Almost as like as eggs; women say so, 
That will say any thing: but were they false 
As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false - 
As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes 
No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true 
To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, 
Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain! 
Most dear’st! my collop! Can thy dam ?—may ’t 
Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: [be?— 
Thou dost make possible things not so held, 
Communicatest with dreams ;—how can this be ?— 
With what ’s unreal thou coactive art, 
And fellow’st nothing: then ’t is very credent 
Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost, 
And that beyond commission, and I find it, 
And that to the infection of my brains 
And hardening of my brows. ; 
Pol. What means Sicilia ? 
Her. He something seems unsettled. 
Pol. How, my lord! 
What cheer? how is ’t with you, best brother ? 
er. You look 
As if you held a brow of much distraction : 
Are you moved, my lord ? 
Leon. No, in good earnest. 
How sometimes nature will betray its folly, 


ACT I. 


Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime 
To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines 
Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil 
Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d, 
In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled, 
Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, 
As ornaments oft do, too dangerous: 
How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, 
This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, 
Will you take eggs for money ? 
Mam. No, my lord, I'll fight. [brother, 
Leon. You will! why, happy man be’s dole! My 
Ayre you so fond of your young prince as we 
Do seem to be of ours ? 
ol. If at home, sir, 
He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter, 
Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy, 
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: 
He makes a July’s day short as December, 
And with his varying childness cures in me 
Thoughts that would thick my blood. 
Leon. So stands this squire 
Officed with me: we two will walk, my lord, 
And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, 
How thou lovest us, show in our brother’s welcome; 
Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap: 
Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s 
Apparent to my heart. 
Her. If you would seek us, 
Weare yours i’ the garden: shall ’s attend you there? 
Leon. To your own bents dispose you: youll be 


found, 
Be you beneath the sky. [Aside] I am angling now, 
Though you perceive me not how I give line. 
Go to, go to! 
How she holds up the neb, the bill to him! 
And arms her with the boldness of a wife 
To her allowing husband! 
[| Kxeunt Poliaenes, Hermione, and Attendants. 
Gone already ! 
Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d 
Go, play, boy, play: thy mother plays, and I [one! 
Play too, but so disgraced a part, whose issue 
Will hiss me to my grave; contempt and clamour 
Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There have 
Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now; [been, 
And many a man there is, even at this present, 
Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm, 
That little thinks she has been sluiced in ’s absence 
And his pond fish’d by his next neighbor, by 
‘Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there ’s comfort in ’t 
W hiles other men have gates and those gates open’d, 
As mine, against their will. Should all despair 
That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind 
Would hang themselves. Physic for ’t there is none; 
It is a bawdy planet, that will strike 
Where ’tis predominant; and ’t is powerful, think it, 
From east, west, north and south: be it concluded, 
No barricado for a belly; know ’t; 
It will let in and out the enemy 
With bag and baggage: many thousand on’s 
Have the disease, and feel ’t not. How now, boy! 
Mam. I am like you, they say. 
Leon. Why, that ’s some comfort. 
What, Camillo there ? 


Cam. Ay, my good lord. 
Leon. Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest 
man. [Hxit Mamillius. 

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 

Cam. Youhad much ado to make his anchor hold: 
When you cast out, it still came home. 

Leon. Didst note it ? 

Cam. He would not stay at your petitions; made 
His business more material. 

Leon. Didst perceive it ? 
[Aside] They ’re here with me already, whispering, 
‘Sicilia is a so-forth:’ ’tis far gone, [rounding 


THE WINTERS TALE. 


SCENE II. 


When I shall gust it last. How came ’t, Camillo, 
That he did stay ? 
Cam. At the good queen’s entreaty. 

Leon. At the queen’s be ’t: ‘good’ should be per- 
But, so it is, itisnot. Wasthistaken — [tinent; 
By any understanding pate but thine ? 

For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in 

More than the common blocks: not noted, is ’t, 
But of the finer natures ? by some severals 

Of head-piece extraordinary ? lower messes 
Perchance are to this business purblind ? say. 

Cam. Business, my lord! I think most understand 
Bohemia stays here longer. 

Leon. 

Cam. 

Leon. Ay, but why ? 

Cam. To satisfy your highness and the entreaties 
Of our most gracious mistress. 

Leon. Satisfy ! 

The entreaties of your mistress! satisfy! 

Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, 
With all the nearest things to my heart, as well 
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou 
Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed 
Thy penitent reform’d: but we have been 
Deceived in thy integrity, deceived 

In that which seems so. 

Cam. Be it. forbid, my lord! 

Leon. To bide upon ’t, thou art not honest, or, 
If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward, 
Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining 
From course required ; or else thou must be counted 
A servant grafted in my serious trust 
And therein negligent; or else a fool 
That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn, 
And takest it all for jest. 

Cam. My gracious lord, 

I may be negligent, foolish and fearful ; 

In every one of these no man is free, 

But that his negligence, his folly, fear, 
Among the infinite doings of the world, 
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, 
If ever I were wilful-negligent, 

It was my folly; if industriously 

I play’d the fool, it was my negligence, 

Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful 
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, 

W hereof the execution did cry out 

Against the non-performance, ’t was a fear 
Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord, 
Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty 

Is never free of. But, beseech your grace, 

Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass 
By its own visage: if I then deny it, 

*T is none of mine. 

Leon. Ha’ not you seen, Camillo,— 
But that ’s past doubt, you have, or your eye-glass 
Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn, —or heard, — 
For to a vision so apparent rumour 
Cannot be mute, —or thought,—for cogitation 
Resides not in that man that does not think,— 

My wife is slippery ? If thou wilt confess, 

Or else be impudently negative, 

To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then say 
My wife’s a hobby-horse, deserves a name 

As rank as any flax-wench that puts to 

Before her troth-plight: say ’t and justify ’t. 

Cam. I would not be a stander-by to hear 
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
My present vengeance taken: ’shrew my heart, 
You never spoke what did become you less 
Than this; which to reiterate were sin 
As deep as that, though true. 

Leon. Is whispering nothing ? 
Ts leaning cheek to cheek ? is meeting noses ? 
Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career 
Of laughing with a sigh ?—a note infallible 

253 


Ha! 
Stays here longer. 


ACT lI. 


Of breaking honesty—horsing foot on foot ? 
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift ? 
Hours, minutes? noon, midnight ? and all eyes 
Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only, 
That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? 
Why, then the world and all that ’s in ’t is nothing ; 
The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing; 
My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these noth- 
If this be nothing. fings, 
Cam. Good my lord, be cured 
Of this diseased opinion, and betimes; 
For *t is most dangerous. 
Leon. 
Cam. No, no, my lord. 
Leon. It is; you lie, you lie: 
I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, 
Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave, 
Or else a hovering temporizer, that 
Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, 
Inclining to them both: were my wife’s liver 
Infected as her life, she would not live 
The running of one glass. 
Cam. Who does infect her ? 
Leon. Why, he that wears her like her medal, 
About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I {hanging 
Had servants true about me, that bare eyes 
To see alike mine honour as their profits, 
Their own particular thrifts, they would do that 
Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou, 
His cup-bearer,— whom I from meaner form 
Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see 
Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, 
How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup, 
To give mine enemy a lasting wink; 
Which draught to me were cordial. 
Cam. Sir, my lord, 
I could do this, and that with no rash potion, 
But with a lingering dram that should not work 
Maliciously like poison: but I cannot 
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, 
So sovereignly being honourable. 
I have loved thee,— 
Leon. Make that thy question, and go rot! 
Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 
To appoint myself in this vexation, sully 
The purity and whiteness of my sheets, 
Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted 
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps, 
Give scandal to the blood 0’ the prince my son, 
Who I do think is mine and love as mine, 
Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this? 
Could man so blench ? 
Cam. I must believe you, sir: 
I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for ’t ; 
Provided that, when he’s removed, your highness 
Will take again your queen as yours at first, 
Even for your son’s sake; and thereby for sealing 
The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms 
Known and allied to yours. 
Leon. Thou dost advise me 
Even so as I mine own course have set down: 
Ill give no blemish to her honour, none. 
Cam. My lord, 
Go then; and with a countenance as clear 
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia 
And with your queen. I am his cupbearer: 
If from me he have wholesome beverage, 
Account me not your servant. 
Leon. This is all; 
Do ’t and thou hast the one half of my heart; 
Do ’t not, thou split’st thine own. 
Cam. Ill do ’t, my lord. 
Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised 
me. [ Exit. 
Can. O miserable lady! But, for me, 
What case stand lin? I must be the poisoner 
Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do ’t 


254 


Say it be, tis true. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE II. 


Is the obedience to a master, one 

Who in rebellion with himself will have | 
All that are his so too. ‘To do this deed, 
Promotion follows. If I could find example 
Of thousands that had struck anointed kings 
And flourish’d after, I ’ld not do ’t; but since 
Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one, 
Let villany itself forswear ’t. I must 
Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain 
To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now! 
Here comes Bohemia. 


Re-enter Polixenes. 


Pol. This is strange: methinks 
My favour here begins to warp. Not speak ? 
Good day, Camillo. 

Cam. Hail, most royal sir! 

Pol. What is the news i’ the court ? 

Cam. None rare, my lord. 

Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance 
As he had lost some province and a region 
Loved as he loves himself: even now I met him 
With customary compliment; when he, 
Wafting his eyes to the contrary and falling 
A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and 
So leaves me to consider what is breeding 
That changeth thus his manners. 

Cam. I dare not know, my lord. 

Pol. How! dare not! donot. Do you know, and 

dare not? 

Be intelligent to me: *t is thereabouts: 
For, to yourself, what you do know, you must, 
And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, 
Your changed complexions are to me a mirror 
Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be 
A party in this alteration, finding 
Myself thus altered with ’t. 

Cam. There is a sickness 
Which puts some of us in distemper, but 
I cannot name the disease; and it is caught 


Of you that yet are well. 

Polen How! caught of me! 
Make me not sighted like the basilisk: r 
I have looked on thousands, who have sped the bet- 
By my regard, but kill’?d none so. Camillo,— 
As you are certainly a gentleman thereto, 
Clerk-like experienced, which no less adorns 
Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, 
In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you, 
If you know ought which does behove my knowl- 
Thereof to be inform’d, imprison ’t not [edge- 
In ignorant concealment. 

Cam. I may not answer. 

Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well! 
I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo, 
I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 
Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least 
Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare 
What incidency thou dost guess of harm 
Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near; 
Which way to be prevented, if to be; 
If not, how best to bear it. 

Cam. Sir, I will tell you; 
Since I am charged in honour and by him (sel, 
That I think honourable: therefore mark my coun- 
Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as 
I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me 
Cry lost, and so good night ! , 

Pol. On, good Camillo. 
Cam. I am appointed him to murder you. 


Pol. By whom, Camillo? 
Cam. By the mee 
or what? 
[swears, 


To vice you to ’t, that you have touched his queen 
Forbiddenly. 


ACT II. 


Pol. O, then my best blood turn 
To an infected jelly and my name 
Be yoked with his that did betray the Best! 
Turn then my freshest reputation to 
A savour that may strike the dullest nostril 
Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn’d, 
Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection 
That e’er was heard or read! 

Cam. Swear his thought over 
By each particular star in heaven and 
By all their influences, you may as well 
Forbid the sea for to obey the moon 
As or by oath remove or counsel shake 
The fabric of his folly, whose foundation 
Is piled upon his faith and will continue 
The standing of his body. 

Pol. How should this grow ? 
Cam. I know not; but I am sure ’t is safer to 
Avoid what ’s grown than question how ’t is born. 

If therefore you dare trust my honesty, 

That lies enclosed in this trunk which you 
Shall bear along impawn’d, away to-night! 
Your followers I will whisper to the business, 
And will by twos and threes at several posterns 
Clear them o’ the city. For myself, I ’ll put 
My fortunes to your service, which are here 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE I. 


By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain; 
For, by the honour of my parents, I 
Have utter’d truth: which if you seek to prove, 
I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer 
Than one condemn’d by the king’s own 
His execution sworn. | 
Pol. I do believe thee: 
I saw his heart in ’s face. Give me thy hand: 
Be pilot to me and thy places shall 
Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready and 
My people did expect my hence departure 
Two days ago. This jealousy 
Is for a precious creature: as she’s rare, 
Must it be great, and as his person ’s mighty, 
Must it be violent, and as he does conceive 
He is dishonour’d by a man which ever 
Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must 
In that be mide more bitter. Fear o’ershades me: 
Good expedition bi my friend, and comfort 
The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing 
Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo; 
I will respect thee as a father if 
Thou bear’st my life off hence: let us avoid. 
Cam. It is in mine authority to command 
The keys of all the. posterns: please your highness 
To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. [Hzeunt. 


mouth, 
[thereon 


110 NE i 


SCENE I.—A room in Leontes’ palace. 


Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies. 


Her. Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, 
*T is past enduring. 


_ First Lady. Come, my gracious lord, 
Shall I be your playfellow ? 
Mam. No, Ill none of you. 


First Lady. Why, my sweet lord ? 

Mam. You’ll kiss me hard and speak to me as if 
I were a baby still. I love you better. 

Sec. Lady. And why so, my lord? 

Mam. Not for because 
_ Your brows are blacker yet black brows, they say, 
Become some women best, so that there be not 
Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 

Or a half-moon made with a pen. 

Sec. Lady. Who taught you this ? 

Mam. I learnt it out of women’s faces. Pray now 
What colour are your eyebrows? 

First Lady. Blue, my lord. 

Mam. Nay, that’s a mock: I have seen a lady’s 

nose 
That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. 

First Lady. Hark ye; 
The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall 
Present our services to a fine new prince 
One of these days; and then you ld wantc 1 with us, 
If we would have you. 

Sec. Lady. She is spread of late 
Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her! 

Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, 
lam for you again: pray you, sit by us, [sir, now 
And tell’s a tale. 

Mam. Merry or sad shall ’t be? 

Her. As merry as you will. 

Mam. A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one 
Of sprites and goblins. 

Her. Let’s have that, good sir. 
Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best 
To fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful 

Mam. There was a man — [at it. 

Her. Nay, come, sit down; then on. 

Mam. Dwelt by achurchyard: I will tell it softly ; 
Yond crickets shall not hear it. 


Her. 


Come on, then, 
And give ’t me in mine ear. 


Enter Leontes, with Antigonus, Lords, and 
others. 


Leon. Was he met there? his train? Camillo 
with him ? [never 
First Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I met them ; 
Saw I men scour so on their way: 1 eyed them 
Even to their ships. 
Leon. How blest am I 
In my just censure, in my true opinion! 
Alack, for lesser knowledge! how accursed 
In being so blest! There may be in the cup 
A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart, 
And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge 
Is not infected: but if one present 
The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known 
How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, 
With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the 
Camillo was his help in this, his pander: _[spider. 
There is a plot against my life, my crown; - 
All’s true that is mistrusted: that false villain 
Whom I employ’d was pre-employ’d by him: 
He has discover’d my design, and I 
Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick 
For them to play at will. How came the posterns 
So easily open ? 
First Lord. By his great authority ; 
Which often hath no less prevail’d than so 
On your command. 
Leon. I know ’t too well. 
Give me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him; 
Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you 
Have too much blood in him. 
Her. What is this ? sport ?” 
Leon. Bear the boy hence; he shall not come 
about her; 
Away with him! and let her sport herself 
With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes 
Has made thee swell thus. 
But I ld say he had nof, 


Her. 
And Ill be sworn you would believe my saying, 
Howe’er you lean to the nayward. 
Leon. You, my lords, 


255 


ACT II. 


Look on her, mark her well; be but about 
To say ‘she is a goodly lady,’ and 
The justice of your hearts will thereto add 
‘oT is pity she’s not honest, honourable: ’ 
Praise her but for this her without-door form, 
Which on my faith deserves high speech, and 
straight 

The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands 
That calumny doth use—O, I am out — 
That mercy does, for calumny will sear 
Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha’s, 
When you have said ‘she’s goodly,’ come between 
Ere you can say ‘she’s honest: ’ but be *t known, 
From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, 
She ’s an adulteress. 

Her. Should a villain say so, 
The most replenish’d villain in the world, 
He were as much more villain: you, my lord, 
Do but mistake. 

Leon. You have mistook, my lady, 
Polixenes for Leontes: O thou thing! 

Which I ’ll not call a creature of thy place, 
Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, 
Should a like language use to all degrees 
And mannerly distinguishment leave out 
Betwixt the prince and beggar: I have said 
She’s an adulteress; 1 have said with whom: 
More, she’s a traitor and Camillo is 

A federary with her, and one that knows 
What she should shame to know herself 

But with her most vile principal, that she ’s 
A bed-swerver, even as bad as those 

That vulgars give bold’st titles, ay, and privy 
To this their late escape. 

Her. No, by my life, 

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, 
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, 
You scarce can right me throughly then to say 
You did mistake. 

Leon. No; if I mistake 

In those foundations which I build upon, 

The centre is not big enough to bear 

A school-boy’s top. Away with her! to prison! 
He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty 
But that he speaks. 

Her. There ’s some ill planet reigns: 
I must be patient till the heavens look 
With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, 
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew 
Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have 
That honourable grief lodged here which burns 
Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords, 
With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so 
The king’s will be perform’d! 

Leon. Shall I be heard ? 

Her. Who is ’t that goes with me? Beseech your 

highness, 

My women may be with me; for you see 

My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools; 

There is no cause: when you shall know your mis- 
tress 

Has deserved prison, then abound in tears 

As I come out: this action I now go on 

Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord: 

I never wish’d to see you sorry; now 

I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave. 

Leon. Go, do our bidding; hence! 

[Exit Queen, guarded; with Ladies. 

First Lord. Beseech your highness, call the queen 

again. 

Ant. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice 
Prove violence; in the which three great ones suffer, 
Yourself, your queen, your son. 

First Lord. For her, my lord, 
256 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE 


I dare my life lay down and will do ’t, sir, 
Please you to accept. it, that the queen is spotiess 
I’ the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean, 
In this which you accuse her. 
Ant. If it prove 
She ’s otherwise, I ’ll keep my stables where 
I lodge my wife; I ’ll go in couples with her; 
Than when I feel and see her no farther trust her ; 
For every inch of woman in the world, 
Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false, 
If she be. 
Leon. Hold your peaces. 
First Lord. Good my lord,— 
Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: 
You are abused and by some putter-on 
That will be damn’d for ’t ; would I knew the villain, 
I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d, 
I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven ; 
The second and the third, nine, and some five; 
If this prove true, they ’1] pay for ’t: by mine honour, 
I'll geld ’em all; fourteen they shall not see, 
To bring false generations: they are co-heirs; 
And I had rather glib myself than they 
Should not praduce fair issue. 
Leon. Cease; no more. 
You smell this business with a sense as cold 
As is a dead man’s nose: but I do see ’t and feel ’t, 
As you feel doing thus; and see withal 
The instruments that feel. 
Ant. If it be so, 
We need no grave to bury honesty: 
There ’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten 
Of the whole dungy earth. 
Leon. What! lack I credit? 
First Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, my 
lord, 
Upon this ground; and more it would content me 
To have her honour true than your suspicion, 
Be blamed for ’t how you might. 
Leon. Why, what need we 
Commune with you of this, but rather follow 
Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative 
Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness 
Imparts this; which if you, or stupified 
Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not 
Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves 
We need no more of your advice: the matter, 
The loss, the gain, the ordering on ’t, is all 
Properly ours. 
Ant. And I wish, my liege, 
You had only in your silent judgment tried it, 
Without more overture. 
Leon. How could that be ? 
Either thou art most ignorant by age, 
Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight, 
Added to their familiarity, 
Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture, 
That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation 
But only seeing, all other circumstances 
Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding: 
Yet, for a greater confirmation, 
For in an act of this importance ’t were 
Most piteous to be wild, I have dispatch’d in post 
To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, 
Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know 
Of stuff’d sufficiency: now from the oracle 
They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had, 
Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well? 
First Lord. Well done, my lord. 
Leon. Though I am satisfied and need no more 
Than what I know, yet shall the oracle 
Give rest to the minds of others, such as he 
Whose ignorant credulity will not 
Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good 
From our free person she should be confined, 
Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence 
Be left her to perform. Come, follow us; 


THE 


We are to speak in public; for this business 
Will raise us all. 

Ant. [Aside] To laughter, as I take it, 
If the good truth were known. 


SCENE II.— A prison. 


Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and Attendants. 


Paul. The keeper of the prison, call to him; 
Let him have knowledge who I am. [Haut Gent. 
: Good lady, 
No court in Europe is too good for thee; 
What dost thou then in prison ? 


ACT II. 


[ Hxeunt. 


Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler. 


Now, good sir, 
You know me, do you not ? 

Gaol. For a worthy lady 
And one whom much I honour. 
Paul. Pray you then, 

Conduct me to the queen. 
aol. I may not, madam: 
To the contrary I have express commandment. 
Paul. Here’s ado, 
To lock up honesty and honour from 
The access of gentle visitors! Is ’t lawful, pray you, 
To see her women? any of them? Emilia? 
Gaol. So please you, madam, 
To put apart these your attendants, I 
Shall bring Emilia forth. 
Paul. 
Withdraw yourselves. 
[Hxeunt Gentleman and Attendants. 
Gaol. And, madam, 
I must be present at your conference. 
Paul. Well, be ’t so, prithee. [Exit Gaoler. 
Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain 
As passes colouring. 


I pray now, call her. 


Re-enter Gaoler, with Emilia. 


Dear gentlewoman, 
How fares our gracious lady ? 

Emil. As well as one so great and so forlorn 
May hold together: on her frights and griefs, 
Which never tender lady hath borne greater, 

She is something before her time deliver’d. 

Paul. A boy? 

Enil. A daughter, and a goodly babe, 
Lusty and like to live: the queen receives 
Much comfort in ’t; says ‘ My poor prisoner, 

I am innocent as you.’ 

Paul. I dare be sworn: [them! 
These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ the king, beshrew 
He must be told on ’t, and he shall: the office 
Becomes a woman best; Ill take ’t upon me: 

If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister 
And never to my red-look’d anger be 

The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, 
Commend my best obedience to the queen: 

If she dares trust me with her little babe, 

1’ll show ’t the king and undertake to be 

Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know 
How he may soften at the sight o’ the child: 
The silence often of pure innocence 

Persuades when speaking fails. 

Emil. Most worthy madam, 
Your honour and your goodness is so evident 
That your free undertaking cannot miss 
A thriving issue: there is no lady living 
So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship 
To visit the next room, Ill presently 
Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer ; 

Who but to-day hammer’d of this design 
But durst not tempt a minister of honour, 
Lest she should be denied. 

Paul. Tell her, Emilia, 

I’) use that tongue I have: if wit flow from ’t 


17 


WINTER'S TALE. 


SCENE III. 


As boldness from my bosom, let ’t not be doubted 
I shall do good. 
Emil. Now be you blest for it! 
Ill to the queen: please you, come something nearer. 
Gaol. Madam, if ’t please the queen to send the 
I know not what I shall incur to pass it, [babe. 
Having no warrant. 
Paul. You need not fear it, sir: 
This child was prisoner to the womb and is’ 
By law and process of great nature thence 
Freed and enfranchised, not a party to 
The anger of the king nor guilty of, 
If any be, the trespass of the queen. 
Gaol. I do believe it. 
Paul. Do not you fear: upon mine hononr, I 
Will stand betwixt you and danger. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— A room in Leontes’ palace. 


Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and 
Servants. 


Leon. Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness 
To bear the matter thus; mere weakness. 
The cause were not in being,— part 0’ the cause, 
She the adulteress; for the harlot king 
Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank 
And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she 
I can hook to me: say that she were gone, 
Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest . 
Might come to me again. Who’s there? 
First Serv. 
Leon. How does the boy ? 
First Serv. He took good rest to-night ; 
*T is hoped his sickness is discharged. 
_Leon. To see his nobleness! 
Conceiving the dishonour of his mother, 
He straight declined, droop’d, took it deeply, 
Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on ’t in himself, 
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 
And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go, 
See how he fares. [Exit Serv.] Fie, fie! no thought of 
The very thought of my revenges that way [him: 
Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, 
And in his parties, his alliance; let him be 
Until a time may serve: for present vengeance, 
Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes 
Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow: 
They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor 
Shall she within my power. 


My lord ? 


Enter Paulina, with a child. 


First Lord. You must not enter. 

Paul. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to 
Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, [me: 
Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul, 
More free than he is jealous. 


nt. 

Sec. Serv. Madam, he hath 
None should come at him. 

Paul. Not so hot, good sir: 
IT come to bring him sleep. ’T is such as you, 
That creep like shadows by him and do sigh 
At each his needless heavings, such as you 
Nourish the cause of his awaking: I 
Do come with words as medicinal as true, 
Honest as either, to purge him of that humour 
That presses him from sleep. 

Leon. What noise there, ho ? 

Paul. No noise, my lord; but needful conference 
About some gossips for your highness. 

Leon. How! 
Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, 
I charged thee that she should not come about me: 
I knew she would. 

Ant. I told her so, my lord, 
On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, 
She should not visit you. 


207 


That ’s enough. 
not slept to-night ; 
[commanded 


ACT If. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


Leon. What, canst not rule her ? 

Paul. From all dishonesty he can: in this, 
Unless he take the course that you have done, 
Commit me for committing honour, trust it, 


He shall not-rule me. 

nt. La you now, you hear: 
When she will take the rein I let her run; 
But she ll not stumble. 

Paul. Good my liege, I come; 
And I beseech you, hear me, who profess 
Myself your loyal servant, your physician, 

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dare 
Less appear so in comforting your evils, 
Than such as most seem yours: I say, I come 
From your good queen. 

Leon. Good queen! 

Paul. Good queen, my lord, 
Good queen; I say good queen; 

And would by combat make her good, so were I 
A man, the worst about you. 

Leon. Force her hence. 

Paul. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes 
First hand me: on mine own accord [1] off; 

But first 1711 do my errand. The good queen, 
For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter ; 
Here ’tis; commends it to your blessings. 

[Laying down the child. 

Leon. Out! 
A mankind witch! Hence with her, out 0’ door: 
A most intelligencing bawd! 

Paul. Not so: 
I am as ignorant in that as you 
In so entitling me, and no less honest 
Than you are mad; which is enough, I ’ll warrant, 
As this world goes, to pass for honest. 

Leon. Traitors! ° 
Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard. 
Thou dotard! thou art woman-tired, unroosted 
By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard; 
Take ’t up, I say; give ’t to thy crone. 

Paul. 

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
Takest up the princess by that forced baseness 
Which he has put upon ’t! 

Leon. He dreads his wife. 

Paul. SoI would you did; then ’t were past all 
You 71d call your children yours. [doubt 


For ever 


Leon. A nest of traitors! 
Ant. Iam none, by this good light. 
Paul. Nor I, nor any | 


But one that ’s here, and that ’s himself, for he 
The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, 
His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to’slander, 


Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will | 


For, as the case now stands, it is a curse 
He cannot be compell’d to ’t—once remove 
The root of his opinion, which is rotten 

As ever oak or stone was sound. 


[not —- 


con. A callat 
Of Dg tongue, who late hath beat her hus- 
anc 

And now baits me! This brat is none of mine; 
It is the issue of Polixenes: 
Hence with it, and together with the dam 
Commit them to the fire! . 

Paul. It is yours ; 
And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, 
So like you, ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, 
Although the print be little, the whole matter 
And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip, 
The trick of ’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, | 
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, : 
His smiles, 
‘The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger: 
And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it | 
So like to him that got it, if thou hast . 
The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours 


208 


| With what thou else call’st thine. 


Of any point in ’t shall not only be 
| Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, 


SCENE III. 


No yellow in ’t, lest she suspect 
Her children not her husband’s! 

Leon. A gross hag! 
And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d, 

That wilt not stay her tongue. 

Ant. Hang all the husbands 
That cannot do that feat, you ’ll leave yourself 
Hardly one subject. 

Leon. Once more, take her hence. 

Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord 


Can do no more. 
I’ll ha’ thee burnt. 


as he does, 


Leon. 
Paul. 
It is an heretic that makes the fire, 
Not she which burns in ’t. Ill not call you tyrant ; 
But this most cruel usage of your queen, 
Not able to produce more accusation [vours 
Than your own weak-hinged fancy, something sa- 
Of tyranny and will ignoble make you, 


I care not: 


| Yea, scandalous to the world. 


Leon. On your allegiance, 
Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, 
Where were her life? she durst not call me so, 

If she did know me one. Away with her! 

Paul. I pray you, do not push me; 171] be gone. 

Look 9 your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send 
er 

A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands ? 

You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies, 

Will never do him good, not one of you. 

So, so: farewell; we are gone. [ Kat. 

Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. 
My child? away with ’t! Even thou, that hast 
A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence 
And see it instantly consumed with fire; 

Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight: 
Within this hour bring me word ’tis done, 

And by good testimony, or IL ’ll seize thy life, 

If thou refuse 
And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so; 


| The bastard brains with these my proper hands 


Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; 


I did not, sir: 


| For thou set’st on thy wife. 


Ant. 


_ These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, 


Can clear me in ’t. 
Lords. We can: my royal liege, 
He is not guilty of her coming hither. 
Leon. You’re liars all. [credit : 
First Lord. Beseech your highness, give us better 


_ We have always truly served you, and beseech you 
| So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg, 


As recompense of our dear services 
Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, 
Which being so horrible, so bloody, must 
Lead on to some foul issue: we all kneel. 

Leon. Iam a feather for each wind that blows: 
Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel 
And call me father ? better burn it now 
Than curse it then. But be it; let it live. 
It shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither; 
You that have been so tenderly officious 


| With Lady Margery, your midwife there, 
| To save this bastard’s life,—for ’t is a bastard, 
| So sure as this beard ’s grey,—what will you adven- 


To save this brat’s life ? [ture 
AW Any thing, my lord, | 
That my ability may undergo , 


_ And nobleness impose: at least thus much : 


Ill pawn the little blood which I have left 
To save the innocent: any thing possible. 
Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword 


| Thou wilt perform my bidding. 


Ant. ‘I will, my lord. 
Leon. Mark and perform it, see’st thou: for el 
ai 


AGSlI I, 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 


SCENE II. 


a i NN SS 


Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, 

As thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry 

This female bastard hence and that thou bear it 

To some remote and desert place quite out 

Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it, 

Without more mercy, to its own protection 

And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune 

It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, 

On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, 

That thou commend it strangely to some place 

Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. 
Ant. I swear to do this, though a present death 

Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe: 

Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 

To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say, 

Casting their savageness aside have done 

Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous 

In more than this deed does require! And blessing 


Leon. No, Ill not rear 


Another’s issue. 
Enter a Servant. 
Serv. Please your highness, posts 
From those you sent to the oracle are come 
An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion, 
Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, 
Hasting to the court. 


First Lord. So please you, sir, their speed 
Hath been beyond account. 
Leon. Twenty-three days 


They have been absent: ’tis good speed; foretells 
The great Apollo suddenly will have 
The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords; 
Summon a session, that we may arraign 

Our most disloyal lady, for, as she hath 

Been publicly accused, so shall she have 

A just and open trial. While she lives 


Against this cruelty fight on thy side, My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me, 
Poor thing, condemn’d to loss! [Exit with the child. | And think upon my bidding. [Hxeunt. 
Zeck ©. Tei Bo lg Ti 


SCENE I.—A sea-port in Sicilia. 


Enter Cleomenes and Dion. 


Cleo. The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet, 
Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing 
The common praise it bears. 

Dion. I shall report, 

For most it caught me, the celestial habits, 
Methinks Iso should term them, and the reverence 
Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice! 

How ceremonious, solemn and unearthly 

It was i’ the offering! 

Cleo. But of all, the burst 
And the ear-deafening voice 0’ the oracle, 

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised my sense, 
That I was nothing! 

Dion. If the event 0’ the journey 
Prove as successful to the queen,—O be ’t so! — 
As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 

The time is worth the use on ’t. 

Cleo. Great Apollo 
Turn all to the best! These proclamations, 

So forcing faults upon Hermione, 
I little like. 

Dion. The violent carriage of it 
Will clear or end the business: when the oracle, 
Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up, 

Shall the contents discover, something rare 
Even then will rush to knowledge. Go: fresh horses! 
And gracious be the issue! [Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — A court of Justice. 


Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers. 


Leon. This sessions, to our great grief we pro- 
nounce, 

Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried 
The daughter of a king, our wife, and one 
Of us too much beloved. Let us be clear’d 
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly 
Proceed in justice, which shall have due course, 
Even to the guilt or the purgation. 
Produce the prisoner. 

Off. It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen 
Appear in person here in court. Silence! 


Enter Hermione guarded; Paulina and 
Ladies attending. 
Leon. Read the indictment. 
Off. [Reads] Hermione, queen to the worthy Leon- 
tes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and ar- 


raigned of high treason, in committing adultery 
with Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring 
with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign 
lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence 
whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, 
thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance 
of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for 
their better safety, to fly away by night. 
Her. Since what I am to say must be but that 
Which contradicts my accusation and 
The testimony on my part no other 
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me 
To say ‘not guilty:’ mine integrity 
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 
Be so received. But thus: if powers divine 
Behold our human actions, as they do, 
I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
False accusation blush and tyranny 
Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, 
Who least will seem to do so, my past life 
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 
As [am now unhappy; which is more 
Than history can pattern, though devised 
And play’d to take spectators. For behold me 
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter, 
The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 
To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore 
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it 
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour, 
’T is a derivative from me to mine, 
And only that I stand for. I appeal 
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 
Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 
How merited to be so; since he came, 
With what encounter so uncurrent I 
Have strain’d to appear thus: if one jot beyond 
The bound of honour, or in act or will 
That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts 
Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin 
Cry fie upon my grave! 
Leon. IT ne’er heard yet 
That any of these bolder vices wanted 
Less impudence to gainsay what they did 
Than to perform it first. X 
Her. That ’s true enough ; 
Though ’t is a saying, sir, not due to me. 
Leon. You will not own it. 
Her. More than mistress of 
Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not 
At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, 


259 


ACT III. 


With whom I am accused, I do confess 

I loved him as in honour he required, 

With such a kind of love as might become 

A lady like me, with a love even such, 

So and no other, as yourself commanded : 

Which not to have done I think had been in me 
Both disobedience and ingratitude [spoke, 
To you and toward your friend, whose love had 
Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely 
That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 

I know not how it tastes; though it be dish’d 

For me to try how: all I know of it 

Is that Camillo was an honest man; 

And why he left your court, the gods themselves, 
Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 

Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know 
What you have underta’en to do in’s absence. 

Her, Sir, 

You speak a language that I understand not: 
My life stands in the level of your dreams, 
Which I?ll lay down. 

Leon. Your actions are my dreams ; 
You had a bastard by Polixenes, 

And I but dream’dit. As you were past all shame,— 
Those of your fact are so—so past all truth: 
Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as 
Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, 

No father owning it,— which is, indeed, 

More criminal in thee than it,—so thou 

Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage 
Look for no less than death. 

Her. Sir, spare your threats: 
The bug which you would fright me with I seek. 
To me can life be no commodity : 

The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, 
I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, 

But know not how it went. My second joy 
And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 
Lam barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort, 
Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, 

The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, 
Haled out to murder: myself on every post 
Proclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred 
The child-bed privilege denied, which longs 
To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried 

Here to this place, i’ the open air, before 

I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, 
Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 

That I should fear to die ? Therefore proceed. 
But yet hear this; mistake me not; no life, 

I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, 
Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d 
Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else 

But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 

*T is rigour and not law. Your honours all, 

I do refer me to the oracle: 

Apollo be my judge! 

First Lord. This your request 
Is altogether just: therefore bring forth, 

And in Apollo’s name, his oracle. 
[Hxeunt certain Officers. 

Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father: 

O that he were alive, and here beholding 
His daughter’s trial! that he did but see 
The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes 
Of pity, not revenge! 


Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion. 
Off. You here shall swear uponthis swordof justice, 
That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have 
Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought 
This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d 
Of great Apollo’s priest and that since then 
You have not dared to break the holy seal 
Nor read the secrets in ’t. 
Cleo. Dion. All this we swear. 
Leon. Break up the seals and read. 
260 


THE WINTER’S TALE 


SCENE Il. 


Off. [Reads] Hermione is chaste ; Polixenes blame- 
less; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous ty- 
rant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the 
king shall live without an heir, if that which is 
lost be not found. 

Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo! 


Her. Praised! 

Leon. Hast thou read truth ? 

Mf. Ay, my lord; even so 

As it is here set down. 
Leon. There is no truth at all i’ the oracle: 

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood. 


Enter Servant. 
Serv. My lord the king, the king! 
Leon. What is the business ? 
Serv. O sir, I shall be hated to report it! 
The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear 
Of the queen’s speed, is gone. 
Leon. How! gone! 
Serv. Is dead. 
Leon. Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves 
Do strike at my injustice. [Hermione swoons.]| How 
now there! [down 
Paul. This news is mortal to the queen: look 
And see what death is doing. 
Leon. Take her hence: 
Her heart is but o’ercharged; she will recover: 
I have too much believed mine own suspicion: 
Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
Some remedies for life. 
[Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, with Hermione. 
Apollo, pardon 


| My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle! 


I ll reconcile me to Prolixenes, 

New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, 
Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; 
For, being transported by my jealousies 

To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose 
Camillo for the minister to poison 

My friend Polixenes: which had been done, 
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 

My swift command, though I with death and with 
Reward did threaten and encourage him, 

Not doing ’t and being done: he, most humane 
And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest 
Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, 
Which you knew great, and to the hazard 

Of all incertainties himself commended, 

No richer than his honour: how he glisters 
Thorough my rust! and how his piety 

Does my deeds make the blacker! 


Re-enter Paulina. 


Paul. Woe the while! 
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, 

Break too! 

First Lord. What fit is this, good lady ? 

Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? 
What wheels ? racks? fires ? what flaying ? boiling ? 
In leads or oils ? what old or newer torture 
Must I receive, whose every word deserves 
To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny 
Together working with thy jealousies, 

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle 
For girls of nine, O, think what they have done 
And then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all 
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. 
That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’t was nothing ; 
That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant 
And damnable ingrateful: nor was ’t much, 
Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour, 
To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, 

More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon 
The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter 
To be or none or little; though a devil 

Would have shed water out of fire ere done ’t: 


ACT III. 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 


SCENE ITI, 


Nor is ’t directly laid to thee, the death 

Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts, 
Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart 
That could conceive a gross and foolish sire 
Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no, 

Laid to thy answer: but the last, —O lords, 

When I have said, cry ‘ woe! ’"—the queen, the queen, 
The sweet’st, dear’st creature ’s dead, and vengeance 


Not dropp’d down yet. [for ’t 
First Lord. The higher powers forbid ! 
Paul. I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t. If word 


Prevail not, go and see: if youcan bring [nor oath 
Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye, 

Heat outwardly or breath within, I ’ll serve you 
As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! 
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
Than all thy woes can stir: therefore betake thee 
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees 

Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter 

In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 

To look that way thou wert. 

Leon. Go on, go on: 

Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved 
All tongues to talk their bitterest. 

First Lord. Say no more: 
Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault 
I’ the boldness of your speech. 

Paul. IT am sorry for ’t: 
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, 
Idorepent. Alas! I have show’d too much 
The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d {help 
To the noble heart. What ’s gone and what ’s past 
Should be past grief: do not receive affliction 
At my petition; I beseech you, rather 
Let me be punish’d, that have minded you 
Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, 
Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: 

The love I bore your queen —lo, fool again ! — 
I?ll speak of her no more, nor of your children; 
Ill not remember you of my own lord, 

Who is lost too: take your patience to you, 


And Ill say nothing. 

eon. Thou didst speak but well 
When most the truth; which I receive much better 
Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me 
To the dead bodies of my queen and son: 
One grave shall be for both: upon them shall 
The causes of their death appear, unto 
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ visit 
The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there 
Shall be my recreation: so long as nature 
Will bear up with this exercise, so long 
I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me 
Unto these sorrows. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE ITI.— Bohemia. A desert country near the sea. 


Enter Antigonus with a child, and a Mariner. 


Ant. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch’d 
The deserts of Bohemia ? [upon 
Mar. Ay, my lord; and fear 
We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly 
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, 
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry 
And frown upon’s. 

Ant. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard; 
Look to thy bark: Ill not be long before 
I call upon thee. 

Har. Make your best haste, and go not 
Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather ; 
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures 
Of pres that keep upon ’t. 


mnt. 
Ill follow instantly. 
Mar. I am glad at heart 
To be so rid 0’ the business. aa 


Go thou away : 


[ Hait. 


Ant. Come, poor babe: 
I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o’ the dead 
May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother 
Appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream 
So like a waking. To me comes a creature, 
Sometimes her head on one side, some another; 
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, 
So fill’d and so becoming: in pure white robes, 
Like very sanctity, she did approach ‘ 
My cabin where I lay ; thrice bow’d before me, 
And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 
Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon 
Did this break from her: ‘Good Antigonus, 
Since fate, against thy better disposition, 
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, 
Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
There weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe 
Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 
I prithee, call’t. For this ungentle business, 
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see 
Thy wife Paulina more.’ And so, with shrieks, 
She melted into air. Affrighted much, 
I did in time collect myself and thought 
This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys: 
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, 
I will be squared by this. I do believe 
Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that 
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue 
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, 
Either for life or death, upon the earth 
Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! 
There lie, and there thy character: there these; 
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, 


pretty, 
And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch, 
That for thy mother’s fault art thus exposed 
To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, 
But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I 
To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! [have 
The day frowns more and more: thou ’rt like to 
A lullaby too rough: I never saw 
The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! 
Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: 
I am gone for ever. [Hxcit, pursued by a bear. 


Enter a Shepherd. 


Shep. I would there were no age between sixteen 
and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep 
out the rest; for there is nothing in the between 
but getting wenches with child, wronging the an- 
cientry, stealing, fighting — Hark younow! Would 
any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two- 
and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared 
away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf 
will sooner find than the master: if any where I 
have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. 
Good luck, an’t be thy will! what have we here ? 
Mercy on’s, a barne; a very pretty barne! A boy 
or a child, I wonder? <A pretty one; a very pretty 
one: sure, some ’scape: though I am not bookish, 
yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the ’scape. 
This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, 
some behind-door-work: they were warmer that 
got this than the poor thing is here. Ill take it up 
for pity: yet Ill tarry till my son come; he hal- 
looed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa! 


Enter Clown. 

Clo. Hilloa, loa! 

Shep. What, art so near? If thou’lt see a thing 
to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come 
hither. What ailest thou, man ? 

Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by 
land! but I am not to say it is a sea, for it 1s now 
the sky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot 
thrust a bodkin’s point. 

261 


AcT Iv. THE WINTER'S TALE. SCENE 11. 


oe 


Shep. Why, boy, how is it ? thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest 
Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, how | with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s 
it rages, how it takes up the shore! but that’s not | a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a 
to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor | squire’s child! look thee here; take up, take up, 
souls! sometimes to see ’em, and not to see’em;! boy; open’t. So, let ’ssee: it was told me I should 


now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast, | be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling:. 


open ’t. What’s within, boy ? 

Clo. You’re a made old man: if the sins of your 
youth are forgiven you, you ’re well to live. Gold! 
all gold! 

Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and ’t will prove so: 
up with ’t, keep it close: home, home, the next way. 
We are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires noth- 
ing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good 
boy, the next way home. 

Clo. Go you the next way with your findings. 
Ill go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman. 
and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst 
but when they are hungry: if there be any of him 
left, Ill bury it. 

Shep. That’s a good deed. If thou mayest dis- 


and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you ’Id 
thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the 
land-service, to see how the bear tore out his 
shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help and 
said his name was Antigonus,a nobleman. But to 
make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-drag- 
oned it: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and 
the sea mocked them; and how the poor gentleman 
roared and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder 
than the sea or weather. 

Shep. Name of mercy, when was this, boy ? 

Clo. Now, now: I have not winked since I saw 
these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, 
nor the bear half dined on the gentleman: he’s at 
it now. 

Shep. Would I had been by, to have helped the 
old man! 

Clo. I would you had been by the ship’s side, to 
have helped her: there your charity would have 
lacked footing. 

Shep. Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look 


me to the sight of him. 

Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put 
him i’ the ground. 

Shep. "Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good 
deeds on ’t. | Hxeunt. 


a aa ct a 


Pe iV, 


SCENE I. Cam. It is fifteen years since I saw my country: 
; though I have for the most part been aired abroad, 
Enter Time, the Chorus. I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the peni- 
Time. I, that please some, try all, both joy and | tent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose 
terror feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween 
Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, to think so, which is another spur to my departure. 
Now take upon me, in the name of Time, Pol. As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out 
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime the rest of thy services by leaving me now: the need 
To me or my swift passage, that I slide Lhave of thee thine own goodness hath made; better 
O’er sixteen years and leave the growth untried not to have had thee than thus to want thee: thou, 
Of that wide gap, since it is in my power having made me businesses which none without 
To o’erthrow law and in one self-born hour thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to 
To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass execute them thyself or take away with thee the 
The same I am, ere ancient’st order was very services thou hast done; which if I have not 
Or what is now received: I witness to enough considered, as too much I cannot, to be 
The times that brought them in; so shall I do more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my 
To the freshest things now reigning and make stale | profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that 
The glistering of this present, as my tale fatal country, Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose 
Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, very naming punishes me with the remembrance of 
I turn my glass and give my scene such growing that penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled 
As you had slept between: Leontes leaving, king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious 
The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving queen and children are even now to be afresh la- 
That he shuts up himself, imagine me, mented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince 
Gentle spectators, that I now may be Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their 
In fair Bohemia; and remember well, issue not being gracious, than they are in losing 
I mentioned a son 0’ the king’s, which Florizel them when they have approved their virtues. 
I now name to you; and with speed so pace Cam. Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. 
To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace What his happier affairs may be, are to me un- 
Equal with wondering: what of her ensues known: but I have missingly noted, he is of late 
I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news much retired from court and is less frequent to his 
Be known when ’t is brought forth. A shepherd’s | princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared. 
daughter, Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and 
And what to her adheres, which follows after, with some care; so far that I have eyes under my 
Is the argument of Time. Of this allow, service which look upon his removedness; from 
If ever you have spent time worse ere now; whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom 
If never, yet that Time himself doth say from the house of a most homely shepherd; a man, 
He wishes earnestly you never may. [Hait. | they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the 


imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an un- 

SCENE II.— Bohemia. The palace of Polixenes. | speakable estate. 
: ’ Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath 
Enter Polixenes and Camillo. a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is 
Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more im- | extended more than can be thought to begin from 

portunate: ’tis a sickness denying thee any thing; | such a cottage. 
a death to grant this. Pol. That ’s likewise part of my intelligence; but, 
262 


cern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch 


a 


ACT IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE IV. 


I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou 


shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, 
not appearing what we are, have some question 
with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think 
it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort 
thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this 
business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. 

Cam. I willingly obey your command. ° 

Pol. My best Camillo! 


selves. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— A road near the Shepherd’s cottage. | 


Enter Autolycus, singing. 
When daffodils begin to peer, 
With heigh! the doxy over the dale, 
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year; 
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. 


The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, 

With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! 
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; 

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 


The lark, that tirra-lyra chants 


With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, 


Are summer songs for me'and my aunts, 
While we lie tumbling in the hay. 


I have served Prince Florizel and in my time wore 
three-pile; but now I am out of service: 


But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 
The pale moon shines by night: 
And when I wander here and there, 
I then do most go right. 


Aut. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me 
more than the stripes I have received, which are 
mighty ones and millions. 

Clo. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may 
come to a great matter. 

Aut. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money 
and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable 


cheer ' things put upon me. 
We must disguise our- 


Clo. What, by a horseman, or a footman’? 

Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. 

Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman by the gar- 
ments he has left with thee: if this be a horseman’s 
coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy 
hand, I’ help thee: come, lend me thy hand. 

Aut. O, good sir, tenderly, O! 

Clo. Alas, poor soul! 

Aut. O, good sir, softly, good sir! 
shoulder-blade is.out. 

Clo. How now! canst stand ? 

Aut. [Picking his pocket] Softly, dear sir; good 
sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office. 

Clo. Dost lack any money? I havea little money 
for thee. | 

Aut. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: 
I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile 
hence, unto whom I was going; I shall there have 


I fear, sir, my 


_ money, or any thing I want: offer me no money, I 


pray you; that kills my heart. [you? 

Clo. What manner of fellow was he that robbed 

Aut. A fellow, sir, that Ihave known to go about 
with troll-my-dames: I knew him once a servant 
of the prince: I cannot tell, good sir, for which of 
his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out 
of the court. 

Clo. His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue 
whipped out of the court: they cherish it to make 


‘| it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide. 


If tinkers may have leave to live, 
And bear the sow-skin budget, 
Then my account I well may give, 

And in the stocks avouch it. 


My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to 
lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus ; who 
being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise 
a Snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and 
drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is 
the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful 
on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to 
me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. 
A prize! a prize! 
Enter Clown. . 

Clo. Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every 
tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred 
shorn, what comes the wool to ? 


Aut. [Aside] If the springe hold, the cock ’s mine. | 
Let me | 


Clo. I cannot do ’t without counters. 
see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? 
Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice, 
— what will this sister of mine do with rice? But 
my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and 
she lays iton. She hath made me four and twenty 
- nosegays for the shearers, three-man-song-men all, 
and very good ones; but they are most of them 


and he sings psalms to horn-pipes. I must have 
saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates ?— 
none, that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a 
race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four 
pound of prunes, and as many of raisins 0’ the sun. 

Aut. O that ever I was born! 

[Grovelling on the ground. 

Clo. I’ the name of me — 

Aut. O, help me, help me! pluck but off these 
rags; and then, death, death! 

Olo. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more 
rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off. 


Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man 
well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a pro- 
cess-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion 
of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife 
within a mile where my land and living lies; and, 
having flown over many knavish professions, he 
settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus. 

Clo. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he 
haunts wakes, fairs and bear-baitings. 

Aut. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue 
that put me into this apparel. 

Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: 
if you had but looked big and spit at him, he ’ld 
have run. 

Aut. I must confess to you, sir, Iam no fighter: 
I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I 

Clo. How do you now? [warrant him. 

Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can 
stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you, 
and pace softly towards my kinsman’s. 

Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ? 

Aut. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. 

Clo. Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices 
for our sheep-shearing. 

Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir! [Exit Clown.] Your 
purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. Ill 


| be with you at your sheep-shearing too: if I make 
means and bases; but one puritan amongst them, 


not this cheat bring out another and the shearers 
prove sheep, Jet me be unrolled and my name put 
in the book of virtue! 
[Sings] J og on, jog on, the foot-path way, 
nd merrily hent the stile-a: 
A merry heart goes all the day, 
Your sad tires in a mile-a. 


SCENE IV.—The Shepherd’s cottage. 


Enter Florizel and Perdita. 


Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora 


263 


[ Exit. 


ACT IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE IV. 


Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing 
Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
And you the queen on ’t. 

Per. Sir, my gracious lord, 
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me: 

O, pardon, that Iname them! Your high self, 
The gracious mark o’ the land, you have obscured 
With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, 
Most goddess-like prank’d up: but that our feasts 
In every mess have folly and the feeders 

Digest it with a custom, I should blush 

To see you so attired, sworn, I think, 

To show myself a glass. 

Flo. I bless the time 
When my good falcon made her flight across 
Thy father’s ground. 

Per. Now Jove afford you cause! 
To me the difference forges dread; your greatness 
Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble 
To think your father, by some accident, 

Should pass this way as you did: O, the Fates! 
How would he look, to see his work so noble 
Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how 
Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold 
The sternness of his presence ? 

Apprehend 


0. 
Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, 
Humbling their deities to love, have taken 
The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter 
Became a bull, and bellow’d; the green Neptune 
A ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god, . 
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, 
AsIseem now. Their transformations 
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, 
Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires 
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts 
Burn hotter than my faith. 

Per. O, but, sir, 
Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis 
Opposed, as it must be, by the power of the king: 
One of these two must be necessities, [purpose, 
Which then will speak, that you must change this 
Or I my life. 

Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 
With these forced thoughts, I prithee, darken not 
The mirth o’ the feast. Or Ill be thine, my fair, 
Or not my father’s. For I cannot be 
Mine own, nor any thing to any, if 
I be not thine. To this I am most constant, 
Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle; 
Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing 
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: 
Lift up your countenance, as it were the day 
Of celebration of that nuptial which 
We two have sworn shall come. 


Per, O lady Fortune, 
Stand you auspicious! 
Flo See, your guests approach: 


Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, 
And let’s be red with mirth. 


Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and 
others, with Polixenes and Camillo disguised. 


Shep. Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon 
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, 
Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all; 
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here, 
At upper end 0’ the table, now i’ the middle; 
On his shoulder, and his; her face o’ fire 
With labour and the thing she took to quench it, 
She would to each one sip. You are retired, 
As if you were a feasted one and not 
The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid 
These unknown friends to ’s welcome; for it is 
A way to make us better friends, more known. 
Come, quench your blushes and present yourself 
That which you are, mistress 0’ the feast: come on, 


264 


——— 


And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 
As your good flock shall prosper. 
Per. To Pol.] Sir, welcome: 
It is my father’s will I should take on me 
The hostess-ship 0’ the day. [To Cam.] You’re wel- 
come, sir. 
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs, 
For you there ’s rosemary and rue; these keep 
Seeming and savour all the winter long: 
Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
And welcome to our shearing! 
Pol. Shepherdess,— 
A fair one are you— well you fit our ages 
With flowers of winter. 

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, 
Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth 
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers 0’ the sea- 
Are our carnations and streak’d gillyvors, [son 
Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind 
Our rustic garden ’s barren; and I care not 
To get slips of them. 

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
Do you neglect them ? 

Per; For I have heard it said 
There is an art which in their piedness shares 
With great creating nature. 

Pol. Say there be; 

Yet nature is made better by no mean 

But nature makes that mean: so, over that art 
Which you say adds to nature, is an art 

That nature makes. Yousee, sweet maid, we marry 
A gentler scion to the wildest stock, 

And make conceive a bark of baser kind 

By bud of nobler race: this is an art 

Which does mend nature, change it rather, but 
The art itself is nature. 

Per. So it is. 

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, 
And do not call them bastards. 

er. - I’ not put 
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; 
No more than were I painted I would wish [fore 
This youth should say ’t were well and only there- 
Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you; 
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; 
The marigold, that-goes to bed wi’ the sun 
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers 
Of middle summer, and I think they are given 
To men of middle age. You’re very weicome. 

Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, 

And only live by gazing. 
er. Out, alas! 
You ‘ld be so lean, that blasts of January 
Would blow you through and through. Now, my 
fair’st friend, 
I would I had some flowers 0’ the spring that might 
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours, 
That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina, 
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st fall 
From Dis’s wagon! daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 
Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength —a malady 
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and 
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack 
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, 
To strew him o’er and o’er! 
What, like a corse? 


0. 

Per. No, like a bank for love to lie and play on; 
Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried, [flowers : 
But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your 
Methinks I play as I have seen them do 


c >> 


ACT IV. 


In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine 
Does change my disposition. 
Fl What you do 


0. 

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
I ld have you do it ever: when you sing, 

I ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms, 

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs, 

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that; move still, still so, 

And own no other function: each your doing, 

So singular in each particular, 

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, 
That all your acts are queens. 

Per. O Doricles, 

Your praises are too large: but that your youth, 
And the true blood which peepeth fairly through ’t, 
Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd, 
With wisdom [I might fear, my Doricles, 

You woo’d me the false way. 

Filo. I think you have 
As little skill to fear as I have purpose 
To put you to ’t. But come; our dance, I pray: 
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair, 

That never mean to part. 

Per. Il] swear for ’em. 

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself, 
Too noble for this place. 

Cam. He tells her something 
That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is 
The queen of curds and cream. 

Clo. Come on, strike up! 

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, 
To mend her kissing with! 

Mop. Now, in good time! 
Clo. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our man- 


Come, strike up! [ners. 
[Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and 
Shepherdesses. 


Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this 
Which dances with your daughter ? 

Shep. They call him Doricles; and boasts himself 
To have a worthy feeding: but I have it 
Upon his own report and I believe it; 
He looks likesooth. Hesays he loves my daughter : 
I think so too; for never gazed the moon 
Upon the water as he ’ll stand and read 
As ’t were my daughter’s eyes: and, to be plain, 
I think there is not half a kiss to choose 
Who loves another best. 

ol. She dances featly. 

Shep. So she does anything; though I report it, 
That should be silent: if young Doricles 
Do light upon her, she shall bring him that 
Which he not dreams of. 


Enter Servant. 


Serv. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at 
the door, you would never dance again after a tabor 
and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he 
Sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money; 
he utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men’s 
ears grew to his tunes. 

Clo. He could never come better; he shall come 
in. I lovea ballad but even too well, if it be dole- 
ful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant 
thing indeed and sung lamentably. 

Serv. He hath songs for man or woman, of all 
sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with 
gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; 
so without bawdry, which is strange; with such 
delicate burthens of dildos and fadings, ‘jump her 
and thump her;’ and where some stretch-mouthed 
rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break 
a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE IV. 


answer ‘ Whoop, do me no harm, good man;°’ puts 
him off, slights him, with ‘ Whoop, do me no harm, 
good man.’ 

Pol. This is a brave fellow. 

Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable 
conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares ? 

Serv. He hath ribbons of all the colours i’ the 
rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohe- 
mia can learnedly handle, though they come to him 
by the gross: inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: 
why, he sings ’em over as they were gods or god- 
desses; you would think a smock were a she-angel, 
he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about 
the square on’t. 

_Clo. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach 

singing. 

Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous 
words in ’s tunes. [Hxit Servant. 

Clo. You have of these pedlars, that have more 
in them than you’ld think, sister. 

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. 


Enter Autolycus, singing. 


Lawn as white as driven snow; 
Cyprus black as e’er was crow; 
Gloves as sweet as damask roses ; 
Masks for faces and for noses; 
Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, 
Perfume for a lady’s chamber ; 
Golden quoifs and stomachers, 

For my lads to give their dears: 
Pins and poking-sticks of steel, 
What maids lack from head to heel: 
Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; 
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: 
Come buy. 

Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou 
shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled 
as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain rib- 
bons. and gloves. 

Mop. I was promised them against the feast ; but 
they come not too late now. 

Dor. He hath promised you more than that, or 
there be liars. . 

Mop. He hath paid you all he promised you: may 
be, he has paid you more, which will shame you to 
give him again. 

Clo. Is there no manners left among maids? will 
they wear their plackets where they should bear 
their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you 
are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these 
secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our 
guests 2 *t is well they are whispering: clamour your 
tongues, and not a word more. 

Mop. I have done. Come, you promised me a 
tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves. 

Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by 
the way and lost all my money ? 

Aut. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; 
therefore it behoves men to be wary. [here. 

Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing 

Aut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many 
parcels of charge. 

Clo. What hast here? ballads ? 

Mop. Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in 
print o’ life, for then we are sure they are true. 

Aut. Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a 
usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money- 
bags at a burthen, and how she longed to eat ad- 
ders’ heads and toads carbonadoed. 

Mop. Is it true, think you ? 

Aut. Very true, and but a month old. 

Dor. Bless me from marrying ausurer! 

Aut. Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mis- 
tress Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that 
were present. Why should I carry lies abroad ? 

Mop. Pray you now, buy it. 

265 


ACT IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE IV. 


Olo. Come on, lay it by: and let’s first see more 
ballads; we’ll buy the other things anon. 

Aut. Here’s another ballad of a fish, that ap- 
peared upon the coast on Wednesday the four-score 
of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and 
sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it 
was thought she was a woman and was turned into 
a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with 
one that loved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as 

Dor. Is it true too, think you ? [true. 

Aut. Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses 
more than my pack will hold. 

Clo. Lay it by too: another. 

Aut. This isamerry ballad, but a very pretty one. 

Mop. Let ’s have some merry ones. 

Aut. Why, this is a passing merry one and goes 
to the tune of ‘Two maids wooing a man:’ there’s 
scarce a maid westward but she sings it; ’tis in 
request, I can tell you. 

Mop. Wecan both sing it: if thou It bear a part, 
thou shalt hear; ’t is in three parts. 

Dor. We had the tune on ’t a month ago. 

Aut. I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my 
occupation; have at it with you. 


SONG. 


A. Get you hence, for I must go 
Where it fits not you to know. 

D. Whither? M. O, whither ? D. Whither ? 

M. It becomes thy oath full well, 

Thou to me thy secrets tell. 

D. Me too, let me go thither. 

M. Or thou goest to the grange or mill. 
D. If to either, thou dost ill. 
Neither. D. What, neither? A. Neither. 
D. Thou hast sworn my love to be. 
M. Thou hast sworn it more to me: 

Then whither goest ? say, whither ? 

Clo. We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves: 
my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and 
we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack 
after me. Wenches,I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, 
let ’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls. 

[| Hxit with Dorcas and Mopsa. 

Aut. And you shall pay well for ’em. 

[follows singing. 


AS 


Will you buy any tape, 
Or lace for your cape, 
My dainty duck, my dear-a ? 
Any silk, any thread, 
Any toys for your head, 
Of the new’st and fines , finest wear-a ? 
Come to the pedlar ; 
Money ’s a medler, 
That doth utter all men’s ware-a. [ Exit. 


Re-enter Servant. 


Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shep- 
herds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that 
have made themselves all men of hair, they call 
themselves Saltiers, and they have a dance which 
the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, be- 
cause they are not in ’t; but they themselves are 0’ 
the mind, if it be not too rough for some that know 
little but bowling, it will please plentifully. 

Shep. Away! we’ll none on’t: here has been 
too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we 
weary you. 

Pol. You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s 
see these four threes of herdsmen. 

Serv. One three of them, by their own report, sir 
hath danced before the king; and not the worst of 
the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the 
squier. 

Shep. Leave your prating: since these good men 
are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. 

Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. | Exit. 

266 


Here a dance of twelve Satyrs. 
Pol. O, father, you’ll know more of that here- 


after. 
[ To Core) Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part 
them 


He’s simple and tellsmuch. [Yo Flor.] Hownow, 
fair shepherd ! 

Your heart is full of something that does take 
Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young 
And handed love as you do, I was wont [sack’d 
To load my she with knacks: I would have ran- 
The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d it 
To her acceptance; you have let him go 
And nothing marted with him. If your lass 
Interpretation should abuse and call this 
Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited 
For a reply, at least if you make a care 
Of happy holding her. 

Flo Old sir, I know 


She prizes not such trifles as these are: 

The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d 
Up in my heart; which I have given abe |. 

But not deliver’d. O, hear me breathe my life 
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, 

Hath sometime loved! I ke thy hand, this hand, 
As soft as dove’s down and as white as it, [bolted 
Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow that’s 
By the northern blasts twice o’er. 

Pol. What follows this ? 
How prettily the young swain seems to wash 
The hand was fair before! I have put you out: 
But to your protestation; let me hear 
What you profess. 

Flo, Do, and be witness to ’t. 
Pol. And this my neighbour too ? 

Flo, And he, and more 
Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all: 
That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch, 
Thereof, most worthy, were I the fairest youth _ 
That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowl- 

edge 
More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them 
Without her love; for her employ them all; 
Commend them and condemn them to her service 
Or to their own perdition. 
l Fairly offer’d. 


Ol. 
Cam. This shows a sound affection. 


Shep. But, my daughter, 
Say you the like to him ? 
Per. I cannot speak 


So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better: 
By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out 
The purity of his. 

Shep. Take hands, a bargain! 
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to ’t: 
I give my daughter to him, and will make 
Her portion equal his. 

Flo. O, that must be 
I’ the virtue of your daughter: one being dead, 
I shall have more than you can dream of yet ; 
Enough then for your wonder. But, come on, 
Contract us fore these witnesses. 

Shep. Come, your hand; 
And, daughter, yours. 

Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you; 
Have you a father ? 

Flo. I have: but what of him ? 
Pol. Knows he of this ? 

0. He neither does nor shall. 
Pol. Methinks a father 
Is at the nuptial of his son a guest 
That best becomes the table. Pray you once more, 
Is not your father grown incapable 
Of reasonable affairs ? is he not stupid 
Withageand altering rheums ? can hespeak ? hear? 


| Know man from man? dispute his own estate ? 


SS 


ae 
pe 


ACTIV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENETIV. 


Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does nothing 
But what he did being childish ? 
Flo. No, good sir; 
He has his health and ampler strength indeed 

Than most have of his age. 

Pol. By my white beard, 
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong : 
Something unfilial: reason my son 
Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason 
The father, all whose joy is nothing else 
But fair posterity, should hold some counsel 
In such a business. 

Flo. I yield all this; 

But for some other reasons, my grave sir, 
Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint 
My father of this business. 


Pol. 
Flo. He shall not. 
Pol. 


Let him know ’t. 


Prithee, let him. 
Filo. No, he must not. 
Shep. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve 
At knowing of thy choice. 
Flo. Come, come, he must not. 
Mark our contract. 
Ol, Mark your divorce, young sir, 
[Discovering himself. 
Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base 
To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir, 
That thus affect’st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor, 
Iam sorry that by hanging thee I can 
But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece 
Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know 
The royal fool thou copest with, — 
O, my heart! 


Shep. 
Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, 
and made 

More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy, 
lf I may ever know thou dost but sigh 
That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never 
I mean thou shalt, we ’ll bar thee from succession ; 
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, 
Far than Deucalion off: mark thou my words: 
Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time, 
Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee 
From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment ,— 
Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too, 
That makes himself, but for our honour therein, 
Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou 
These rural latches to his entrance open, 
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, 
I will devise a death as cruel for thee 
As thou art tender to ’t. 

Per. Even here undone! 
I was not much afeard; for once or twice 
I was about to speak and tell him plainly, 
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage but 
Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone? 
I told you what would come of this: beseech you, 
Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,— 
Being now awake, Ill queen it no inch farther, 
But milk my ewes and weep. 

Cam. Why, how now, father! 


Speak ere thou diest. 
ee I cannot speak, nor think, 

Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir! 

You have undone a man of fourscore three, 

That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, 

To die upon the bed my father died, 

To lie close by his honest bones: but now 

Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me 

Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch, 

That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst ad- 

venture 

To mingle faith with him! Undone! undone! 

If I might die within this hour, I have lived 

To die when I desire. 


[ Heit. 


[Eait. | 


Flo. Why look you so upon me ? 
I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, 
But nothing alter’d: what I was, I am; 
More straining on for plucking back, not following 
My leash unwillingly. 
Cam. Gracious my lord, 
You know your father’s temper: at this time 
He will allow no speech, which I do guess 
You do not purpose to him; and as hardly 
Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear: 
Then, till the fury of his highness settle, 
Come not before him. 


Flo. I not purpose it. 
I think, Camillo? 
Cam. Even he, my lord. 


Per. How often have I told you ’t would be thus! 
How often said, my en would last 
But till ’t were known ! 
Flo. It cannot fail but by 
The violation of my faith: and then 
Let nature crush the sides 0’ the earth together 
And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks: 
From my succession wipe me, father; 1 
Am heir to my affection. 
Cam. Be advised. 
Flo. Tam, and by my fancy: if my reason 
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; 
If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, 
Do bid it welcome. 
Cam. This is desperate, sir. 
Flo. So call it: but it does fulfil my vow; 
I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
Be thereat glean’d, for all the sun sees or 
The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides 
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
To this my fair beloved: therefore, I pray you, 
As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend, 
When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not 
To see him any more,— cast your good counsels 
Upon his passion: let myself and fortune 
Tug for the time to come. This you may know 
And so deliver, I am put to sea 
With her whom here I cannot hold on shore; 
And most opportune to our need I have 
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared 
For this design. What course I mean to hold 
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 
Concern me the reporting. 
Cam. O my lord! 
I would your spirit were easier for advice, 
Or stronger for your need. 
Hark, Perdita [Drawing her aside. 


and by. 
an. He’s irremoveable, 
Resolved for flight. Now were I happy, if 
His going I could frame to serve my turn, 
Save him from danger, do him love and honour, 
Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia 
And that unhappy king, my master, whom 
Iso much thirst to see. 
Flo. Now, good Camillo; 
IT am so fraught with curious business that 
I leave out ceremony. 
Cam. Sir, I think 
You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love 
That I have borne your father ? 
Flo, Very nobly 
Have you deserved: it is my father’s music 
To speak your deeds, not little of his care 
To have them recompensed as thought on. . 
Cam. . Well, my lord, 
If you muy please to think Ilove the king 
And through him what is nearest to him, which is 
Your gracious self, embrace but my direction: 
If your more ponderous and settled project 
May suffer alteration, on mine honour, 


267 


0. 
I’ll hear you by 


ACT IV. 


THE WINTER'S TALE 


SCENE IV. 


Ill point you where you shall have such receiving 
As shall become your highness; where you may 
Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see, 
There ’s no disjunction to be made, but by — 
As heavens forefend!— your ruin; marry her, 
And, with my best endeavours in your absence, 
Your discontenting father strive to qualify 
And bring him up to liking. 

Flo. How, Camillo, 
May this, almost a miracle, be done ? 
That I may call thee something more than man 
And after that trust to thee. 


Cam. Have you thought on 
A place whereto you ’ll go? 
Flo Not any yet: 


But as the unthought-on accident is guilty 
To what we wildly do, so we profess 
Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies 
Of every wind that blows. 

Cam. Then list to me: 
This follows, if you will not change your purpose 
But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, 
And there present yourself and your fair princess, 
For so I see she must be, ’fore Leontes: 
She shall be habited as it becomes 
The partner of your bed. Methinks I see 
Leontes opening his free arms and weeping 
His welcomes forth; asks thee the son forgiveness, 
As ’t were i’ the father’s person; kisses the hands 
Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him 
*Twixt his unkindness and his kindness: the one 
He chides to hell and bids the other grow 
Faster than thought or time. 

Flo. Worthy Camillo, 
What colour for my visitation shall I 
Hold up before him ? 

Cam. Sent by the king your father 
To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, 
The manner of your bearing towards him, with 
What you as from your father shall deliver, 
Things known betwixt us three, I 711 write you down: 
The which shall point you forth at every sitting 
What you must say; that he shall not perceive 
But that you have your father’s bosom there 
And speak his very heart. 


Flo. I am bound to you: 
There is some sap in this. 
Cam. A cause more promising 


Than a wild dedication of yourselves 
To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain 
To miseries enough; no hope to help you, 
But as you shake off one to take another; 
Nothing so certain as your anchors, who 
Do their best office, if they can but stay you 
Where you ’II be loath to be: besides you know 
Prosperity ’s the very bond of love, 
Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together 
Affliction alters. 
er. One of these is true: 

1 think affliction may subdue the cheek, 
But not take in the mind. 

Cam. Yea, say you so? 
There shall not at your father’s house these seven 

years 

Be born another such. 

Flo. My good Camillo, 
She is as forward of her breeding as 
She is i’ the rear our birth. 

Cam. I cannot say ’tis pity 
She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress 
To most that teach. 

evar Your pardon, sir; for this 
L Cite you thanks. 


0. My prettiest Perdita! 

But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, 
Preserver of my father, now of me, 

The medicine of our house, how shall we do? | 


268 


We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, 
Nor shall appear in Sicilia. | 

Cam. My lord, 
Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes 
Do all lie there: it shall be so my care 
To have you royally appointed as if 
The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, 
That you may know you shall not want, one word. 

[ They talk aside. 


Re-enter Autolycus. 


Aut. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, 
his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I 
have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, 
not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, 
ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn- 
ring, to keep my pack from fasting: they throng 
who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been 
hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: 
by which means I saw whose purse was best in 
picture; and what I saw,.to my good use I remem- 
bered. My clown, who wants but something to be 
a reasonable man, grew so in love with the wenches’ 
song, that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had 
both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the 
herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: 
you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless ; 
’t was nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I could 
have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, 
no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the 
nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I 
picked and cut most of their festival purses; and 
had not the old man come in with a whoo-bub 
against his daughter and the king’s son and scared 
my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse 
alive in the whole army. 

[Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward. 
ee Nay, but my letters, by this means being 
there 
So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. 
Flo. And those that you’ll procure from King 
Leontes — 

Cam. Shall satisfy your father. 

Per. 

All that you speak shows fair. 

Cam. 


Happy be you! 


Who have we here ? 

[Seeing Autolycus. 
We’ll make an instrument of this, omit 
Nothing may give us aid. [ing. 

Aut. If they have overheard me now, why, hang- 

Cam. How now, good fellow! why shakest thou 
so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to 

Aut. Iam a poor fellow, sir. {thee. 

Cam. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal 
that from thee: yet for the outside of thy poverty 
we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee 
instantly,—thou must think there’s a necessity 
in ’t,— and change garments with this gentleman: 
though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, 
yet hold thee, there ’s some boot. 

Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. [Aside] I know ye 
well enough. 

Cam. Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is 
half flayed already. 

Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside] I smell 
the trick on ’t. 

Flo. Dispatch, I prithee. 

Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot 
with conscience take it. 

Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. 

[Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments. 

Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy 
Come home to ye! —you must retire yourself 
Into some covert: take your sweetheart’s hat 
And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, 
Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken 
The truth of your own seeming; that you may— 


ACT IV. 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE IV. 


For I do fear eyes over —to shipboard 
Get undescried. 
Per. I see the play so lies 
That I must bear a part. 
Cam. 
Have you done there ? 
Flo. Should I now meet my father, 
He would not call me son. 
Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat. 
[Giving it to Perdita. 
Farewell, my friend. 
ut. Adieu, sir. 
Flo. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot! 
Pray you, a word. {king 
Cam. [Aside] What I do next shall be to tell the 
Of this escape and whither they are bound; 
Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail 
To force him after: in whose company 
I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight 
I have a woman’s longing. 
Flo. Fortune speed us! 
Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. 
Cam. The swifter speed the better. 
[| Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo. 
Aut. I understand the business, I hear it: to have 
an open ear,a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is nec- 
essary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, 
to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is 
the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What 
an exchange had this been without boot! Whata 
boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do 
this year connive at us, and we may do anything 
extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of 
iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog 
at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty 
to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I 
hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein 
am I constant to my profession. 


No remedy. 


Come, lady, come. 


Re-enter Clown and Shepherd. 


Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain: 
every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hang- 
ing, yields a careful man work. 

Clo. See, see; what aman you are now! There 
is no other way but to tell the king she’s a change- 
ay and none of your flesh and blood. 

hep. Nay, but hear me. 

Clo. Nay, but hear me. 

Shep. Go to, then. 

Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, your 
flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so 
your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. 
Show those things you found about her, those secret 
things, all but what she has with her: this being 
done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you. 

Shep. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and 
his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest 
man, neither to his father, nor to me, to go about to 
make me the king’s brother-in-law. 

Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off 
you could have been to him and then your blood 
had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce. 

Aut. [Aside] Very wisely, puppies! 

Shep. Well, let us to the king: there is that in 
this fardel will make him scratch his beard. 

Aut. [Aside] I know not what impediment this 
complaint may be to the flight of my master. 

Clo. Pray heartily he be at palace. 

Aut. [Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, 
I am so sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my 
pedlar’s excrement. | Takes off his false beard.] How 
now, rustics! whither are you bound ? 

Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship. 

Aut. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the 
condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, 
your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, 
and any thing that is fitting to be known, discover. 


Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. 

Aut. A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me 
have no lying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and 
they often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them 
for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel: there- 
fore they do not give us the lie. 

Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, 
if you had not taken yourself with the manner. 

Shep. Are you a courtier, an °t like you, sir? 

Aut. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. 
Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfold- 
ings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the 
court? receives not thy nose court-odour from 
me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt ? 
Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from 
thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I 
am courtier cap-a-pe; and one that will either push 
on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I 
command thee to open thy affair. 

Shep. My business, sir, is to the king. 

Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? 

Shep. I know not, an’t like you. 

Clo. Advocate ’s the court-word for a pheasant: 
say you have none. [hen. 

Shep. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor 

Aut. How blessed are we that are not simple men! 
Yet nature might have made me as these are, 
Therefore I will not disdain. 

Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier. 

Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them 
not handsomely. 

Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being fan- 
tastical: a great man, 171] warrant; I know by the 
picking on’s teeth. 

Aut. The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel? 
Wherefore that box ? 

Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel 
and box, which none must know but the king; and 
which he shall know within this hour, if I may 
come to the speech of him. 

Aut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. 

Shep. Why, sir? 

Aut. The king is not at the palace; he is gone 
aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air him- 
self: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou 
must know the king is full of grief. 

Shep. So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should 
have married a shepherd’s daughter. 

Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him 
fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall 
feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster. 

Clo. Think you so, sir? 

Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make 
heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are ger- 
mane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all 
come under the hangman: which though it be great 
pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling 
rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter 
come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned ; but 
that death is too soft for him, say I: draw our throne 
into asheep-cote ! all deaths are too few, the sharpest 
too easy. 

Clo. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, 
an ’t like you, sir? 

Aut. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then 
*nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s 
nest; then stand till he be three-quarters and adram 
dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitz or some 
other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the 
hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be 
set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a 
southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him 
with flies blown to death. But what talk we of 
these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be 
smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, 
for you seem to be honest plain men, what you have 
to the king: being something gently considered, I 711 

269 


ACT. Vs 


bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons 
to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and 
if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, 
here is man shall do it. 

Clo. He seems to be of great authority: close with 
him, give him gold; and though authority be a stub- 
born bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: 
show the inside of your purse to the outside of his 
hand, and no more ado. Remember ‘ stoned,’ and 
‘ flayed alive.’ 

Shep. An ’t please you, sir, to undertake the busi- 


ness for us, here is that gold I have: Ill make it as: 


much more and leave this young man in pawn till 
I bring it you. 

Aut. After I have done what I promised ? 

Shep. Ay, sir. . 

Aut. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party 
in this business ? 

Clo. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a 
pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it. 

Aut. O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son: 
hang him, he ’ll be made an example. 

Clo. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the 


THE WINTER'S TALE 


SCENE I. 


king and show our strange sights: he must know 
tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are 
gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old 
man does when the business is performed, and re- 
main, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you. 
Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the 
sea-side; go on the right hand: I will but look upon 
the hedge and follow you. {blest. 
Clo. We are blest in this man, as I may say, even 
Shep. Let’s before as he bids us: he was provided 
to do us good. [Exeunt Shepherd and Clown. 
Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune 
would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. 
I am courted now with a double occasion, gold and 
a means to do the prince my master good; which 
who knows how that may turn back to my advance- 
ment? I will bring these two moles, these blind 
ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them 
again and that the complaint they have to the king 
concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for 
being so far officious; for 1am proof against that 
title and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will 
| I present them: there may be matter init. [Hzit. 


02.00 Dai 


SCENE I.— A room in Leontes’ palace. 


Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and 
Servants. ' 


Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have per- 
form’d 

A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make, 
Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down 
More penitence than done trespass: at the last, 
Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; 
With them forgive yourself. 

Leon. Whilst I remember 
Her and her virtues, I cannot forget 
My blemishes in them, and so still think of 
The wrong I did myself; which was so much, 
That heirless it hath made my kingdom and 
Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man 
Bred his hopes out of. 

Paul. True, too true, my lord: 
If, one by one, you wedded all the world, 
Or from the all that are took something good, 
To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d 
Would be unparallel’d. 

I think so. Kill’d! 


eon. 
She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strikest me 
Sorely, to say I did; it is as bitter 
Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now, 
Say so but seldom. 

Cleo. Not at all, good lady: 
You might have spoken a thousand things that 

would 

Have done the time more benefit and graced 


Your kindness better. 

Paul. You are one of those 
Would have him wed again. 

Dion. If you would not so, 


You pity not the state, nor the remembrance 

Of his most sovereign name; consider little 

What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, 

May drop upon his kingdom and devour 

Incertain lookers on. What were more holy 

Than to rejoice the former queen is well ? 

What holier than, for royalty’s repair, 

For present comfort and for future good, 

To bless the bed of majesty again 

With a sweet fellow to ’t? 
Paul. 

Respecting her that ’s gone. 


270 


There is none worthy, 
Besides, the gods 


Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; 
For has not the divine Apollo said, 
Ist not the tenour of his oracle, 
That King Leontes shall not have an heir 
Till his lost child be found ? which that it shall, 
Is all as monstrous to our human reason 
As my Antigonus to break his grave 
And come again to me; who, on my life, 
Did perish with the infant. ’T is your counsel 
My lord should to the heavens be contrary, 
Oppose against their wills. [Zo Leontes.] Care not 
for issue; 

The crown will find an heir: great Alexander 
Left his to the worthiest; so his successor 
Was like to be the best. 

Leon. Good Paulina, 
Who hast the memory of Hermione, 
I know, in honour, O, that ever I 
Had squared me to thy counsel! then, even now, 
I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, 
Have taken treasure from her lips— 


Paul. And left them 
More rich for what they yielded. 
Leon. Thou speak’st truth. 


No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, 
And better used, would make her sainted spirit 
Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, 
Where we ’re offenders now, appear soul-vex’d, 
And begin, ‘ Why to me?’ 


Paul. Had she such power, 
She had just cause. 

Leon. She had; and would incense me 
To murder her I married. 

Paul. I should so. 


Were I the ghost that walk’d, I ld bid you mark 

Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in ’t 

You chose her; then I ld shriek, that even your ears 

Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d 

Should be ‘Remember mine.’ 
Leon. 

And all eyes else dead coals! 

Ill have no wife, Paulina. 
Paul. Will you swear 

Never to marry but by my free leave ? 
Leon. Never, Paulina; so be blest my spirit! 
Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his 
Cleo. You tempt him over-much. [oath. 
Paul. Unless another, 


Stars, stars, 
Fear thou no wife ; 


ACT V. 


As like Hermione as is her picture, 


Affront his eye. 

Cleo. Good madam,— 

Paul. I have done. 
Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, 
No remedy, but you will,—give me the office 
To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young 
As was your former; but she shall be such 
As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy 
To see her in your arms. 

con. My true Paulina, 

We shall not marry till thou bid’st us. 

Paul. That 
Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath; 
Never till then. 

Enter a Gentleman. 
_ Gent. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, 
Son of Polixenes, with his princess, she 
The fairest I have yet beheld, desires access 
To your high presence. 
eon. What with him? he comes not 

Like to his father’s greatness: his approach, 
So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us 
*T is not a visitation framed, but forced 
By need and accident. What train ? 


Gent. But few, 
And those but mean. 
Leon. His princess, say you, with him ? 


Gent. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, 
That e’er the sun shone bright on. 

Paul. O Hermione, 
As every present time doth boast itself 
Above a better gone, so must thy grave 
Give way to what’s seen now! Sir, you yourself 
Have said and writ so, but your writing now 
is colder than that theme, ‘She had not been, 

Nor was not to be equall’d;’—thus your verse 
Flow’d with her beauty once: ’t is shrewdly ebb’d, 
To say you have seen a better. 

Gent. Pardon, madam : 
The one I have almost forgot, —your pardon, — 
The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, 

Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, 
Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal 
Of all professors else, make proselytes 

Of who she but bid follow. 

Paul. How! not women ? 

Gent. Women will love her, that she is a woman 
More worth than any man; men, that she is 
The rarest of all women. 

Leon. Go, Cleomenes; 
Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends, 
Bring them to our embracement. Still, ’tis strange 

[ Exeunt Cleomenes and others. 
He thus should steal upon us. 

Paul. Had our prince, 
Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d 
Well with this lord: there was not full a month 
Between their births. 

Leon. Prithee, no more; cease; thou know’st 
He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, 

When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches 
Will bring me to consider that which may 
Unfurnish me of reason. They are come. 


te-enter Cleomenes and others, with Florizel and 
Perdita. 


Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince; 
For she did print your royal father off, 
Conceiving you: were I but twenty-one, 

Your father’s image is so hit in you, 

His very air, that I should call you brother, 

As I did him, and speak of something wildly 
By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome! 
And your fair princess,— goddess!—O, alas! 

I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth 
Might thus have stood begetting wonder as 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 


SCENE TI. 


You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost — 
All mine own folly —the society, 
Amity too, of your brave father, whom, 
Though bearing misery, I desire my life 
Once more to look on him. 
Flo. By his command 
Have I here touch’d Sicilia and from him 
Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, 
Can send his brother: and, but infirmity 
Which waits upon worn times hath something seized 
His wish’d ability, he had himself 
The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his 
Measured to look upon you; whom he loves — 
He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres 
And those that bear them living. 
Leon. O my brother, 
Good gentleman! the wrongs I have done thee stir 
Afresh within me, and these thy offices, 
So rarely kind, are as interpreters 
Of my behind-hand slackness. Welcome hither, 
As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too 
Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage, 
At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, 
To greet a man not worth her pains, much less 
The adventure of her person ? 


Flo. Good my lord, 
She came from Libya. 
Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, 


That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and loved ? 
Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, 
whose daughter 
His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence, 
A prosperous south wind friendly, we have cross’d, 
To execute the charge my father gave me 
For visiting your highness: my best train 
I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d ; 
Who for Bohemia bend, to signify 
Not only my success in Libya, sir, 
But my arrival and my wife’s in safety 
Here where we are. 
Leon. The blessed gods 
Purge all infection from our air whilst you 
Do climate here! You have a holy father, 
A graceful gentleman; against whose person, 
So sacred as it is, I have done sin: 
For which the heavens, taking angry note, 
Have left me issueless; and your father’s blest, 
As he from heaven merits it, with you 
Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, 
Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on, 
Such goodly things as you! 


Enter a Lord. 

Lord. Most noble sir, 
That which I shall report will bear no credit, 
Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, 
Bohemia greets you from himself by me; 

Desires you to attach his son, who has — 

His dignity and duty both cast off — 

Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with 
A shepherd’s daughter. 

Leon. Where ’s Bohemia? speak. 

Lord. Here in your city; I now came from him: 
I speak amazedly; and it becomes 
My marvel and my message. To your court 
Whiles he was hastening, in the chase, it seems, 
Of this fair couple, meets he on the way 
The father of this seeming lady and 
Her brother, having both their country quitted 
With this young prince. 

Flo. Camillo has betray’d me; 
Whose honour and whose honesty till now 
Endured all weathers. 


Lord. Lay ’t so to his charge: 
He’s with the king your father. 
Leon. Who? Camillo ? 


Lord. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now © 
271 


ACT ¥; 


Has these poor men in question. Never saw I 
Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth ; 
Forswear themselves as often as they speak: 
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them 
With divers deaths in death. 

er. O my poor father! 
The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have 
Our contract celebrated. 

eon. You are married ? 

Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be; 

The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first : 
The odds for high and low’s alike. 


Leon. My lord, 
Is this the daughter of a king ? 
Flo. She is, 
When once she is my wife. [speed, 


Leon. That ‘once,’ I see by your good father’s 
Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, 
Most sorry, you have broken from his liking 
Where you were tied in duty, and as sorry 
Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, 
That you might well enjoy her. 
Flo. Dear, look up: 
Though Fortune, visible an enemy, 
Should chase us with my father, power no jot 
Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, 
Remember since you owed no more to time 
Than I do now: with thought of such affections, 
Step forth mine advocate; at your request 
My father will grant precious things as trifles. 
Leon. Would he do so, I’ld beg your precious 
Which he counts but a trifle. [mistress, 
Paul. Sir, my liege, 
Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month 
’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such 
Than what you look on now. [gazes 
Leon. I thought of her, 
Even in these looks I made. [Zo Florizel.] But 
your petition 
Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father: 
Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, 
I am friend to them and you: upon which errand 
I now go toward him; therefore follow me 
And mark what way I make: come, good my lord. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Before Leontes’ palace. 


Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. 


Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this 
relation ? 

First Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, 
heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he 
found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we 
were all commanded out of the chamber; only this 
Sena eae I heard the shepherd say, he found the 
child. 

Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. 

First Gent. I make a broken delivery of the busi- 
ness; but the changes I perceived in the king and 
Camillo were very notes of admiration: they seemed 
almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases 
of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, 
language in their very gesture; they looked as they 
liad heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a 
notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but 
the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, 
could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; 
but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. 


Enter another Gentleman. 
Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more. 
The news, Rogero ? 

Sec. Gent. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is ful- 
filled; the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of 
wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad- 
makers cannot be able to express it. 


272 


THE WINTER’S TALE. 


SCENE Ii. 


Enter a third Gentleman. 


Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward : he can de- 
liver you more. How goes it now, sir? this news 
which is called true is so like an old tale, that the 
verity of it is in strong suspicion: has the king found 
his heir ? 

Third Gent. Most true, if ever truth were preg- 
nant by circumstance: that which you hear you ‘Il 
swear you see, there issuch unity inthe proofs. The 
mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the 
neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it 
which they know to be his character, the majesty of 
the creature in resemblance of the mother, the af- 
fection of nobleness which nature shows above her 
breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her 
with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did 
you see the meeting of the two kings? 

Sec. Gent. No. 

Third Gent. Then have you lost a sight, which 
was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might 
you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in 
such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take 
leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There 
was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with 
countenances of such distraction that they were to 
be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, 
being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his — 
found daughter, as if that joy were now become a 
loss, cries ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’ then asks 
Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces his son-in-law ; 
then again worries he his daughter with clipping 
her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands 
by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ 
reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, 
which lames report to follow it and undoes descrip- 
tion to do it. 

Sec. Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, 
that carried hence the child ? 

Third Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have 
matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not 
an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: 
this avouches the shepherd’s son; who has not only 
his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but 
a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. 

First Gent. What became of his bark and his fo!- 
lowers ? 

Third Gent. Wrecked the same instant of their 
master’s death and in the view of the shepherd: so 
that all the instruments which aided to expose the 
child were even then lost when it was found. But 
O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was 
fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the 
loss of her husband, another elevated that the ora- 
cle was fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the 
earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would 
pin her to her heart that she might no more be in 
danger of losing. 

First Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the 
poets of kings and princes; for by such was it 
acted. 

Third Gent. One of the. prettiest touches of all 
and that which angled for mine eyes, caught the 
water though not the fish, was when, at the relation 
of the queen’s death, with the manner how she came 
to ’t bravely confessed and lamented by the king, 
how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from 
one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an ‘ Alas,’ 
I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart 
wept blood. Who was most marble there changed 
colour; some swooned, all sorrowed : if all the world 
could have seen ’t, the woe had been universal. 

First Gent. Are they returned to the court ? 

Third Gent. No: the princess hearing of her moth- 
er’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a 
piece many years in doing and now newly performed 
by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had 


ACT V. 
he himself eternity and could put breath into his 
work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so per- 
fectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath 
done Hermione that they say one would speak to 
her and stand in hope of answer: thither with all 
greediness of affection are they gone, and there they 
intend to sup. 

Sec. Gent. I thought she had some great matter 
there in hand; forshe hath privately twice or thrice 
a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that 
removed house. Shall we thither and with our com- 
pany piece the rejoicing ? 

First Gent. Who would be thence that has the 
benefit of access? every wink of an eye some new 
grace will be born: our absence makes us unthrifty 
to our knowledge. Let ’salong. [Hxeunt Gentlemen. 

Aut. Now, had f not the dash of my former life in 
me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought 
the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him 
I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what : 
but he at that time, overfond of the shepherd’s 
daughter, so he then took her to be, who began to 
be much sea-sick, and himself little better, ex- 
tremity of weather continuing, this mystery re- 
mained undiscovered. But ’tis all one to me; for 
had I been the finder out of this secret, it would 
not have relished among my other discredits. 


Enter Shepherd and Clown. 


Here come those I have done good to against my 
will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their 
fortune. 

Shep. Come, boy; I am past moe children, but 
thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. 

Clo. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight 
with me this other day, because I was no gentleman 
born. See you these clothes ? say you see them not 
and think me still no gentleman born: you were 
best say these robes are not gentlemen born: give 
me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gen- 
tleman born. 

Aut. I know you are nov, sir, a gentleman born. 

' Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these four 
hours. | 

Shep. And so have I, boy. 

Clo. So you have: but I was a gentleman born 
_ before my father; for the king’s son took me by 
the hand, and called me brother; and then the two 
kings called my father brother ; and then the prince 
my brother and the princess my sister called my 
father father; and so we wept, and there was the 
first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. 

Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. 

Clo. Ay; or else *t were hard luck, being in so 
preposterous estate as we are. 

Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all 
the faults I have committed to your worship and 
to give me your good report to the prince my 
master. 

Shep. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, 
now we are gentlemen. 

Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life ? 

Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship. 

Clo. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince 
thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bo- 
hemia. 

Shep. You may say it, but not swear it. 

Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman ? 
boors and franklins say it, Il] swear it. 

Shep. How if it be false, son ? 

Clo. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may 
swear it in the behalf of his friend: and Ill swear 
to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and 
that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art 
no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be 
drunk: but Ill swear it, and I would thou wouldst 
be a tall fellow of thy hands. 


18 


Let 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 


SCENE III. 


Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. 

Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I 
do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, 
not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the 
kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to 
see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be 
thy good masters. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A chapel in Paulina’s house. 


Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Ca- 
millo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants. 


Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great com- 
That I have had of thee! [fort 
Paul. What, sovereign sir, 

I did not well I meant well. All my services 

You have paid home: but that you have vouch- 
safed, [tracted 

With your crown’d brother and these your con- 

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, 

It is a surplus of your grace, which never 

My life may last to answer. 

Leon. O Paulina, 

We honour you with trouble: but we came 

To see the statue of our queen: your gallery 

Have we pass’d through, not without much content 

In many singularities; but we saw not 

That which my daughter came to look upon, 

The statue of her mother. 

Paul. As she lived peerless, 

So her dead likeness, I do well believe, 

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon 

Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it 

Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare 

To see the life as lively mock’d as ever 

Still sleep mock’d death: behold, and say ’t is well. 
[Paulina draws a curtain, and discovers 

Hermione standing like a statue. 

I like your silence, it the more shows off 

Your wonder: but yet speak; first, you, my liege. 

Comes it not something near ? 

Leon. Her natural posture! 
Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed 
Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she 
In thy not chiding, for she was as tender 
As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, 
Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing 
So aged as this seems. 

Pol. O, not by much. 

Paul. So much the more our carver’s excellence; 
Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her 
As she lived now. 

Leon. AS now she might have done, 
So much to my good comfort, as it is 
Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, 
Even with such life of majesty, warm life, 

As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! 
I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me 
For being more stone than it? O royal piece 
There ’s magic in thy majesty, which has 
My evils conjured to remembrance and 
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, 
Standing like stone with thee. 

er. And give me leave, 
And do not say ’t is superstition, that 
I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, 
Dear queen, that ended when I but began, 
Give me that hand of yours to kiss. 

Paul. . O, patience ! 
The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour ’s 
Not dry. 

Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, 
Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, 

So many summers dry: scarce any joy 
Did ever so long live; no sorrow 
But kill’d itself much sooner. 
LOU, Dear my brother, 


273 


ACT: ¥z 


Let him that was the cause of this have power 
To take off so much grief from you as he 
Will piece up in himself. 
Paul. Indeed, my lord, 
If I had thought the sight of my poor image 
Would thus have wrought you,—for the stone is 
I’ld not have show’d it. [mine — 
Leon. Do not draw the curtain. 
Paul. No longer shall you gaze on ’t, lest your 
May think anon it moves. [fancy 
Leon. Let be, let be. 
Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already — 
What was he that did make it? See, my lord, 
Would you not deem it breathed? and that those 
Did verily bear blood ? [veins 
Pol. Masterly done: 
The very life seems warm upon her lip. 
Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in ’t, 
As we are mock’d with art. 
Paul. I’l] draw the curtain: 
My lord ’s almost so far transported that 
He ’1l think anon it lives. 
Leon. O sweet Paulina, 
Make me to think so twenty years together! 
No settled senses of the world can match 
The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone. 
Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: 
I could afflict you farther. [but 
Leon. Do, Paulina; 
For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks, 
There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel 
Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, 
For I will kiss her. 
Paul. Good my lord, forbear: 
The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; 
You ’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own 
With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ? 
Leon. No, not these twenty years. 


Per. So long could I 
Stand by, a looker on. 
Paul. Either forbear, 


Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you 
For more amazement. If you can behold it, 
I ’ll make the statue move indeed, descend 
And take you by the hand: but then you 7ll think— 
Which I protest against —I am assisted 
By wicked powers. 
Leon. What you can make her do, 
I am content to look on: what to speak, 
I am content to hear; for ’t is as easy 
To make her speak as move. 

Paul. It is required 
You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; 
On: those that think it is unlawful business 
I am about, let them depart. 

Leon. 

No foot shall stir. 

Paul. Music, awake her; strike! [Music. 
’T is time; descend; be stone no more: approach ; 
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, 

Tl] fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away, 


274 


Proceed: 


THE WINTER'S TALE. 


| And made between ’s by vows. 


SCENE IIlf. 


Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him 
Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs: 
[Hermione comes down. 

Start not; her actions shall be holy as 
You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her 
Until you see her die again; for then 
You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: 
When she was young you woo’d her; now in age 
Is she become the suitor ? 

Leon. O, she’s warm! 
If this be magic, let it be an art 
Lawful as eating. 

Pol. She embraces him. 

Cam. She hangs about his neck : 
If she pertain to life let her speak too. 

Pol. Ay,and make ’t manifest where she has lived, 
Or how stolen from the dead. 

Paul. That she is living, 
Were it but told you, should be hooted at 
Like an old tale: but it appears she lives, : 
Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. 
Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel 
And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady ; 
Our Perdita is found. 

Her. You gods, look down 
And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own, 
Where hast thou been preserved ? where lived ? how 

found 

Thy father’s court ? for thou shalt hear that I, 
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 
Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved 
Myself to see the issue. 

Paul. There ’s time enough for that ; 
Lest they desire upon this push to trouble 
Your joys with like relation. Go together, 
You precious winners all: your exultation 
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, 
Will wing me to some wither’d bough and there 
My mate, that ’s never to be found again, 
Lament till I am lost. 

Leon. O, peace, Paulina ! 
Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, 
As I by thine a wife: this is a match, [mine ; 
Thou hast found 
But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, 
As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many 
A prayer upon her grave. Ill not seek far— 
For him, I partly know his mind — to find thee 
An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, 
And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty 
Is richly noted and here justified 
By us, a pair of kings. Let ’s from this place. 
What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, 
That e’er I put between your holy looks 
My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law 
And son unto the king, who, heavens directing, 
Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, 
Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely 
Each one demand and answer to his part 
Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first 
We were dissever’d: hastily lead away. [Hzewnt. 


THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


King John. 

Prince Henry, son to the king. 

Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, nephew to the king. 

The Earl of Pembroke. 

The Karl of Essex. 

The Earl of Salisbury. 

The Lord Bigot. 

Hubert de Burgh. 

Robert Faulconbridge, son to Sir Robert Faul- 
conbridge. 

Philip the Bastard, his half-brother. 

James Gurney, servant to Lady Faulconbridge. 

Peter of Pomfret, a prophet. 

Philip, King of France. 


Lewis, the Dauphin. 

Lymoges, Duke of Austria. 

Cardinal Pandulph, the Pope’s legate. 

Melun, a French Lord. 

Chatillon, ambassador from France to King Joha, 
Queen Elinor, mother to King John. 
Constance, mother to Arthur. 

Blanch of Spain, niece to King John. 

Lady Faulconbridge. 


Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, 
Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants, 


SCENE — Partly in England, and partly in Franee, 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LII.] 


ot Od Daa i 


SCENE I.—King John’s palace. 


Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, 
Essex, Salisbury, and others, with Chatillon. 


K. John. Now, say, Chatillon, what would France 
with us? [France 
Chat. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of 
In my behaviour to the majesty, 
The borrow’d majesty, of England here. 
Eli. A strange beginning: ‘borrow’d majesty!’ 
Kk. John. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy. 
Chat. Philip of France, in right and true behalf 
Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son, 
Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim 
To this fair island and the territories, 
To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, 
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword 
Which sways usurpingly these several titles, 
And put the same into young Arthur’s hand, 
Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. 
Kk. John. What follows if we disallow of this ? 
Chat. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, 
To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. 
a 58 as Here have we war for war and blood for 
00 


; 
Controlment for controlment: so answer France. 


Chat. Then take my king’s defiance from my 
The farthest limit of my embassy. [mouth, 
K. John. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace: 
Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; 
For ere thou canst report I will be there, 
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard: 
So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath 
And sullen presage of your own decay. 
An honourable conduct let him have: 
Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillon. 
[ Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke. 
Eli. What now, my son! have I not ever said 
How that ambitious Constance would not cease 
Till she had kindled France and all the world, 
Upon the right and party of her son? 
This might have been prevented and made whole 
With very easy arguments of love, 


Which now the manage of two kingdoms must 

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. eid 
kK. John. Our strong possession and our right for 
Eli. Your strong possession much more than 

your right, 

Or else it must go wrong with you and me: 

So much my conscience whispers in your ear, 

Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. 


Enter a Sheriff. 


_ Hssex. My liege, here is the strangest controversy 
Come from the country to be judged by you 
That e’er I heard; shall I produce the men ? 
K. John. Let them approach. 
Our abbeys and our priories shall pay 
This expedition’s charge. 


Enter Robert Faulconbridge, and Philip his 
bastard brother. 


What men are you? 

Bast. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman 
Born in Northamptonshire and eldest son, 

As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, 
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand 
Of Cceur-de-lion knighted in the field. 

Kk, John. What art thou ? 

Rob. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. 

K. John. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir ? 
You came not of one mother then, it seems. 

Bast. Most certain of one mother, mighty king; 
That is well known; and, as I think, one father: 
But for the certain knowledge of that truth 
I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother: 

Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may. [mother 

Eli. Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy 
And wound her honour with this diffidence. 

Bast. I, madam? no, I have no reason for it; 


‘That is my brother’s plea and none of mine; 


The which if he can prove, a’ pops me out 

At least from fair five hundred pound a year: 

Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land! 
K. John. A good blunt fellow. Why,being younger 

Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance ? born, 


275 


ACT. I. 


KING JOHN. 


SCENE I. 


Bast. I know not why, except to get the land. 

But once he slander’d me with bastardy: 

But whether I be as true begot or no, 

That still I lay upon my mother’s head, 

But that I am as well begot, my liege, — 

Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me! — 
Compare our faces and be judge yourself. 

If old sir Robert did beget us both 

And were our father and this son like him, 

O old sir Robert, father, on my knee 

I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee! 

5c. John. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us 

here ! 

Eli. He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion’s face ; 

The accent of his tongue affecteth him. 
Do you not read some tokens of my son 
In the large composition of this man ? 

Kk. John. Mine eye hath well examined his parts 
And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, 
What doth move you to claim your brother’s land ? 

Bast. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. 
With half that face would he have all my land: 

A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year! 

Rob. My gracious liege, when that my father lived, 
Your brother did employ my father much, — 

Bast. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land: 
Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother. 

Rob. And once dispatch’d him in an embassy 
To Germany, there with the emperor 
To treat of high affairs touching that time. 

The advantage of his absence took the king 
And in the mean time sojourn’d at my father’s; 
Where how he did prevail I shame to speak, 
But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores 
Between my father and my mother lay, 

As I have heard' my father speak himself, 
When this same lusty gentleman was got. 
Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d 

His lands to me, and took it on his death 

That this my mother’s son was none of his; 
And if he were, he came into the world 

Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. 
Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, 
My father’s land, as was my father’s will. 

kK. John. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate; 
Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him, 
And if she did play false, the fault was hers; 
Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands 
That marry wives. ‘Tell me, how if my brother, 
Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, 

Had of your father claim’d this son for his ? 

In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept 
This calf bred from his cow from all the world; 

In sooth he might; then, if he were my brother’s, 
My brother might not claim him; nor your father, 
Being none of his, refuse him: this concludes; 

My mother’s son did get your father’s heir; 

Your father’s heir must have your father’s land. 

Rob. Shall then my father’s will be of no force 
To dispossess that child which is not his ? 

Bast. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, 
Than was his will to get me, as I think. [bridge 

Eli. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulcon- 
And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, 

Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, : 
Lord of thy presence and no land beside ? 

Bast. Madam, an if my brother had my shape, 

And I had his, sir Robert’s his, like him; 

And if my legs were two such riding-rods, 

My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin 
That in mine ear I durst not stick arose [goes!’ 
Lest men should say ‘ Look, where three-farthings 
And, to his shape, were heir to all this land, 
Would I might never stir from off this place, 

I would give it every foot to have this face; 

I would not be sir Nob in any case. [tune, | 

Eli. I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy for- | 


276 


Bequeath thy land to him and follow me? 
I am a soldier and now bound to France. [chance. 
Bast. Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my © 
Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, 
Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear. 
Madam, I ll follow you unto the death. 
Eli. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. 
Bast. Our country manners give our betters way. 
K. John. What is thy name: 
Bast. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun; 
Philip, good old sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son. 
kK. John. From henceforth bear his name whose 
form thou bear’st: 
Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great, 
Arise sir Richard and Plantagenet. [hand . 
Bast. Brother by the mother’s side, give me your 
My father gave me honour, yours gave land. 


| Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, 


When I was got, sir Robert was away! 
Eli. The very spirit of Plantagenet! 
Iam thy grandam, Richard; call meso. [though? 
Bast. Madam, by chance but not by truth; what 
Something about, a little from the right, 
In at the window, or else o’er the hatch: 
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night, 
And have is have, however men do catch: 
Near or far off, well won is still well shot, 
And I am I, howe’er I was begot. {desire ; 
kk. John. Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy 
A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. 
Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed 
For France, for France, for it is more than need. 
Bast. Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee! 
For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty. 
[ Exeunt all but Bastard. 
A foot of honour better than I was; 
But many a many foot of land the worse. 
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 
‘Good den, sir Richard ! ’—‘ God-a-mercy, fellow ! ’— 
And if his name be George, Ill call him Peter; 
For new-made honour doth forget men’s names; 
’T is too respective and too sociable 
For your conversion. Now your traveller, 
He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess, 
And when my knightly stomach is sufficed, 
Why then I suck my teeth and catechize 
My picked man of countries: ‘ My dear sir,’ 
Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin, 
‘I shall beseech you ’—that is question now; 
And then comes answer like an Absey book: 
‘O sir,’ Says answer, ‘at your best command ; 
At your employment; at your service, sir:’ 
‘No, sir,’ says question, ‘I, sweet sir, at yours: ’ 
And so, ere answer knows what question would, 
Saving in dialogue of compliment, 
And talking of the Alps and Apennines, 
The Pyrenean and the river Po, 
It draws toward supper in conclusion so. 
But this is worshipful society 
And fits the mounting spirit like myself, 
For he is but a bastard to the time 
That doth not smack of observation ; 
And so am I, whether I smack or no; 
And not alone in habit and device, 
Exterior form, outward accoutrement, 
But from the inward motion to deliver 
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth: 
Which, though I will not practise to deceive, - 
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; 
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. 
But who comes in such haste in riding-robes ? 
What woman-post is this ? hath she no husband 
That will take pains to blow a horn before her ? 


Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney. 


O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady! 
What brings you here to court so Hastily ? 


ad 
Lise 


— 


ACTII. KING JOHN. SCENE I. 


Lady F. Where is that slave, thy brother? where | Legitimation, name and all is gone: 
is he, Then, good my mother, let me know my father; 
That holds in chase mine honour up and down ? Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother ? 
Bast. My brother Robert ? old sir Robert’s son ? Lady F. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulcon- 


Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man ? Bast. As faithfully as I deny the devil. [bridge ? 
Is it sir Robert’s son that you seek so? [boy, Lady F. King Richard Cceur-de-lion was thy 
Lady F. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend father : 


Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at sir Robert ? | By long and vehement suit I was seduced 
He is sir Robert’s son, and so art thou. [awhile ? | To make room for him in my husband’s bed: 
Bast. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave | Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! 


Gur. Good leave, good Philip. Thou art the issue of my dear offence, 

Bast. Philip! sparrow: James, | Which was so strongly urged past my defence. | 
There ’s toys abroad: anon I’1] tell thee more. Bast. Now, by this light, were I to get again, 

[Hxit Gurney. | Madam, I would not wish a better father. | 

Madam, I was not old sir Robert’s son: Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, 
Sir Robert might have eat his part in me And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly: 
Upon Good-Friday and ne’er broke his fast: Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, 
Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess, Subjected tribute to commanding love, 
Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it: Against whose fury and unmatched force 
We know his handiwork: therefore, good mother, | The aweless lion could not wage the fight, 
To whom am I beholding for these limbs ? Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand. 
Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. [too, | He that perforce robs lions of their hearts 


Lady F. Hast thou conspired with thy brother | May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother, 
That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine} With all my heart I thank thee for my father! 
honour ? [knave ? | Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well 
What means this scorn, thou most untoward | When I was got, Ill send his soul to hell. 
Bast. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. | Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; 


What! Iam dubb’d! I have it on my shoulder. And they shall say, when Richard me begot, 
But, mother, I am not sir Robert’s son; If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin: 
I have disclaim’d sir Robert and my land; Who Says it was, he lies; I say ’t was not. [Ezeunt. 
CoN G4 Dia? bel 
SCENE I.—France. Before Angiers. Aust. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their 
j é | In such a just and charitable war. [swords 
Enter Austria and forces, drums, &c., on one side: on the K. Phi. Well then, to work: our cannon shall be 
aad ae ap of a rae we his power; Lewis, | A oainst the brows of this resisting town. [bent 
a oa one Shen cans. Call for our chiefest men of discipline, 
Lew. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. ‘| To cull the plots of best advantages: 
Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, We'll lay before this town our royal bones, 
Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood, 
And fought the holy wars in Palestine, But we will make it subject to this boy. 
By this brave duke came early to his grave: Const. Stay for an answer to your embassy, 
And for amends to his posterity, Lest unadvised you stain your swords with blood: 
At our importance hither is he come, My Lord Chatillon may from England bring 
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, That right in peace which here we urge in war, 
And to rebuke the usurpation And then we shall repent each drop of blood 


Of thy unnatural uncle, English John: 


That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. 
Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither. 


Arth. God shall forgive you Cceur-de-lion’s death Enter Chatillon. 
The rather that you give his offspring life, kK. Phi. A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish, 
Shadowing their right under your wings of war: Our messenger Chatillon is arrived! 
I give you welcome with a powerless hand, What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; 
But with a heart full of unstained love: We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak. 


Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke. Chat. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege. 
Lew. A noble boy! Who would not do thee | And stir them up against a mightier task. 
right ? England, impatient of your just demands, 


Aust. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss, Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds, 
As seal to this indenture of my love, Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time 
That to my home I will no more return, To land his legions all as soon as I; 

Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, His marches are expedient to this town, 
Together with that pale, that white-faced shore, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. 
Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides | With him along is come the mother-queen, 
And coops from other lands her islanders, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; 
Even till that England, hedged in with the main, | With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain; 
That water-walled bulwark, still secure With them a bastard of the king’s deceased ; 
And confident from foreign purposes, And all the unsettled humours of the land, 
Even till that utmost corner of the west Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, 
Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy, With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, 
Will I not think of home, but follow arms. Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, 
Const. O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s | Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, 
thanks, To make a hazard of new fortunes here: — 
Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength | In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits 
To make a more requital to your love! Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er 


277 


ACT II. KING 


Did never float upon the swelling tide, 
To do offence and scath in Christendom. 
[Drum beats. 
The interruption of their churlish drums 
Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand, 
To parley or to fight; therefore prepare. 
kk. Phi. How much unlook’d for is this expedition ! 
Aust. By how much unexpected, by so much 
We must awake endeavour for defence; 
For courage mounteth with occasion: 
Let them be welcome then; we are prepared. 


Enter King John, Elinor, Blanch, the Bastard, 
Lords, and forces. 


Kk. John. Peace be to France, if France in peace 
Our just and lineal entrance to our own; [permit 
If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, 
Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct 
Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven. 

kK. Phi. Peace be to England, if that war return 
From France to England, there to live in peace. 
England we love; and for that England’s sake 
With burden of our armour here we sweat. 

This toil of ours should be a work of thine; 

But thou from loving England art so far, 

That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king, 

Cut off the sequence of posterity, 

Out-faced infant state and done a rape 

Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. 

Look here upon thy brother Geffrey’s face ; 

These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his: 

This little abstract doth contain that large 

Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time 

Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. 

That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, 

And this his son; England was Geffrey’s right 

And this is Geffrey’s: in the name of God 

How comes it then that thou art call’d a king, 

When living blood doth in these temples beat, 

Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest ? 
K. John. From whom hast thou this great com- 

mission, France, 7 

To draw my answer from thy articles ? 

ix. Phi. From that supernal judge, that stirs good 
in any breast of strong authority, [thoughts 
To look into the blots and stains of right: 
that judge hath made me guardian to this boy: 
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong 
And by whose help I mean to chastise it. 

K. John. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. 

kk. Phi. Excuse; it is to beat usurping down. 

Eli. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France ? 

Const. Let me make answer; thy usurping son. 

Eli. Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king, 
That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world! 

Const. My bed was ever to thy son as true 
As thine was to thy husband; and this boy 
Liker in feature to his father Geifrey 
Than thou and John in manners; being as like 
AS rain to water, or devil to his dam. 

My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think 
His father never was so true begot: 
It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. 

Eli. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy 

father. [blot thee. 

Const. There’s a good grandam, boy, that would 

Aust. Peace! 

Bast. Hear the crier. 

Aust. What the devil art thou ? 

Bast. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, 
An a’ may catch your hide and you alone: 

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, 
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard: 
Ill smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right; 
Sirrah, look to ’t; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith. 

Blanch. O, well did he become that lion’s robe 
That did disrobe the lion of that robe! 


Lend 
27 


JOHN. 


Bast. It lies as sightly on the back of him 
As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass: 
But, ass, Ill take that burthen from your back, 
Or lay on that shall make your shoulders erack. 
Aust. What cracker is this same that deais our 
ears 
With this abundance of superfluous breath ? 
Phi. Lewis, determine what we shall do 
straight. fence. 
Lew. Women and fools, break off your confer- 
King John, this is the very sum of all; 
England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, 
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee: 
Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms? 
ik. John. My life as soon: I do defy thee, France. 
Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand; 
And out of my dear love Ill give thee more 
Than e’er the coward hand of France can win: 
Poe thee, boy. 
ili 


SCENET,. 


: Come to thy grandam, child. 
Const. Do, child, go to it grandam, child; 
Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will 
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig: 
There ’s a good grandam. 
Arth. Good my mother, peace! 
I would that I were low laid in my graye: 
I am not worth this coil that ’s made for me. 
Eli. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he 
weeps. for no! 
Const. Now shame upon you, whether she does 
His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, 
Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor 
Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; [eyes, 
Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be bribed 
To do him justice and revenge on you. 
Eli. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and 
earth! [earth ! 
Const. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and 
Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp 
The dominations, royalties and rights 
Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld’st son’s son, 
Infortunate in nothing but in thee: 
Thy sins are visited in this poor child; 
The canon of the law is laid on him, 
Being but the second generation 
Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. 
kK. John. Bedlam, have done. 
Const. I have but this to say, 
That he is not only plagued for her sin, 
But God hath made her sin and her the plague 
On this removed issue, plagued for her 
And with her plague; her sin his injury, 
Her injury the beadle to her sin, 
All punish’d in the person of this child, 
And all for her; a plague upon her! 
Eli. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce 
A will that bars the title of thy son. [will ; 
Const. Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked 
A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will! 
kK. Phi. Peace, lady! pause, or be more temper- 
It ill-beseems this presence to cry aim [ate: 
To these ill-tuned repetitions. 
Some trumpet summon hither to the walls 
These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak 
Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s. 


Trumpet sounds. Enter certain Citizens upon the wails. 


First Cit. Who is it that hath warn’d us to the . 
kK. Phi. ’T is France, for England. [walls ? 
KK. John. England, for itself. 
You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,— 
kK. Phi. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s 
subjects, 
Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle — 
Ts we For our advantage; therefore hear us 
rst. 
These flags of France, that are advanced here 


KING 


Before the eye and prospect of your town, 

Have hither march’d to your endamagement : 

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, 

And ready mounted are they to spit forth 

Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls: 

All preparation for a bloody siege 

And merciless proceeding by these French 

Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates; 

And but for our approach those sleeping stones, 

That as a waist doth girdle you about, 

By the compulsion of their ordinance 

By this time from their fixed beds of lime 

Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made 

For bloody power to rush upon your peace. 

But on the sight of us your lawful king, 

Who painfully with much expedient march 

Have brought a countercheck before your gates, 

To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks, 

Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle ; 

And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire, 

To make a shaking fever in your walls, 

They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, 

To make a faithless error in your ears: 

Which trust accordingly kind citizens, 

And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits, 

Forwearied in this action of swift speed, 

Crave harbourage within your city walls. 
kK. Phi. When [have said, make answer to us both. 

Lo, in this right hand, whose protection 

Is most divinely vow’d upon the right 

Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, 

Son to the elder brother of this man, 

And king o’er him and all that he enjoys: 

For this down-trodden equity, we tread 

In warlike march these greens before your town, 

Being no further enemy to you 

Than the constraint of hospitable zeal 

In the relief of this oppressed child 

Religiously provokes. Be pleased then 

To pay that duty which you truly owe 

To him that owes it, namely this young prince: 

And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, 

Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up; 

Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent 

Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven ; 

And with a blessed and unvex’d retire, 

With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruised, 

We will bear home that lusty blood again 

Which here we came to spout against your town, 

And leave your children, wives and you in peace. 

But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer, 

°T is not the roundure of your old-faced walls 

Can hide you from our messengers of war, 

Though all these English and their discipline 

Were harbour’d in their rude circumference. 

Then tell us, shall your city call us lord, 

In that behalf which we have challenged it ? 

Or shall we give the signal to our rage 

And stalk in blood to our possession ? [subjects: 
First Cit. In brief, we are the king of England ’s 

For him, and in his right, we hold this town. _ [in. 
K. John. Acknowledge then the king, and let me 
First Cit. That can we not; but he that proves 

the king, 

To him will we prove loyal: till that time 

Have weramm’d up our gates against the world. 
K. John. Doth not the crown of England prove 

. And if not that, I bring you witnesses, [the king? 

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed ,— 
Bast. Bastards, and else. | 
K. John. To verify our title with their lives. 
KK. Phi. AS many and as well-born bloods as 
Bast. Some bastards too. [those,— 
KK. Phi. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. 
First Cit. Till you compound whose right is 

worthiest, 
We for the worthiest hold the right from both. 


ACT II. 


JOHN. SCENE I. 


Ke. John. Then God forgive the sin of all those 


That to their everlasting residence, [souls 
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet, 
In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king! [arms! 


kt. Phi. Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers! to 
Bast. Saint George, that swinged the dragon, 
and e’er since 
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door, [home, 
Teach us some fence! [Zo Aust.] Sirrah, were I at 
At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, 
I would set an ox head to your lion’s hide, 
And make a monster of you. 
Aust. Peace! no more. 
Bast. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar. 
kK. John. Up higher to the plain; where we’ll 
In best appointment all our regiments. [set forth 
Bast. Speed then, to take advantage of the field. 
AK. Phi. It shall be so; and at the other hill 
Command the rest to stand. God and our right! 
[ Hxeunt. 


Here after excursions, enter the Herald of France, with 
trumpets, to the gates. 

I’. Her. You men of Angiers, open wide your 
And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in, [gates, 
Who by the hand of France this day hath made 
Much work for tears in many an English mother, 
Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; 
Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, 

Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth ; 

And victory, with little loss, doth play 

Upon the dancing banners of the French, 
Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d, 

To enter conquerors and to proclaim 

Arthur of Bretagne England’s king and yours. 


Enter English Herald, with trumpet. 


E. ch Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your 
bells; 
King John, your king and England’s, doth approach, 
Commander of this hot malicious day: 
Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright, 
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood ; 
There stuck no plume in any English crest 
That is removed by a staff of France; 
Our colours do return in those same hands 
That did display them when we first march’d forth ; 
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come 
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, 
Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes: 
Open your gates and give the victors way. [behold, 
First Cit. Heralds, from off our towers we might 
From first to last, the onset and retire 
Of both your armies; whose equality 
By our best eyes cannot be censured: 
Blood hath bought blood and blows have answer’d 
blows; [fronted power : 
Strength match’d with strength, and power con- 
Both are alike; and both alike we like. 
One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, 
We hold our town for neither, yet for both. 


Re-enter the two Kings, with their powers severally. 
K. John. France, hast thou yet more blood to 
cast away ? 

Say, shall the current of our right run on? 
Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, 
Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell 
With course disturb’d even thy confining shores, 
Unless thou let his silver water keep 
A peaceful progress to the ocean. [of blood, 

kK. Phi. England, thou hast not saved one drop 
In this hot trial, more than we of France; 
Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, 
That sways the earth this climate overlooks, 
Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, [bear, 


‘Well put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we 


279 


ACT Il. KING JOHN. | SCENE I. 


Or add a royal number to the dead, Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds, 

Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss That here come sacrifices for the field: 

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. [hear. 
Bast. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers, K. John. Speak on with favour; we are bent to 

When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! First Cit. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady 

O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; | Isnieceto England: look upon the years [Blanch, 

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; | Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid: 

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, | If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, 

In undetermined differences of kings. | Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch ? 

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, 

Cry ‘havoc!’ kings; back to the stained field, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch ? 

You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! If love ambitious sought a match of birth, 

Then let confusion of one part confirm Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch ? 


The other’s peace; till then, blows, blood and death! | Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, 
K. John. Whose party dothetownsmen yet admit ? | Is the young Dauphin every way complete: 
K. Phi. Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your | If not complete of, say he is not she; 
king ? [the king. | And she again wants nothing, to name want, 
First Cit. The king of England, when we know | If want it be not that she is not he: 
kK. Phi. Know him in us, that here hold up his | He is the half part of a blessed man, 


right. Left to be finished by such as she; 

K. John. In us, that are our own great deputy, And she a fair divided excellence, 
And bear possession of our person here, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. 
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. O, two such silver currents, when they join, 

First Cit. A greater power than we denies all this; | Do glorify the banks that bound them in; 
And till it be undoubted, we do lock And two such shores to two such streams made one, 
Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates ; Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings, 
King’d of our fears, until our fears, resolved, To these two princes, if you marry them. 
Be by some certain king purged and deposed. This union shall do more than battery can 

Bast. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout | To our fast-closed gates; for at this match, 

you, kings, With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, 

And stand securely on their battlements, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope, 
As in a theatre, whence they gape and point And give you entrance: but without this match, 
At your industrious scenes and acts of death. The sea enraged is not half so deaf, 
Your royal presences be ruled by me: Lions more confident, mountains and rocks 
Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, More free from motion, no, not Death himself 
Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend In mortal fury half so peremptory, 
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town: As we to keep this city. 
By east and west let France and England mount Bast. Here’s a stay 
Their battering cannon charged to the mouths, That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death 
Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down | Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth, indeed, 
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and 
I’ld play incessantly upon these jades, Talks as familiarly of roaring lions [seas, 
Even till unfenced desolation As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! 
Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. What cannoneer begot this lusty blood ? 


That done, dissever your united strengths, 


He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce ; 
And part your mingled colours once again ; 


He gives the bastinado with his tongue: 


Turn face to face and bloody point to point; Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his 
Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth But buffets better than a fist of France: 
Out of one side her happy minion, Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words 
To whom in favour she shall give the day, Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad. 
And kiss him with a glorious victory. Eli. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; 
How like you this wild counsel, mighty states ? Give with our niece a dowry large enough: 
Smacks it not something of the policy ? [heads, | For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie 
Kk. John. Now, by the sky that hangs above our Thy now unsured assurance to the crown, 
I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers | That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe 
And lay this Angiers even with the ground; The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. 
Then after fight who shall be king of it ? I see a yielding in the looks of France ; 
Bast. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls 
Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town, Are capable of this ambition, 
Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath 
As we will ours, against these saucy walls; Of soft petitions, pity and remorse, 
And when that we have dash’d them to the ground, | Cool and congeal again to what it was. 
Why then defy each other, and pell-mell First Cit. Why answer not the double majesties 
Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town ? 
K. Phi. Let it beso. Say, where will you assault ? kk. Phi. Speak England first, that hath been for- 
K. John. We from the west will send destruction | To speak unto this city: what say you? [ward first 
Into this city’s bosom. K. John. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely 


Aust. I from the north. Can in this book of beauty read ‘I love,’ fson, . 
KER. Our thunder from the south | Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen: 

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. For Anjou and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, 
Bast. O prudent discipline! From north to south: | And all that we upon this side the sea, 


Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth: | Except this city now by us besieged, 
I'll stir them to it. Come, away, away! Find liable to our crown and dignity, 
First Cit. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile | Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich 
to stay, In titles, honours and promotions, 
And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league; | As she in beauty, education, blood, 
Win you this city without stroke or wound; Holds hand with any princess of the world. 


280 


KING 


K. Phil. What say’st thou, boy ? look in the lady’s 
Lew. 1 do, my lord; and in her eye I find [face. 
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, 
The shadow of myself form’d in her eye; 
Which, being but the shadow of your son, 
Becomes a sun and makes your son a shadow: 
I do protest I never loved myself 
Till now infixed I beheld myself 
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. 
[ Whispers with Blanch. 
Bast. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye! 
Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! 
And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy 
Himself love’s traitor: this is pity now, [be 
That, hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there should 
In such a love so vile a lout as he. 
Blanch. My uncle’s will in this respect is mine: 
If he see aught in you that makes him like, 
That any thing he sees, which moves his liking, 
I can with ease translate it to my will; 
Or if you will, to speak more properly, 
L will enforce it easily to my love. 
Further I will not flatter you, my lord, 
That all I see in you is worthy love, 
Than this; that nothing do I see in you, 
Though churlish thoughts themselves should be 
your judge, 
That I can find should merit any hate. 
K. John. What say these young ones? What say 
ou, my niece ? 
Blanch. That she is bound in honour still to do 
What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. 
kK. John. Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you 
love this lady ? 
Lew. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; 
For I do love her most unfeignedly. [Maine, 
tik. John. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, 
Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces, 
With her to thee; and this addition more, 
Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. 
Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal, 
Command thy son and daughter to join hands. 
dik. Phi. It likes us well; young princes, close 
your hands. 
Aust. And your lips too; for I am well assured 
That I did so when I was first assured. 
Kk. Phi. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, 
Let in that amity which you have made; 
For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently 
The rites of marriage shall be solemnized. 
Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? 
I know she is not, for this match made up 
Her presence would have interrupted much: 
Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows. 
Lew. ene is sad and passionate at your highness’ 
tent. 


ACT III. 


JOHN. 


K. Phi. And, by my faith, this league that we 
Will give her sadness very little cure. [have made 
Brother of England, how may we content 
This widow lady? In her right we came; 

Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, 
To our own vantage. : 
Kk. John. We will heal up all; 
For we ll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne 
And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town 
We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance; 
Some speedy messenger bid her repair 
To our solemnity: I trust we shall, 
If not fill up the measure of her will, 
Yet in some measure satisfy her so 
That we shall stop her exclamation. 
Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, 
To this unlook’d for, unprepared pomp. 
[Hxeunt all but theBastard. 

Bast. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! 
John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole, 

Hath willingly departed with a part, 

And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, 
Whom zeal and charity brought to the field 

As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear 

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, 
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith, 
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, 

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, 
Who, having no external thing to lose 

But the word ‘ maid,’ cheats the poor maid of that, 
That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity, 
Commodity, the bias of the world, 

The world, who of itself is peised well, 

Made to run even upon even ground, 

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, 

This sway of motion, this Commodity, 

Makes it take head from all indifferency, 

From all direction, purpose, course, intent: 

And this same bias, this Commodity, 

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, 
Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle trance, 

Hath drawn him from his own determined aid, 
From a resolved and honourable war, 

To a most base and vile-concluded peace. 

And why rail I on this Commodity ? 

But for because he hath not woo’d me yet; 

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, 
When his fair angels would salute my palm; 
But for my hand, as unattempted yet, 

Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail 

And say there is no sin but to be rich; 

And being rich, my virtue then shall be 

To say there is no vice but beggary. 

Since kings break faith upon commodity, 
Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. 


SCENE I. 


[ Hartt. 


We O78 Dae 0 8 Be 


SCENE I.—The French King’s pavilion. 


Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury. 


Const. Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace! 
False blood to false blood join’d! gone to be friends! 
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those prov- 

inces ? 
It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard ; 
Be well advised, tell o’er thy tale again: 
It cannot be; thou dost but say ’t is so: 
I trust I may not trust thee; for thy word 
Is but the vain breath of a common man: 
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man; 
{ have a king’s oath to the contrary. 
Thon shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me, 


For I am sick and capable of fears, 

Oppress’d with wrongs and therefore full of fears, 
A widow, husbandless, subjeet to fears, 

A woman, naturally born to fears; 

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, 
With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce, 

But they will quake and tremble all this day. 
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head ? 
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? herd 
What means that hand upon that breast of thine ? 
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, 
Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds ? 

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ? 

Then speak again; not all thy former tale, 

But this one word, whether thy tale be true. 


281 


KING 


A ODER 


Sal. As true as I believe you think them false 
That give you cause to prove my saying true. 


Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die, 

And let belief and life encounter so 

As doth the fury of two desperate men 

Which in the very meeting fall and die. 

Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou ? 


France friend with England, what becomes of me? | 


Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight: 
This news hath made thee a most ugly man. 
Sal. What other harm have I, good lady, done, 

But spoke the harm that is by others done ? 
Const. Which harm within itself so heinous is 
As it makes harmful all that speak of it. 
Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content. 
Const. If thou,that bid’st me be content,wert grim, 
Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb, 
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, 
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, 
Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks, 
{ would not care, I then would be content, 
For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou 
Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown. 
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, 
Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great: 
Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast 
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O, 
She is corrupted, changed and won from thee; 
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, 
And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France 
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, 
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. 
France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, 
That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! 
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn ? 
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone 
And leave those woes alone which I alone 
Am bound to under-bear. 
Sal. 
I may not go without you to the kings. 


Pardon me, madam, 
(thee: 


Const. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with 


I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; 

For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. 

To me and to the state of my great grief 

Let kings assemble; for my grief ’s so great 

That no supporter but the huge firm earth 

Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; 

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. 
[Seats herself on the ground. 


Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch, 
Elinor, the Bastard, Austria, and Attendants. 

Ke. Phi. ’T is true, fair daughter; and this blessed 
Ever in France shall be kept festival: [day 
To solemnize this day the glorious sun 
Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, 
Turning with splendour of his precious eye 
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: 

The yearly course that brings this day about 
Shall never see it but a holiday. 

Const. A wicked day, and not a holy day! [Rising. 
What hath this day deserved ? what hath it done, 
That it in golden letters should be set 
Among the high tides in the calendar ? 

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, 
This day of shame, oppression, perjury, 

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child 
Pray that their burthens may not fall this day, 
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d: 
But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; 

No bargains break that are not this day made: 
This day, all things begun come to ill end, 
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! 

K. Phi. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause 
To curse the fair proceedings of this day: 

Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty ? 


22 


JOHN.’ 


Const. You have beguiled me with a counterfeit 


SCENE I. 


_ Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, 
Const. O,if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, | C 
You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood, 


Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn ; 


But now in arms you strengthen it with yours: 

The grappling vigour and rough frown of war 

Is cold in amity and painted peace, 

And our oppression hath made up this league. 

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured 
kings! 

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! 


| Let not the hours of this ungodly day 
_ Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, 


Set armed discord *twixt these perjured kings! 

Hear me, O, hear me! 
Aust. Lady Constance, peace! 
Const. War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war. 

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame 

That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou 

Thou little valiant, great in villany! [coward ! 

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! 

Thou fortune’s champion that dost never fight 

But when her humorous ladyship is by 

To teach thee safety! thou art perjured too, 

And soothest up greatness. What a fool art thou, 

A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear 

Upon my party | Thou cold-blooded slave, 

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, 

Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend 

Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength, 

And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? 

Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, 

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs. 
Aust. O, that a man should speak those words to 

me! {limbs. 
Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant 
Aust. Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life. 
Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant 
limbs. [self. 

kk. John. We like not this; thou dost forget thy- 


Enter Pandulph. 


Kk. Phi. Here comes the holy legate of the pope. 
Pand. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! 

To thee, King John, my holy errand is. 

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, 

And from Pope Innocent the legate here, 

Do in his name religiously demand 

Why thou against the church, our holy mother, 

So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce 

Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop 

Of Canterbury, from that holy see? 

This, in our foresaid holy father’s name, 

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. 
kk. John. What earthy name to interrogatories 

Can task the free breath of a sacred king ? 

Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name 

So slight, unworthy and ridiculous, 

To charge me to an answer, as the pope. 

Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England 

Add thus much more, that no Italian priest 

Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; 

But as we, under heaven, are supreme head, 

So under Him that great supremacy, 

Where we do reign, we will alone uphold, 

Without the assistance of a mortal hand: 

So tell the pope, all reverence set apart 

To him and his usurp’d authority. [this. 
Kk. Phi. Brother of England, you blaspheme in 
K. John. Though you and all the kings of Chris- 

tendom 

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, 

Dreading the curse that money may buy out; 

And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, 

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, 

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself, 

Though you and all the rest so grossly led 


KING 


This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish, 
Yet I alone, alone do me oppose 
Against the pope and count his friends my foes. 
Pand. Then, by the lawful power that I have, 
Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate: 
And blessed shall he be that doth revolt 
From his allegiance to an heretic; 
And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, 
Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint, 
That takes away by any secret course 
Thy hateful life. 
Const. O, lawful let it be 
That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! 
Good father cardinal, cry thou amen 
To my keen curses; for without my wrong 
There is no tongue hath power to curse him right. 
Pand. There’s law and warrant, lady, for my 
curse. [right, 
Const. And for mine too: when law can do no 
Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong: 
Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, 
For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; 
Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, 
How can the law forbid my tongue to curse ? 
Pand. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, 
Let go the hand of that arch-heretic; 
And raise the power of France upon his head, 
Unless he do submit himself to Rome. 
Eli. Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy 
hand. [pent, 
Const. Look to that, devil; lest that France re- 
And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul. 
Aust. King Philip, listen to the cardinal. 
Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant 
limbs. 
Aust. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, 
Because — 
Bast. Your breeches best may carry them. 
K. John. Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal ? 
Const. What should he say, but as the cardinal ? 
Lew. Bethink you, father; for the difference 
Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, 
Or the light loss of England for a friend: 
Forego the easier. 
Blanch. That ’s the curse of Rome. 
Const. O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee 
In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. [here 
Blanch. The Lady Constance speaks not from her 
But from her need. [faith, 
Const. O, if thou grant my need, 
Which only lives but by the death of faith, 
That need must needs infer this principle, 
That faith would live again by death of need. 
O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up; 
Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! [this. 
King J. The king is moved, and answers not to 
Const. O, be removed from him, and answer well! 
Aust. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. 
Bast. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet 
lout. [Say. 
K. Phi. I am perplex’d, and know not what to 
Pand. What canst thou say but will perplex thee 
If thou stand excommunicate and cursed? [more, 
KK. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person 


AGT I1l. 


yours, 

And tell me how you would bestow yourself. 
This royal hand and mine are newly knit, 

And the conjunction of our inward souls 
Married in league, coupled and link’d together 
With all religious strength of sacred vows; 
The latest breath that gave the sound of words 
Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love 
Between our kingdoms and our royal selves, 
And even before this truce, but new before, 
No longer than we well could wash our hands 
To clap this royal bargain up of peace, 
Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d 


J OLN. 


SCENE I. 


With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint 

The fearful difference of incensed kings: 

And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood, 

So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, 

Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet ? 

Play fast and loose with faith ? so jest with heaven, 

Make such unconstant children of ourselves, 

As now again to snatch our palm from paim, 

Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed 

Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, 

And make a riot on the gentle brow 

Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, 

My reverend father, let it not be so! 

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose 

Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest 

To do your pleasure and continue friends. 

Pand. All form is formless, order orderiess, 

Save what is opposite to England’s love. 

Therefore to arms! be champion of our church, 

Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse, 

A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. 

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, 

A chafed lion by the mortal paw, 

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, 

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold. 
ik. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith, 
Pand. So makest thou faith an enemy to faith ; 

And like a civil war set’st oath to oath, 

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow 

First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d, 

That is, to be the champion of our church! 

What since thou sworest is sworn against thyself 

And may not be performed by thyself, 

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss 

Is not amiss when it is truly done, 

And being not done, where doing tends to ill, 

The truth is then most done not doing it: 

The better act of purposes mistook 

Is to mistake again; though indirect, 

Yet indirection thereby grows direct, 

And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire 

Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d. 

It is religion that doth make vows kept; 

But thou hast sworn against religion, [swear’st, 

By what thou swear’st against the thing thou 

And makest an oath the surety for thy truth 

Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure 

To swear, swears only not to be forsworn ; 

Else what a mockery should it be to swear! 

But thou dost swear only to be forsworn ; 

And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear. 

Therefore thy later vows against thy first 

Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; 

And better conquest never canst thou make 

Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts 

Against these giddy loose suggestions: 

Upon which better part our prayers come in, 

If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know 

The peril of our curses light on thee 

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, 

But in despair die under their black weight. 

Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion ! 
Bast. Will’t not be? 

Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine ? 
Lew. Father, to arms! 


Blanch Upon thy wedding-day ? 


‘| Against the blood that thou hast married ? 


What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men ? 
Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, 
Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp ? 
O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new 
Is husband in my mouth! even for that name, 
Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce, 
Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms 
Against mine uncle. 

Const. O, upon my knee, 
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, 


283 


KING 


alter not the doom 


ACT III. 


Thou virtuous Dauphin 
Forethought by heaven { may 
Blanch. Now shall I see thy love: what motive | 
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? 
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee up- 
holds, 
His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour! 
Lew. I muse your majesty doth seem so cold, | 
When such profound respects do pull you on. 
Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head. 
kK. Phi. Thou shalt not need. England, I will | 
fall from thee. 
Const. O fair return of banish’d majesty! 
Eli. O foul reyolt of French inconstancy! 


K. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour within | 


this hour. [Time, | 
Bast. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton 
Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue. 
Blanch. The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, 
adieu! 
Which is the side that I must go withal ? 


Iam with both: each army hath a hand; 
And in their rage, I having hold of both, 
They whirl asunder and dismember me. 
Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; 
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; 
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; 
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive: 
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose; 
Assured loss before the match be play’d. 
Lew. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. 
Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there my 
life dies. 
K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. 
| Hxit Bastard. 
France, [am burn’d up with inflaming wrath; 
A rage whose heat hath this condition, 
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, 
The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France. 
KK. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou 
shalt turn 
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire: 
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. 
kK. John. No more than he that threats. 
let ’s hie! 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Alarums, excursions. Enter the Bastard, with Aus- 
tria’s head. 

_ Bast. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous 

Some airy devil hovers in the sky [hot ; 

And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie there, 

While Philip breathes. 


Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert. 


KK. John. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up; 
My mother is assailed in our tent, 

And ta’en, I fear. 

Bast. My lord, I rescued her; 
Her highness is in safety, fear you not: 
But on, my liege; for very little pains 
Will bring this labour to an happy end. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter King John, Eli- 
nor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, and Lords. 
KK. John. [To Elinor]So shall it be; your grace shall 
stay behind [sad : 
So strongly guarded. [To Arthur] Cousin, look not 
Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will 
As dear be to thee as thy father was. 
Arth. O, this will make my mother die with grief! 
K. John. | To the Bastard] Cousin, away for Eng- 
Jand! haste before: 
And, ere cur coming, see thou shake the bags 
284 


To arms 
[ Hxeunt. 


Plains near Angiers. 


[ Hxeunt. 


JOHN. 


Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels 

Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace 

Must by the hungry now be fed upon: 

Use our commission in his utmost force. [back, 
Bast. Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me 

When gold and silver becks me to come on. 

I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray, 

If ever I remember to be holy, 


SCENE III. 


_ For your fair safety; so, I kiss your hand. 


Eli. Farewell, gentle cousin. 
K. John. Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard. 
Eli. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. 
K. ie . Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hu- 
ert, 
We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh 
There is a soul counts thee her creditor 
And with advantage means to pay thy love: 
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, 
But I will fit it with some better time. 
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed 
To say what good respect I have of thee. 
Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty. 
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say 


so yet, 
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so slow, 
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 
I had a thing to say, but let it go: 
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, 
Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
Is all too wanton and too full of gawds 
To give me audience: if the midnight bell 
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, 
Sound on into the drowsy race of night; 
If this same were a churchyard where we stand, 
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs, 
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, 
Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick, 
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, 
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes 
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 
A passion hateful to my purposes, 
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 
Without eyes, ears and harmful sound of words; 
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, 
I would inte thy bosom pour my thoughts: 
But, ah, I will not! yet I love thee well; 
And, by my troth, I think thou lovest me well. 

Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake, 
Though that my death were adjunct to my act 
By heaven, I would do it. 

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? 
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend, 
He is a very serpent in my way; 

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread, 
He lies before me: dost thou understand me? 
Thou art his keeper. 

Hub. And I ll keep him so, 

That he shall not offend your majesty. 


K. John. Death. 
Hub. My lord? 

K. John. A grave. 

Hub. He shall not live. 

K. John. Enough. 


I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee; 
Well, Ill not say what I intend for thee: 
Remember. Madam, fare you well: 

1 ’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty. 

Eli. My blessing go with thee! 

Kk, John. For England, cousin, go; 
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you 
With all true duty. On towards Calais, ho! 

[ Hxeunt. 


ef 
Z 
Q 
qa 
e) 
en 
2 
| 
> 
8 
Oo 
Q 
io) 
2) 
1) 


eee 


blac’ 


4 O 
1 ee 
1 


ot 


‘a fl; 


<< 
MMe 
i 


L& 
yy % Z 
a cr raticzh 
SS 


YEE: GHEE: 


A 
1 

4 
iM Y 
f 


i, 
y 


: 


——— 


eee ee 


ie . I} 


aah 


L \ 
sx = = ss =z f > =~ 
) = — = = = 7 == Ae ae 
Se = 
II 


f 
Ag tier l 

RH aI) } . 
iM = ao com, 


iif) 


Y 


5) 


_ Of any kindred action like to this ? 


KING 


SCENE IV.—The same. The French King’s tent. 


Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and 
Attendants. 


K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood, 
A whole armado of convicted sail 
Is seatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship. 
Pand. Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. 
Kk. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so 
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost ? fill ? 
Arthur ta’en prisoner ? divers dear friends slain ? 
And bloody England into England gone, 
O’erbearing interruption, spite of France ? 
Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified : 
So hot a speed with such advice disposed, 
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, 
Doth want example: who hath read or heard 
[praise, 
K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had this 
So we could find some pattern of our shame. 


ACT III. 


Enter Constance. 


Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; 
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will, 
In the vile prison of afflicted breath. 
I prithee, lady, go away with me. 
Const. Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace. 
K. Phi. Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle 
Constance! 

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, 

But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 
Death, death; O amiable lovely death! 

Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! 
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, 
Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 

And I will kiss thy detestable bones 

And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows 

And ring these fingers with thy household worms 
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust 
And be a carrion monster like thyself: 

Come, grin on me, and [ will think thou smilest 
And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love, 

O, come to me! 

Kk. Phi: O fair affliction, peace! 

Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry: 
O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! 
Then with a passion would I shake the world ; 
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy 
Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice, 

Which scorns a modern invocation. 

Pand. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. 

Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so; 
tam not mad: this hair I tear is mine; 

My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife; 
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: 

I am not mad: I would to heaven I were! 
For then, ’t is like I should forget myself: 
O, if I could, what grief should I forget! 
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, 
And thou shalt be canonized, cardinal; 
For being not mad but sensible of grief, 
My reasonable part produces reason 

How I may be deliver’d of these woes 
And teaches me to kill or hang myself : 

If I were mad, I should forget my son, 
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he: 
Lam not mad; too well, too well I feel 
The different plague of each calamity. 

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note 
In the fair multitude of those her hairs! 

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen, 
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends 
Do glue themselves in sociable grief, 
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, 
Sticking together in calamity. 
Const. To England, if you will. 
8 ag Bind up your hairs. 


J OFN. 


Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it ? 
I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud 
‘O that these hands could so redeem my son, 
As they have given these hairs their liberty!’ 
But now I envy at their liberty, 
And will again commit them to their bonds, 
Because my poor child is a prisoner. 
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say: 
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven. 
If that be true, I shall see my boy again; 
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 
To him that did but yesterday suspire, 
There was not such a gracious creature born. 
But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud 
And chase the native beauty from his cheek 
And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 
As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit, 
And so he ’ll die; and, rising so again, 
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 
I shall not know him: therefore, never, never 
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. 
Const. He talks to me that never had a son. 
kk. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? 
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, 
I could give better comfort than you do. 
I will not keep this form upon my head, 
When there is such disorder in my wit. 


SCENE Ivy. 


| O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! 


My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! 

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure! [Hzitt. 
kk, Phi. I fear some outrage, and I ll some 

wits 
Lew. There’s nothing in this world can make me 

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale [joy : 

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; 

And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweetworld’s taste, 

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. 
Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease, - 

Even in the instant of repair and health, 

The fit is strongest; evils that take leave, 

On their departure most of all show evil: 

What have you lost by losing of this day? 

Lew. All days of glory, joy and happiness. 
Pand. If you had won it, certainly you had. 

No, no; when fortune means to men most good, 

She looks upon them with a threatening eye. 

°T is strange to think how much King John hath lost 

In this which he accounts so clearly won: 

Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner ? 
Lew. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. 
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. 

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit ; 

For even the breath of what I mean to speak 

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, 

Out of the path which shall directly lead 

Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark. 

John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be 

That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins, 

The misplaced John should entertain an hour, 

One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. 

A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand 

Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d ; 

And he that stands upon a slippery place 

Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up: 

That John may stand,then Arthur needs must fall; 

So be it, for it cannot be but so. [fall ? 
Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s 
Pand. You, inthe right of Lady Blanch your wife, 

May then make all the claim that Arthur did. 

Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. 


285 


ACT IV. 


KING JOHN. 


~ 


SCENE I, 


Pand. How green you are and fresh in this old | Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts 


world! 

John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; 
For he that steeps his safety in true blood 
Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. 
This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts 
Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, 
That none so small advantage shall step forth 
To check his reign, but they will cherish it; 
No natural exhalation in the sky, 
No scope of nature, no distemper’d day, 
No common wind, no customed event, 
But they will pluck away his natural cause 
And call them meteors, prodigies and signs, 
Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven, 
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John. 

Lew. May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life, 
But hold himself safe in his prisonment. 

Pand. O,sir, when he shall hear of your approach, 


Of all his people shall revolt from him 

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change 

And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath 

Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. 

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot: 

And, O, what better matter breeds for you 

Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge 

Is now in England, ransacking the church, 

Offending charity: if but a dozen French 

Were there in arms, they would be as a call 

To train ten thousand English to their side, 

Or as a little snow, tumbled about, 

Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, 

Go with me to the king: ’t is wonderful 

What may be wrought out of their discontent, 

Now that their souls are topful of offence. 

For England go: I will whet on the king. [go: 
Lew. Strong reasons make strong actions: let us 


If that young Arthur be not gone already, If you say ay, the king will not say no. { Event. 
GD TV: 
SCENE I.— A room in a castle. Arth. And will you? 
: Hub. And [I wiil. 
Enter Hubert and Executioners. Arth. Have you the heart? When your hea 
Hub. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand did but ache, 


Within the arras: when I strike my foot 

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 

And bind the boy which you shall find with me 

Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 
First Exec. 1 hope your warrant will bear out the 


eed. 
Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to ’t. 
[Hxeunt Hxecutioners. 
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. 


Enter Arthur. 


Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 
Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 
Arth. As little prince, having so great a title 
To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. 
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 
Arth. Mercy on me! 
Methinks no body should be sad but I: 
Yet, I remember, when I was in France, 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only tor wantonness. By my christendom, 
So Ll were out of prison and kept sheep, 
I should be as merry as the day is long; 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me: 
He is afraid of me and I of him: 
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son ? 
No, indeed, is *t not; and I would to heaven 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 
Hub. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent 
He will awake my mercy which lies dead: prate 
Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. [day: 
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to- 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick, 
That I might sit all night and wateh with you: 
I warrant I love you more than you do me. 
Hub. [Aside] His words do take possession of 
my bosom. 
Read here, young Arthur. . [Showing a paper. 
[Aside] How now, foolish rheum! 
Turning dispiteous torture out of door! 
I must be brief, lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. 
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ ? 
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : 
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 
Hub. Young boy, I must. 


286 


I knit my handkercher about your brows, 
The best I had, a princess wrought it me, 
And I did never ask it you again ; 

And with my hand at midnight held your head, 
And like the watchful minutes to the hour, 

Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time, [grief ?’ 
Saying,‘ What lack you?’ and ‘ Where lies your 
Or ‘ What good love may I perform for you ?’ 
Many a poor man’s son would have lien still 

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you; 

But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love 

And call it cunning: do, an if you will: 

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, 
Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? 
These eyes that never did nor never shall 

So much as frown on you. 

Hub. I have sworn to do it; 
And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! 
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears 
And quench his fiery indignation 
Even in the matter of mine innocence; 

Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 

But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron ? 

An if an angel should have come to me 

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 

I would not have believed him,—no tongue but 

Hubert’s. 

Hub. Come forth. 


Re-enter Executioners, with a cord, irons, &c. 


Do as I bid you do. [out 
Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
Arth. Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough? 

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! 

Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away, 

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 

Nor look upon the iron angerly : 

Thrust but these men away, and I ’ll forgive you, 

Whatever torment you do put me to. . 


[Stamops. 


ACT IV. 


KING JOHN. 


SCENE II. 


Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. 
First Exec. Iam best pleased to be from such a 
deed. [Exeunt Hxecutioners. 
Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! 
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart: 
Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 
Arth. Is there no remedy ? 
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 
Arth. O heaven, that there were but a mote in 
yours, 
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 
Any annoyance in that precious sense! 
Then feeling what small things are boisterous there, 
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. 
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: 
Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert; 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 
So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes, 
Though to no use but still to look on you! 
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold 
And would not harm me. 
Hub. I can heat it, boy. 
Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with 
Being create for comfort, to be used [grief, 
In undeserved extremes: see else yourself ; 
There is no malice in this burning coal ; 
The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out 
And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 
Arth. An if you do, you will but make it blush 
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: 

Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; 
And like a dog that is compell’d to fight, 
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 
All things that you should use to do me wrong 
Deny their office: only you do lack 
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, 
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. 
Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes: 
Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, 
With this same very iron to burn them out. 
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while 
You were disguised. 
Hub. Peace; no more. Adieu. 
Your uncle must not know but you are dead ; 
1’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports: 
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
Will not offend thee. 
Arth. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. 
Hub. Silence; no more: go closely in with me: 
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [| Hceunt. 


SCENE II.— King John’s palace. 


Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and 
other Lords. 


kK. John. Here once again we sit, once again 
crown’d, 
And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. 
Pem. This ‘ once again,’ but that your highness 
pleased, 
Was once superfluous: you were crown’d before, 
And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, 
The faiths of men ne’er stain’d with revolt; 
Fresh expectation troubled not the land 
With any long’d-for change or better state. 
Sal. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, 
To guard a title that was rich before, 
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
To throw a perfume on the violet, 
To smooth the ice, or add another hue 


Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, 
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. 

Pem. But that your royal pleasure must be done, 
This act is as an ancient tale new told, 

And in the last repeating troublesome, 
Being urged at a time unseasonable. 

Sal. In this the antique and well noted face 
Of plain old form is much disfigured ; 

And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, 

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, 
Startles and frights consideration, 

Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected, 
For putting on so new a fashion’d robe. 

Pem. When workmen strive to do better than well, 
They do confound their skill in covetousness ; 
And oftentimes excusing of a fault 
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, 

As patches set upon a little breach 
Discredit more in hiding of the fault 
Than did the fault before it was so patch’d. 

Sal. To this effect, before you were new crown’d, 
We breathed our counsel: but it pleased your high- 
To overbear it, and we are all well pleased, [ness 
Since all and every part of what we would 
Doth make a stand at what your highness will. 

K. John. Some reasons of this double coronation 
I have possess’d you with and think them strong ; 
And more, more strong, then lesser is my fear, 

I shall indue you with: meantime but ask 
What you would have reform’d that is not well, 
And well shall you perceive how willingly 

I will both hear and grant you your requests. 

Pem. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these 
To sound the purposes of all their hearts, 

Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, 
Your safety, for the which myself and them 
Bend their best studies, heartily request 

The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint 
Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent 
To break into this dangerous argument,— 

If what in rest you have in right you hold, 

Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend 
The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up 
Your tender kinsman and to choke his days 
With barbarous ignorance and deny his youth 
The rich advantage of good exercise ? 

That the time’s enemies may not have this 

To grace occasions, let it be our suit 

That you have bia us ask his liberty; 

Which for our goods we do no further ask 

Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, 
Counts it your weal he have his liberty. 


Enter Hubert. 


K. John. Let it be so: I do commit his youth 
To your direction. Hubert, what news with you? 
[Taking him apart. 
Pem. This isthe man should do the bloody deed ; 
He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine: 
The image of a wicked heinous fault 
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his 
Does show the mood of a much troubled breast ; 
And I do fearfully believe ’t is done, 
What we so fear’d he had a charge to do. 
Sal. The colour of the king doth come and go 
Between his purpose and his conscience, 
Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set : 
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break. 
Pem. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence 


| The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death. 


K. John. Wecannot hold mortality’s strong hand : 
Good lords, although my will to give is living, 
The suit which you demand is gone and dead: 

He tells us Arthur is deceased to-night. 
Sal. Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past cure. 
Pem. Indeed we heard how near his death he was 


287 


KING 


Before the child himself felt he was sick: 
This must be answer’d either here or hence. 

K. John. Why do you bend such solemn brows on 
Think you I bear the shears of destiny ? [me ? 
Have I commandment on the pulse of life ? 

Sal. It is apparent foul play; and ’tis shame 
That greatness should so grossly offer it: 

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. 

Pem. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; Ill go with thee, 

And find the inheritance of this poor child, 
His little kingdom of a forced grave. 
That blood which owed the breadth of all this isle, 
Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while! 
This must not be thus borne: this will break out 
Yo all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. 

[Hxeunt Lords. 

K. John. They burn in indignation. I repent: 
There is no sure foundation set on blood, 

No certain life achieved by others’ death. 


AO TARY 2 


Enter a Messenger. 


A fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood 
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks ? 
So foul a sky clears not without a storm: 
Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France? 
Mess. From France to England. Never such a 
For any foreign preparation [power 
Was levied in the body of a land. 
The copy of your speed is learn’d by them; 
For when you should be told they do prepare, 
The tidings comes that they are all arrived. 
Kk. John. O, where hath our intelligence been 
drunk ? 
Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care, 
That such an army could be drawn in France, 
And she not hear of it ? 
Mess. My liege, her ear 
Is stopp’d with dust; the first of April died 
Your noble mother: and, as I hear, my lord, 
The Lady Constance in a frenzy died 
Three days before: but this from rumour’s tongue 
I idly heard; if true or false I know not. 
K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion ! 
O, make a league with me, till I have pleased 
My discontented peers! What! mother dead! 
How wildly then walks my estate in France! 
Under whose conduct came those powers of France 
That thou for truth givest out are landed here? 
Mess. Under the Dauphin. 
K. John. Thou hast made me giddy 
With these ill tidings. 


Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret. 


Now, what says the world 

To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff 
My head with more ill news, for it is full. 

Bast. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, 
Then let the worst unheard fall on your head. 

K. John. Bear with me, cousin; for I was amazed 
Under the tide: but now I breathe again 
Aloft the flood, and can give audience 
To any tongue, speak it of what it will. 

Bast. How I have sped among the clergymen, 
The sums [ have collected shall express. 
But as I travell’d hither through the land, 
I find the people strangely fantasied ; 
Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, 
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear: 
And here’s a prophet, that I brought with me 
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found 
With many hundreds treading on his heels: 
To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, 
That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, 
Ma highness should deliver up your crown. 

thou so? 


JOHN. 


SCENE II. 


| K. John. Hubert, away with him; imprison him, 
| And on that day at noon, whereon he says 
I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. 
Deliver him to safety; and return, 
For I must use thee. [Hxit Hubert with Peter. 
O my gentle cousin, 
Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arrived ? 
Bast. The French, my lord; men’s mouths are 
full of it: 
Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, 
With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, 
And others more, going to seek the grave 
Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d to-night 
On your suggestion. 
K. John. Gentle kinsman, go, 
And thrust thyself into their companies: 
I have a way to win their loves again; 
Bring them before me. 
Bast. I will seek them out. 
kk. John. Nay, but make haste; the better foot 
O, let me have no subject enemies, {before. 
When adverse foreigners affright my towns 
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! 
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, 
And fly like thought from them to me again. 
Bast. The spirit of the time shall teach me Toes 
ei. 
K. John. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. 
Go after him; for he perhaps shall need 
Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; 
And be thou he. 
Mess. With all my heart, my liege. [ zit. 
K. John. My mother dead! 


Re-enter Hubert. 


Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen to- 
Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about [night; 
The other four in wondrous motion. 

Kk. John. Five moons! 

Hub. Old men and beldams in the streets 

Do prophesy upon it dangerously : 
Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths: 
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads 
And whisper one another in the ear; 
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, 
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action, 
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. 
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, 
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, 
With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; 
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, 
Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste 
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, 
Told of a many thousand warlike French 
That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent: 
Another lean unwash’d artificer 
Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death. 
K. John. Why seek’st thou to possess me with 
these fears ? 
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death ? 
Thy hand hath murder’d him; I had a mighty cause 
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. 
Hub. No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke 


me? 

K. John. It is the curse of kings to be attended 
By slaves that take their humours for a warrant 
To break within the bloody house of life, 

And on the winking of authority 

To understand a law, to know the meaning 

Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns 
More upon humour than advised respect. 

Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. 

K. John. O, when the last account ’twixt heaven 

and earth 


John. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst | Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal 
[so. | Witness against us to damnation! 


Peter. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out | How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 


288 


KING 


Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, 
A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, 
uoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame, 
his murder had not come into my mind: 
But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, 
Finding thee fit for bloody villany, 
Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger, 
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death; 
And thou, to be endeared to a king, 
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. 
Hub. My lord, — [a pause 
K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made 
When I spake darkly what I purposed, 
Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, 
As bid me tell my tale in express words, (off, 
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break 
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me: 
But thou didst understand me by my signs 
And didst in signs again parley with sin; 
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, 
And consequently thy rude hand to act 
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. 
Out of my sight, and never see me more! 
My nobles leave me; and my state is braved, 
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers: 
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, 
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, 
Hostility and civil tumult reigns 
Between my conscience and my cousin’s death. 
Aub. Arm you against your other enemies, 
Ill make a peace between your soul and you. 
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine 
¥s yet a maiden and an innocent hand, 
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. 
Within this bosom never enter’d yet 
The dreadful motion of a murderous thought ; 
And you have slander’d nature in my form, 
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, 
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind 
Than to be butcher of an innocent child. [peers, 
K. John. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the 
Throw this report on their incensed rage 
And make them tame to their obedience! 
Forgive the comment that my passion made 
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, 
And foul imaginary eyes of blood 
Presented thee more hideous than thou art. 
O, answer not, but to my closet bring 
The angry lords with all expedient haste. 
I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Before the castle. 


Enter Arthur, on the walls. 
Arth. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down: 
Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! 
There ’s few or none do know me: if they did, 


BOR EVs 


—_+ 


This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguised me quite. | 


I am afraid; and yet Ill venture it. 

If I get down, and do not break my limbs, 

J ll find a thousand shifts to get away: 

As good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down. 

O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones: 

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my fos 
Dies. 


Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot. 


Sal. Lords,I will meet him atSaint Edmundsbury: | 


It is our safety, and we must embrace 
This gentle offer of the perilous time. 


Pem. Who brought that letter from the cardinal ? 


Sal. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France; 
Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love 
Is much more general than these lines import. 
Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. 
Sal. Or rather then set forward; for ’t will be 
Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet. 


19 


JOHN. 


SCENE III. 


Enter the Bastard. 


sara sts more to-day well met, distemper’d 
ords! 
The king by me requests your presence straight. 

Sal. The king hath dispossess’d himself of us: 
We will not line his thin bestained cloak - 

With our pure honours, nor attend the foot | 
That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks. 
Return and tell him so: we know the worst. [best. 

Bast. Whate’er youthink,good words,I think, were 

Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. 

Bast. But there is little reason in your grief; 
Therefore ’t were reason you had manners now. 

Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. 

Bast. ’T is true, to hurt his master, no man else. 

Sal. This is the prison. What is he lies here ? 

[Seeing Arthur. 

Pem. O death, made proud with pure and princely 
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. [beauty! 

Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, 
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. 

Big. Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave, 
Found it too precious-princely for a grave. 

Sal. Sir Richard, what think you ? have you beheld, 
Or have you read or heard ? or could you think ? 
Or do you almost think, although you see, 

That you do see ? could thought, without this object, 
Form such another? This is the very top, 

The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, 

Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame, 
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, 

That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage 
Presented to the tears of soft remorse. 

Pem. All murders past do stand excused in this: 
And this, so sole and so unmatchable, 

Shall give a holiness, a purity, 
To the yet unbegotten sin of times; 
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, 
Exampled by this heinous spectacle. 

Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work; 

The graceless action of a heavy hand, 
If that it be the work of any hand. 

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand! 
We had a kind of light what would ensue: 
It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand; 
The practice and the purpose of the king: 
From whose obedience I forbid my soul, 
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, 
And breathing to his breathless excellence 
The incense of a vow, a holy vow, 

Never to taste the pleasures of the world, 
Never to be infected with delight, 

Nor conversant with ease and idleness, 
Till I have set a glory to this hand, 

By giving it the worship of revenge. 


Ba Our souls religiously confirm thy words. 


Enter Hubert. 


Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you: 
Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you. 

Sal. O, he is bold and blushes not at death. 
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! 


Hub. Iam no villain. 

Sal. Must I rob the law ? 
[Drawing his sword. 

Bast. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. 

Sal. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin. 

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I 


Say ; 
By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours: 
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, 
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence ; 
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget 
Your worth, your greatness and nobility. [man /? 
Big. Out, dunghill! darest thou brave a noble- 


289 


KING 


Hub. Not for my life: but yet I dare defend 
My innocent life against an emperor. 

Sal. Thou art a murderer. 

Hub. Do not prove me so; 
Yet Iam none: whose tongue soe’er speaks false, 
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. 

Pem. Cut him to pieces. 

Bast. Keep the peace, I say. 

Sal. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. 

Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury: 
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, 

Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, 

Ill strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime ; 
Or Ill so maul you and your toasting-iron, 
That you shall think the devil is come from hell. 

Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulcon- 
Second a villain and a murderer ? [bridge ? 

Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none. 

Big. Who kill’d this prince ? 

Hub. ’T is not an hour since I left him well: 

I honour’d him, I loved him, and will weep 
My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss. 

Sal. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, 

For villany is not without such rheum: 

And he, long traded in it, makes it seem 

Like rivers of remorse and innocency. 

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor 

The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; 

For I am stifled with this smell of sin. 
Big. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there! 
Pem. There tell the king he may inquire us out. 

[Hxeunt Lords. 

Bast. Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair 
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach [work ? 
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, 

Art thou damn’d, Hubert. 

Hub. Do but hear me, sir. 

Bast. Ha! Ill tell thee what ; 

That ’rt damn’d as black — nay, nothing is so black ; 
Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer: 


ACT V. 


JOHN. SCENE I. 


There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. 

Hub. Upon my soul— 

Bast. If thou didst but consent 
To this most cruel act, do but despair ; 
And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread 
That ever spider twisted from her womb 
Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam 
To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, 
Put but a little water in a spoon, 
And it shall be as all the ocean, 
Enough to stifle such a villain up. 
I do suspect thee very grievously. 

Hub. If Lin act, consent, or sin of thought, 
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath 
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, 
Let hell want pains enough to torture me. 
I left him well. 

Bast. Go, bear him in thine arms. 
IT am amazed, methinks, and lose my way 
Among the thorns and dangers of this world. 
How easy dost thou take all England up! 
From forth this morsel of dead royalty, 
The life, the right and truth of all this realm 
Is fled to heaven ! and England now is left 
To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth 
The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. 
Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty 
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest 
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace: 
Now powers from home and discontents at home 
Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, 
As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast, 
The imminent decay of wrested pomp. 
Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can 
Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child 
And follow me with speed: I ll to the king: 
A thousand businesses are brief in hand, 
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. 

[ Exeunt. 


MOD Vv. 


SCENE I. — King John’s palace. 


Enter King John, Pandulph, and Attendants. 


K. John. Thus have I yielded up into your hand 

The circle of my glory. [Giving the crown. 
Pand. Take again 

From this my hand, as holding of the pope 

Your sovereign greatness and authority. [French, 
KK. John. Now keep your holy word: go meet the 

And from his holiness use all your power 

To stop their marches ’fore we are inflamed. 

Our discontented counties do revolt ; 

Our people quarrel with obedience, 

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul 

To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. 

This inundation of mistemper’d humour 

Rests by you only to be qualified: 

Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick, 

That present medicine must be minister’d, 

Or overthrow incurable ensues. [up, 
Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest 

Upon your stubborn usage of the pope; 

But since you are a gentle convertite, 

My tongue shall hush again this storm of war 

And make fair weather in your blustering land. 

On this Ascension-day, remember well, 

Upon your oath of service to the pope, 

Go I to make the French lay down their arms. 


[ Exit: 
K. John. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the 
Say that before Ascension-day at noon [prophet 


290 


My crown I should give off? Even so I have: 
I did suppose it should be on constraint ; 
But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary. 


Enter the Bastard. 


Bast. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds 
But Dover castle: London hath received, [out 
Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers: 
Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone 
To offer service to your enemy, 

And wild amazement hurries up and down 
The little number of your doubtful friends. 

K. John. Would not my lords return to me again, 
After they heard young Arthur was alive ? 

Bast. They found him dead and cast into the 
An empty casket, where the jewel of life [streets, 
By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away. 

K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did live. 

Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. 
But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad ? 
Be great in act, as you have been in thought: 

Let not the world see fear and sad distrust 
Govern the motion of a kingly eye: 

Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; 
Threaten the threatener and outface the brow 
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, 
That borrow their behaviours from the great, 
Grow great by your example and put on 

The dauntless spirit of resolution. 

Away, and glister like the god of war, 

When he intendeth to become the field : 


ACT ¥. KING 


Show boldness and aspiring confidence. 
What, shall they seek the lion in his den, [there ? 
And fright him there? and make him tremble 
O, let it not be said: forage, and run 
To meet displeasure farther from the doors, 
And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh. [me, 
K. John. The legate of the pope hath been with 
And I have made a happy peace with him; 
And he hath promised to dismiss the powers 
‘ Led by the Dauphin. 
Bast. O inglorious league! 
Shall we, upon the footing of our land, 
Send fair-play orders and make compromise, 
Insinuation, parley and base truce 
To arms invasive ? shall a beardless boy, 
A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields, 
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, 
Mocking the air with colours idly spread, 
And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms: 
Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace; 
Or if he do, let it at least be said 
They saw we had a purpose of defence. 
K. be Have thou the ordering of this present 
ime. 
Bast. Away, then, with good courage! yet, I 
know, 
Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Hxewnt. 
SCENE II. — The Dauphin’s camp at St. 
Edmundsbury. 


Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pem- 
broke, Bigot, and Soldiers. 


Lew. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, 
And keep it safe for our remembrance: 

Return the precedent to these lords again; 
That, having our fair order written down, 
Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, 
May know wherefore we took the sacrament 
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. 

Sal. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. 
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear 
A voluntary zeal and an unurged faith 
To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince, 

I am not glad that such a sore of time 

Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, 

And heal the inveterate canker of one wound 

By making many. O, it grieves my soul, 

That I must draw this metal from my side 

To be a widow-maker! O, and there 

Where honourable rescue and defence 

Cries out upon the name of Salisbury ! 

But such is the infection of the time, 

That, for the health and physic of our right, 

We cannot deal but with the very hand 

Of stern injustice and confused wrong. 

And is ’t not pity, O my grieved friends, 

That we, the sons and children of this isle, 

Were born to see so sad an hour as this; 
Wherein we step after a stranger march 

Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up 

Her enemies’ ranks,—I must withdraw and weep 
Upon the spot of this enforced cause,— 

To grace the gentry of a land remote, 

And follow unacquainted colours here ? 

What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! 
That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, 
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself, 
And grapple thee unto a pagan shore; 

Where these two Christian armies might combine 
The blood of malice in a vein of league, 

And not to spend it so unneighbourly ! 

Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this; 
And great affections wrestling in thy bosom 
Doth make an earthquake of nobility. 

O, what a noble combat hast thou fought 
Between compulsion and a brave respect! 


JOHN. 


Let me wipe off this honourable dew, 

That silvery doth progress on thy cheeks: 

My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, 

Being an ordinary inundation ; 

But this effusion of such manly drops, 

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, 
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed 
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven ’ 
Figured quite o’er with burning meteors. 

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, 

And with a great heart heave away the storm: 
Commend these waters to those baby eyes 
That never saw the giant world enraged ; 

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, 
Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. 
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep 
Into the purse of rich prosperity 

As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all, 
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. 
And even there, methinks, an angel spake: 


Enter Pandulph. 


Look, where the holy legate comes apace, 

To give us warrant from the hand of heaven, 
And on our actions set the name of right 
With holy breath. 

Pand. Hail, noble prince of France! 
The next is this, King John hath reconciled 
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, 

That so stood out against the holy church, 

The great metropolis and see of Rome: 
Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up; 
And tame the savage spirit of wild war, 

That, like a lion foster’d up at hand, 

It may lie gently at the foot of peace, 

And be no further harmful than in show. 

Lew. Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back: 

I am too high-born to be propertied, 

To be a secondary at control, 

Or useful serving-man and instrument, 

To any sovereign state throughout the world. 
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars 
Between this chastised kingdom and myself, 

And brought in matter that should feed this fire; 
And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out 

With that same weak wind which enkindled it. 
You taught me how to know the face of right, 
Acquainted me with interest to this land, 

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; 

And come ye now to tell me John hath made 

His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? 
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, 

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; 
And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back 
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome ? 
Am I Rome’s slave ? What penny hath Rome borne, 
What men provided, what munition sent, 

To underprop this action? Is’t not I 

That undergo this charge? who else but [, 

And such as to my claim are liable, 

Sweat in this business and maintain this war? 
Have I not heard these islanders shout out 

‘Vive le roi!’ as I have bank’d their towns? 
Have I not here the best cards for the game, 

To win this easy match play’d for a crown ? 

And shall I now give o’er the yielded set ? 

No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. 

Pand. You look but on the outside of this work. 

Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return 
Till my attempt so much be glorified 
As to my ample hope was promised 
Before I drew this gallant head of war, 

And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, 
To outlook conquest and to win renown 
Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 
[Trumpet sounds. 
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us ? 


291 


SCENE II. 


ACT VY. KING 


Enter the Bastard, attended. 


Bast. According to the fair play of the world, 
Let me have audience; I am sent to speak : 

My holy lord of Milan, from the king 
I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; 
And, as you answer, I do know the scope 
And warrant limited unto my tongue. 

Pand. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, 
And will not temporize with my entreaties ; 
He flatly says he ’l] not lay down his arms. 

Bast. By all the blood that ever fury breathed, 
The youth says well. Now hear our English king; 
For thus his royalty doth speak in me. 

He is prepared, and reason too he should: 

This apish and unmannerly approach, 

This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, 

This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops, 

The king doth smile at; and is well prepared 

To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, 
From out the circle of his territories. [door, 
That hand which had the strength, even at your 
To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, 

To dive like buckets in concealed wells, 

To crouch in litter of your stable planks, 

To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks, 
To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out 

In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake 
Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, 
Thinking his voice an armed Englishman ; 

Shall that victorious hand be feebled here, 

That in your chambers gave you chastisement ? 
No: know the gallant monarch is in arms 

And like an eagle o’er his aery towers, 

To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. 

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, 

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb 

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; 
For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids 

Like Amazons come tripping after drums, 

Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, 
Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts 

To fierce and bloody inclination. [peace ; 

Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in 
We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well; 
We hold our time too precious to be spent 
With such a brabbler. 

Pand. Give me leave to speak. 

Bast. No, I will speak. 

ew. We will attend to neither. 
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war 
Plead for our interest and our being here. [out ; 

Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry 
And so shall you, being beaten: do but start 
An echo with the clamour of thy drum, 

And even at hand a drum is ready braced 

That shall reverberate all as loud as thine; 

Sound but another, and another shall 

As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear 

And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand, 
Not trusting to this halting legate here, 

Whom he hath used rather for sport than need, 

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits 

A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day 

To feast upon whole thousands of the French. 

Lew. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out. 

Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not 

doubt. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE III.—The field of battle. 


Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert. 
K. John. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, 
Hubert. 
Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty ? 
K. John. This fever, that hath troubled meso long, 
Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick! 


292 


JOHN. SCENE IV. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulcon- 
Desires your majesty to leave the field [bridge, 
And send him word by me which way you go. 

K. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the 

abbey there. 

Mess. Be of good comfort; for the great supply 
That was expected by the Dauphin here, 

Are wreck’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands. 
This news was brought to Richard but even now: 
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. 

K. John. Ay me! this tyrant fever burns me up, 
And will not let me welcome this good news. 

Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight ; 
Weakness possesseth me, and Iam faint. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot. 


Sal. I did not think the king so stored with friends. 
Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French: 
If they miscarry, we miscarry too. 
Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, 
In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. [field. 
Pom. They say King John sore sick hath left the 


Enter Melun, wounded. 


Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here. 
Sal. When we were happy we had other names. 
Pem. It is the Count Melun. 
Sal. Wounded to death. 
Mel. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; 
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion 
And welcome home again discarded faith. 
Seek out King John and fall before his feet ; 
For if the French be lords of this loud day, 
He means to recompense the pains you take 
By cutting off your heads: thus hath he sworn 
And I with him, and many moe with me, 
Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; 
Even on that altar where we swore to you 
Dear amity and everlasting love. 
Sal. May this be possible ? may this be true ? 
Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view, 
Retaining but a quantity of life, 
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax 
Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire ? 
What in the world should make me now deceive, 
Since I must lose the use of all deceit ? 
Why should I then be false, since it is true 
That I must die here and live hence by truth ?. 
I say again, if Lewis do win the day, 
He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours 
Behold another day break in the east: 
But even this night, whose black contagious breath 
Already smokes about the burning crest 
Of the old, feeble and day-wearied sun, 
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, 
Paying the fine of rated treachery 
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, 
If Lewis by your assistance win the day. 
Commend me to one Hubert with your king: 
The love of him, and this respect besides, 
For that my grandsire was an Englishman, 
Awakes my conscience to confess all this. 
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence 
From forth the noise and rumour of the field, 
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts 
In peace, and part this body and my soul 
With contemplation and devout desires. 
Sal. We do believe thee: and beshrew my soul 
But I do love the favour and the form 
Of this most fair occasion, by the which 
We will untread the steps of damned flight, 
And like a bated and retired flood, 
Leaving our rankness and irregular course, 


ACT V. KING 


JOHN. SCENE VII. 


Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d 

And calmly run on in obedience 

Even to our ocean, to our great King John. 

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; 

For I do see the cruel pangs of death 

Right in thine eye. Away,my friends! New flight: 

And happy newness, that intends old right. 
[Hxeunt, leading off Melun. 


SCENE V.—The French camp. 


Enter Lewis and his train. 
Lew. The sun of heaven methought was loath to 


set, 

But stay’d and made the western welkin blush, 
When English measure backward their own ground 
In faint retire. O, bravely came we off, 

When with a volley of our needless shot, 
After such bloody toil, we bid good night ; 
And wound our tattering colours clearly up, 
Last in the field, and almost lords of it! 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin ? 
Lew. Here: what news ? 
Mess. The Count Melun is slain ; the English lords 
By his persuasion are again fall’n off, 
And your supply, which you have wish’d so long, 
Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. 
Lew. Ah, foul shrewd news! beshrew thy very 
I did not think to be so sad to-night [heart ! 
As this hath made me. Who was he that said 
King John did fly an hour or two before 
The stumbling night did part our weary powers ? 
Mess. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. 
Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care to- 
The day shall not be up so soon as I, [night : 
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE VI.— An open place in the neighbourhood 
of Swinstead Abbey. 


Enter the Bastard and Hubert, severally. 
Hub. Who’s there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or 


Bast. A friend. What art thou ? [I shoot. 
Hub. Of the part of England. 
Bast. Whither dost thou go? mand 


Hub. What’s that to thee? why may not I de- 
Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? 
Bast. Hubert, I think ? 
Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought : 
I will upon all hazards well believe 
Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well. 
Who art thou? 
Bast. Who thou wilt: and if thou please, 
Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think 
I come one way of the Plantagenets. [night 
Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless 
Have done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me, 
That any accent breaking from thy tongue 
Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. 
Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news 
abroad ? 
Hub. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night, 
To find you out. 
Bast. Brief, then; and what ’s the news? 
Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, 
Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible. 
Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill news: 
I am no woman, I ’ll not swoon at it. 
Hub. The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk: 
I left him almost speechless; and broke out 
To acquaint you with this evil, that you might 
The better arm you to the sudden time, 
Than if you had at leisure known of this. 
Bast. How did he take it ? who did taste to him ? 
Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, 


Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king 
Yet speaks and peradventure may recover. 
Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty ? 
Hub. Why, know you not ? the lords are all come 
Cc 


3 

And brought Prince Henry in their company; 
At whose request the king hath pardon’d them, 
And they are all about his majesty. 

Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, 
And tempt us not to bear above our power! 
Ill tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, 
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide: 
These Lincoln Washes have devoured them ; 
Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped. 
Away before: conduct me to the king; 
I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII. — The orchard in Swinstead Abbey. 


Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. 


P. Hen. It is too late: the life of all his blood 
Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, 
Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house, 
Doth by the idle comments that it makes 
Foretell the ending of mortality. 


Enter Pembroke. 


Pem. His highness yet doth speak, and holds be- 
That, being brought into the open air, [lief 
It would allay the burning quality 
Of that fell poison which assaileth him. 

P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here. 
Doth he still rage ? [Heit Bigot. 

Pem. He is more patient 
Than when you left him; even now he sung. 

P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes 
In their continuance will not feel themselves. 
Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, 
Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now 
Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds 
With many legions of strange fantasies, 

Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, 

Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death 
should sing. 

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, 

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, 

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings 

His soul and body to their lasting rest. 

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born 
To set a form upon that indigest 
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. 


Enter Attendants, and Bigot, carrying King 
John in a chair. 


K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow- 
It would not out at windows nor at doors. [room,; 
There is so hot a summer in my bosom, 

That all my bowels crumble up to dust: 

IT ama scribbled form, drawn with a pen 
Upon a parchment, and against this fire 

Do I shrink up. 

P. Hen. How fares your majesty ? 

K. John. Poison’d,— ill fare — dead, forsook, cast 
And none of you will bid the winter come [off 
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, 

Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course 
Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north 
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips 
And comfort me with cold. Ido notask you much, 
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait 

And so ingrateful, you deny me that. ; 

P. Hen. O that there were some virtue In my 
That might relieve you! _[tears, 
KK. John. The salt in them is hot. 
Within me is a hell; and there the poison 

Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize 
On unreprievable condemned blood. 


293 


ACT V. 


Enter the Bastard. 


Bast. OQ, I am scalded with my violent motion, 
And spleen of speed to see your majesty ! 
kK. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: 
The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, 
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail 
Are turned to one thread, one little hair: 
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 
Which holds but till thy news be uttered ; 
And then all this thou seest is but a clod 
And module ef confounded royalty. ; 
Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, 
Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him ; 
For in a night the best part of my power, 
As I upon advantage did remove, 
Were in the Washes all unwarily 
Devoured by the unexpected flood. [Zhe king dies. 
Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an 


ear. 
My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus. 
P. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. 
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, 
When this was now a king, and now is clay ? 
Bast. Art thou gone so? Ido but stay behind 
To do the office for thee of revenge, 
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, 
As it on earth hath been thy servant still. 
Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, 
Where be your powers? show now your mended 
And instantly return with me again, [faiths, 
To push destruction and perpetual shame 
Out of the weak door of our fainting land. 
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; 
The Dauphin rages at our very heels. 
Sal. It seems you know not, then, so much as we: 
The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, 


Hi | 


\ 


= 


y 
Me 


be 


pe, a | 


KING JOHN. 


\\ 
\ iI 
5 ee 


SCENE VII. 


Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, 
And brings from him such offers of our peace 
As we with honour and respect may take, 

With purpose presently to leave this war. 

Bast. He will the rather do it when he sees 
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. 

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already ; 

For many carriages he hath dispatch’d 

To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel 
To the disposing of the cardinal: 

With whom yourself, myself and other lords, 
If you think meet, this afternoon will post 
To consummate this business happily. 

Bast. Let it be so: and you, my noble prince, 
With other princes that may best be spared, 

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. 

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr’d; 
For so he will’d it. 

Bast. Thither shall it then: 

And happily may your sweet self put on 
The lineal state and glory of the land! 

To whom, with all submission, on my knee 
I do bequeath my faithful services 

And true subjection everlastingly. 

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, 
To rest without a spot for evermore. [thanks 

P. Hen. I have a kind soul that would give you 
And knows not how to do it but with tears. 

Bast. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, 
Since it hath been beforehand with our griets. 
This England never did, nor never shall, 

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 

But when it first did help to wound itself. 

Now these her princes are come home again, 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, [rue, 
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us 
If England to itself do rest but true. [Hxeunt. 


ii! Hh i 
: {a ee 


Bl 


Pandulph.—Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow. 
Constance.—Thou art not holy to belie me so; : 

Iam not mad: this hair I tear is mine; 

My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife; 

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost: 

Iam not mad:—I would to Heaven, I were.—ActT III., Scene iv. 


THE TRAGEDY OF 


KING RICHARD IL 


DRAMATIS PERSON 2. 


King Richard the Second. 

John of Gaunt, Duke of 
Lancaster, 

Edmund of Langley, Duke 
of York, 

Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, Duke of Here- 
ford, son to John of Gaunt; afterwards King 

' Henry IV. 

Duke of Aumerle, son to the Duke of York. 

Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk. 

Duke of Surrey. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Lord Berkeley. 

Bushy, 

Bagot, 

Green, 

Earl of Northumberland. 

Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. 


uncles to the King. 


bev to King Richard. 


Lord Ross. 

Lord Willoughby. 

Lord Fitzwater. 

Bishop of Carlisle. 

Abbot of Westminster. 

Lord Marshal. 

Sir Stephen Scroop. 

Sir Pierce of Exton. 
Captain of a band of Welshmen., 
Queen to King Richard. 
Duchess of York. 
Duchess of Gloucester. 
Lady attending on the Queen. 


Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, two Gardeners, Keeper, 
Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants. 


SCENE — England and Wales. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lu. ] 


74 G40 Died Wi 


SCENE I.— London. King Richard’s palace. 


Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other 
Nobles and Attendants. 


K. Rich. Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lan- 
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, [caster, 
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son, 
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal, 
Which then our leisure would not let us hear, 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? 

Gaunt. I have, my liege. [him, 

kK. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded 
If he appeal the duke on ancient malice; 

Or worthily, as a good subject should, 
Onsome known ground of treacheryin him? [ment, 

Gaunt. As near as I could sift him on that argu- 
On some apparent danger seen in him 
Aim/’d at your highness, no inveterate malice. [face, 

K. Rich. Then call them to our presence; face to 
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear 
The accuser and the accused freely speak : 
High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire, 

In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. 


Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray. 


Boling. Many years of happy days befal 
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! 
Mow. Each day still better other’s happiness; 
Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap, 
Add an immortal title to your crown! [us, 
Kk. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters 
As well appeareth by the cause you come; 
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. 
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object 
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ? 
Boling. First, heaven be the record to my speech! 
In the devotion of a subject’s love, 
Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 
And free from other misbegotten hate, 


Come I appellant to this princely presence. 

Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, 

And mark my greeting well; for what I speak 

My body shall make good upon this earth, 

Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. 

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, 

Too good to be so and too bad to live, 

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, 

The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. 

Once more, the more to aggravate the note, 

With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat; 

And wish,so please my sovereign,ere I move, [prove. 

What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may 
Mow. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal: 

°T is not the trial of a woman’s war, 

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, 

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; 

The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this: 

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast 

As to be hush’d and nought at all to say: 

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me 

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ; 

Which else would post until it had return’d 

These terms of treason doubled down his throat. 

Setting aside his high blood’s royalty, 

And let him be no kinsman to my liege, 

I do defy him, and I spit at him; 

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain: 

Which to maintain I would allow him odds, 

And meet him, were I[ tied to run afoot 

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 

Or any other ground inhabitable, 

Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. 

Mean time let this defend my loyalty, 

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. [gage, 
Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my 

Disclaiming here the kindred of the king, 

And lay aside my high blood’s royalty, 

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. 


295 


AGTAT: 


If guilty dread have left thee so much strength 
As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop: 
By that and all the rites of knighthood else, 
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, 

What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise. 
Mow. I take it up; and by that sword I swear, 
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, 

I’]l answer thee in any fair degree, 

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial: 

And when I mount, alive may I not light, 

If I be traitor or unjustly fight! [charge ? 

K. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s 
It must be great that can inherit us 
So much as of a thought of ill in him. {it true; 

Boling. Look, what I speak, my life shall prove 
That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles 
In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers, 
The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments, 
Like a false traitor and injurious villain. 

Besides I say and will in battle prove, 

Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge 

That ever was survey’d by English eye, 

That all the treasons for these eighteen years 
Complotted and contrived in this land [spring. 
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and 
Further I say and further will maintain 

Upon his bad life to make all this good, 

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death, 
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, 
And consequently, like a traitor coward, _[blood: 
Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of 
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries, 

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, 

To me for justice and rough chastisement; 

And, by the glorious worth of my descent, 

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. 

K. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars! 
Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this ? 

Mow. O, let my sovereign turn away his face 
And bid his ears a little while be deaf, 

Till I have told this slander of his blood, 

How God and good men hate so foul a liar. [ears: 
kk. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and 

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir, 

As he is but my father’s brother’s son, 

Now, by my sceptre’s awe, I make a vow, 

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood 

Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize 

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul: 

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou: 

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. 

Mow. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. 
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais 
Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers ; 

The other part reserved I by consent, 

For that my sovereign liege was in my debt 
Upon remainder of a dear account, 

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen: 
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death, 
I slew him not; but to my own disgrace 
Neglected my sworn duty in that case. 

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, 

The honourable father to my foe, 

Once did I lay an ambush for your life, 

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; 

But ere I last received the sacrament 

I did confess it, and exactly begg’d 

Your grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it. 

This is my fault: as for the rest appeal’d, 

It issues from the rancour of a villain, 

A recreant and most degenerate traitor: 
Which in myself I boldly will defend; 

And interchangeably hurl down my gage 
Upon this overweening traitor’s foot, 

To prove myself a loyal gentleman 

Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom. 


296 


KING | RICHARD ALT. 


SCENE II. 


In haste whereof, most heartily I pray 

Your highness to assign our trial day. [me ; 
K. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by 

Let ’s purge this choler without letting blood: 

This we prescribe, though no physician ; 

Deep malice makes too deep incision ; 

Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed ; 

Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. 

Good uncle, let this end where it begun; 

We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. 
Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age: 

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage. 
K. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his. 

Gaunt. When, Harry, when ? 
Obedience bids I should not bid again. _ [no boot. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is 

Mow. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot. 
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: 
The one my duty owes; but my fair name, 
Despite of death that lives upon my grave, 

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have. 

I am disgraced, impeach’d and baffled here, 

Pierced to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear, 

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood 

Which breathed this poison. 

K. Rich. Rage must be withstood: 
Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame. 

Mow. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my 
And resign my gage. My dear,dearlord, [shame, 
The purest treasure mortal times afford 
Is spotless reputation: that away, 

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. 

A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest 

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. 

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; 

Take honour from me, and my life is done: 

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; 

In that I live and for that will I die. [begin. 
kK. Rich. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you 
Boling. O, God defend my soul from such deep 

Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight ? [sin! 

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height 

Before this out-dared dastard? Ere my tongue 

Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong, 

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear 

The slavish motive of recanting fear, 

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, 

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s 

face. [Exit Gaunt. 

K. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to com- 

mand ; 

Which since we cannot do to make you friends, 

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, 

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert’s day: 

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate 

The swelling difference of your settled hate: 

Since we can not atone you, we shall see 

Justice design the victor’s chivalry. 

Lord marshal, command our officers at arms 

Be ready to direct these home alarms. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — The Duke of Lancaster’s palace. 


Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of 
Gloucester. 


Gaunt. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood 
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims, ‘ 
To stir against the butchers of his life! 
But since correction lieth in those hands 
Which made the fault that we cannot correct, 
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven ; 
Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, 
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads. 
Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur ? 


| Hath love in thy old blood no living fire ? 


Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one, 
Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, 


ACT I. 


Or seven fair branches springing from one root: 
Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course, 
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; 
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, 
One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, 
One flourishing branch of his most royal root, 
Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt, 
Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all faded, 
By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. [womb, 
Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! that bed, that 
That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee 
Made him a man; and though thou livest and 
breathest, 
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent 
In some large measure to thy father’s death, 
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, 
Who was the model of thy father’s life. 
Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair: 
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d, 
Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, 
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: 
That which in mean men we intitle patience 
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. 
What shall I say ? to safeguard thine own life, 
The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death. 
Gaunt. God’s is the quarrel ; for God’s substitute, 
His deputy anointed in His sight, 
-Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully, 
Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift 
An angry arm against His minister. 
Duch. Where then, alas, may I complain myself ? 
bees To God, the widow’s champion and de- 
ence. 
Duch. Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. 
Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold 
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight: 
O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear, 
That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast ! 
Or, if misfortune miss the first career, 
Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom, 
That they may break his foaming courser’s back, 
And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! 
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife 
With her companion grief must end her life. 
Gaunt. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry: 
As much good stay with thee as go with me! 
Duch. te one word more: grief boundeth where 
it falls, 
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight: 
I take my leave before I have begun, 
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. 
Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. 
Lo, this is all: —nay, yet depart not so; 
Though this be all, do not so quickly go; 
I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what ? — 
With all good speed at Plashy visit me. 
Alack, and what shall good old York there see 
But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, 
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones ? 
And what hear there for weleome but my groans ? 
Therefore commend me; let him not come there, 
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. 
Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die: 
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. 
EHxeunt. 


SCENE III.— The lists at Coventry. 


Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Au- 
merle. 


Mar. My Lord Aumerle,is Harry Hereford arm’d? 
Aum. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. 
Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, 
Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet. 
Aum. Why,then,the champions are prepared, and 
For nothing but his majesty’s approach. 


KING RICHARD I1. 


[stay 


SCENE III. 


The trumpets sound, and the King enters with his nobles, 
Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others. When they 
are set, enter Mowbray in arms, defendant, with a 
Herald. 


Kk. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion 

The cause of his arrival here in arms: 
Ask him his name and orderly proceed 
To swear him in the justice of his cause. ’ [art 

Mar. In God’s name and the king’s, say who thou 
And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, 
Against what man thou comest, and what thy quar- 
Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath; [{rel: 
As so defend thee heaven and thy valour! 

Mow. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of N or- 
Who hither come engaged by my oath — [folk ; 
Which God defend a knight should violate! — 
Both to defend my loyalty and truth 
To God, my king and my succeeding issue, 
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me; 
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, 

To prove him, in defending of myself, 
A traitor to my God, my king, and me: 
And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! 


The trumpets sound. Enter Bolingbroke, «ap- 
pellant, in armour, with a Herald. 


AK. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, 

Both who he is and why he cometh hither 

Thus plated in habiliments of war, 

And formally, according to our law, 

Depose him in the justice of his cause. 
Mar. What is thy name? and wherefore comest 

thou hither, 

Before King Richard in his royal lists ? [rel ? 

Against whom comest thou ? and what’s thy quar- 

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven! 
Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby 

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, 

To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valour, 

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, 

That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous, 

To God of heaven, King Richard and to me ; 

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven ! 
Mar. On pain of death, no person be so bold 

Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, 

Except the marshal and such officers 

Appointed to direct these fair designs. [hand, 
Boling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s 

And bow my knee before his majesty : 

For Mowbray and myself are like two men 

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; 

Then let us take a ceremonious leave 

And loving farewell of our several friends. __[ness, 
Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your high- 

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. 
K. Rich. We will descend and fold him in our arms. 

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, 

So be thy fortune in this royal fight ! 

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, 

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. 
Boling. O, let no noble eye profane a tear 

For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear: 

As confident as is the falcon’s flight 

Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. 

My loving lord, I take my leave of you; 

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle ; 

Not sick, although I have to do with death, 

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. 

Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet 

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: 

O thou, the earthly author of my blood, 

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 

Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up 

To reach at victory above my head, 

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers; 

And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, 

That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat, 


297 


ACT 1: 


And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, 
Even in the lusty haviour of his son. [perous! 

Gaunt. God in thy good cause make thee pros- 
Be swift like lightning in the execution ; 

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, 

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque 

Of thy adverse pernicious enemy : 

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. 

Boling. Mine innocency and Saint George to 

thrive! 

Mow. However God or fortune cast my lot, 
There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne, 
A loyal, just and upright gentleman: 

Never did captive with a freer heart 

Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace 
His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement, 
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate 
This feast of battle with mine adversary. — 
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, 
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years: 
As gentle and as jocund as to jest 

Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast. 

K, Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy 
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. 

Order the trial, marshal, and begin. 

Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, 
Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! 

Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen. 

Mar. Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of 

Norfolk. 
First Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and 
Derby, 
Stands here for God, his sovereign and himself, 
On pain to be found false and recreant, 
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, 
A traitor to his God, his king and him; 
And dares him to set forward to the fight. 
Sec. Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke 
of Norfolk, 
On pain to be found false and recreant, 
Both to defend himself and to approve 
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby, 
To God, his sovereign and to him disloyal; 
Courageously and with a free desire 
Attending but the signal to begin. 
Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set forward, com- 
batants. A charge sounded. 
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. 
K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their 
spears 
And both return back to their chairs again: 
Withdraw with us: and let the trumpets sound 
While we return these dukes what we decree. 
, [A long flourish. 
Draw near, 
And list what with our council we have done. 
For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d 
With that dear blood which it hath fostered ; 
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect 
Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ sword ; 
And for we think the eagle-winged pride 
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, 
With rival-hating envy, set on you 
To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle 
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ; 
Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, 
With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, 
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace 
And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood ; 
Therefore, we banish you our territories: 
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, 
Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields 
Shall not regreet our fair dominions, 
But tread the stranger paths of banishment. _ [be, 

Boling. Your will be done: this must my comfort 

That sun that warms you here shall shine on me; 


298 


KING RICHARD I1. 


| 


SCENE III- 


And those his golden beams to you here lent 
Shall point on me and gild my banishment. 
Kk. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom 
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: 
The sly slow hours shall not determinate 
The dateless limit of thy dear exile; 
The hopeless word of ‘ never to return’ 
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. 
Mow. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, 


| And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth: 


A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 

As to be cast forth in the common air, 

Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. 

The language I have learned these forty years, 

My native English, now I must forego: 

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more 

Than an unstringed viol or a harp, 

Or like a cunning instrument cased up, 

Or, being open, put into his hands 

That knows no touch to tune the harmony: 

Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, 

Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips; 

And dull unfeeling barren ignorance 

Is made my gaoler to attend on me. 

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, 

Too far in years to be a pupil now: 

What is thy sentence then but speechless death, 

Which robs my tongue from breathing native 
breath ? 

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate: 
After our sentence plaining comes too late. [light, 

Mow. Then thus I turn me from my country’s 
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. 

A. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee. 
Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands; 
Swear by the duty that you owe to God— 

Our part therein we banish with yourselyes— 
To keep the oath that we administer: 

You never shall, so help you truth and God! 
Embrace each other’s love in banishment ; 
Nor never look upon each other’s face; 

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile 

This louring tempest of your home-bred hate ; 
Nor never by advised purpose meet 

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 

*Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. 

Boling. I swear. 

Mow. And I, to keep all this. 

Boling. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy :— 

By this time, had the king permitted us, 
One of our souls had wander’d in the air, 
Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, 
As now our flesh is banish’d from this land: 
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; 
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along 
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. 

Mow. No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor, 

My name be blotted from the book of life, 

And I from heaven banish’d as from hence! 

But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; 

And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. 

Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray; 

Save back to England, all the world’s my ware 
ait. 

K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes 
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect 
Hath from the number of his banish’d years : 
Pluck’d four away. [Zo Boling.] Six frozen win: 

ters spent, 
Return with welcome home from banishment. 

Boling. How long a time lies in one little word! 
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs 
End in a word: such is the breath of kings. 

Gaunt. I thank my liege, that in regard of me 


He shortens four years of my son’s exile: 


But little vantage shall I reap thereby ; 
For, ere the six years that he hath to spend 


ACT I. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE IV. 


Can change their moons and bring their times about, 

My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light 

Shall be extinct with age and endless night; 

My inch of taper will be burnt and done, 

And blindfold death not let me see my son. __[live. 
K. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to 
Gaunt. But not a minute, king, that thou canst 


ive: 

Byori my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, 

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; 

Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, 

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ; 

Thy word is current with him for my death, 

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. 
Kk. Rich. Thy son is banish’d upon good advice, 

W hereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave: 

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour ? 
Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion 

You urged meas a judge; but Ihadrather [sour. 

You would have bid me argue like a father. 

O, had it been a stranger, not my child, 

To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: 

A partial slander sought I to avoid, 

And in the sentence my own life destroy’d. 

Alas, I look’d when some of you should say, 

I was too strict to make mine own away; 

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue 

Against my will to do myself this wrong. 

A. Rich. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him 

Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [so: 

[Flourish. Hxeunt King Richard and train. 
Aum. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not 
know, 

From where you do remain let paper show. 
Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride, 

As far as land will let me, by your side. [words, 
Gaunt. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy 

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends ? 
Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, 

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal 

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. 
Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. 
Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. 


Geur. What is six winters? they are quickly | 


gone. : [ten. 
Boling. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour 
Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou takest for pleas- 
ure. 
Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, 
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. 
Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home return. 
Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make 
Will but remember me what a deal of world 
I wander from the jewels that I love. 
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood 
To foreign passages, and in the end, 
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else 
But that I was a journeyman to grief ? 
Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits 
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. 
Teach thy necessity to reason thus; 
There is no virtue like necessity. 
Think not the king did banish thee, 
But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit, 
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour 
And not the king exiled thee; or suppose 
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air 
And thou art flying to a fresher clime: 
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 
To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou comest : 
Suppose the singing birds musicians, [strewed, 
The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence 
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more 
Than a delightful measure or a dance ; 


For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 

The man that mocks at it and sets it ligiit. 
Boling. O, who can hold a fire in his hand 

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? 

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 

By bare imagination of a feast ? 

Or wallow naked in December snow 

By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat ? 

O, no! the apprehension of the good 

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse: 

Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more 

Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. 
Gaunt. Come, come, my son, Ill bring thee on 


thy way: 
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. 
Boling. Then England’s ground, farewell; sweet 
soil, adieu; 
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! 
Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, 
Though banish’d, yet a trueborn Englishman. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.— The court. 


Enter the King, with Bagot and Green at one door; 
and the Duke of Aumerle at another. 


K. Rich. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, 
How far brought you high Hereford on his way ? 

Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, 
But to the next highway, and there I left him. 

k. Rich. And say, what store of parting tears 

were shed ? [wind, 

Aum. Faith, none for me; except the northeast 
Which then blew bitterly against our faces, 
Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance 
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. 

K. Rich. What said our cousin when you parted 

with him ? 

Aum. ‘ Farewell; ’ 

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue 
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft 
To counterfeit oppression of such grief 

That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s grave. 
Marry, would the word ‘farewell’ have lengthen’d 
And added years to his short banishment, [hours 
He should have had a volume of farewells; 

But since it would not, he had none of me. 

Kk. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin; but ’t is doubt, 
When time shall call him home from banishment, 
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. 
Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green 
Observed his courtship to the common people; 
How he did seem to dive into their hearts 
With humble and familiar courtesy, 

What reverence he did throw away on slaves, 
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles 
And patient underbearing of his fortune, 
As ’t were to banish their affects with him. 
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ; 
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well 
And had the tribute of his supple knee, 
With‘ Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends; ’ 
As were our England in reversion his, 
And he our subjects’ next degree in hope. 
Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these 
thoughts. 
Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, 
Expedient manage must be made, my liege, 
Ere further leisure yield them further means 
For their advantage and your highness’ loss. 

K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war: 
And, for our coffers, with too great a court 
And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, © 
We are inforced to farm our royal realm ; 

The revenue whereof shall furnish us 

For our affairs in hand: if that come short, 

Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters ; 
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich 


299 


ACTII. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE I. 


They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold 

And send them after to supply our wants; 

For we will make for Ireland presently. 
Enter Bushy. 

Bushy, what news ? 


K. Rich. Where lies he? 

Bushy. At Ely House. 

Kk. Rich. Now put it, God, in the physician’s mind 
To help him to his grave immediately ! 
The lining of his coffers shall make coats 


flord, | To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. 


Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my | Come, gentlemen, let ’s all go visit him: 


Suddenly taken; and hath sent post haste 
To entreat your majesty to visit him. 


Pray God we may make haste, and come too late! 
All, Amen. mt. 


Pe OG Bei bat: 


SCENE I.— Hly House. 


Enter John of Gaunt sick, with the Duke of 
York, &c. 


Gaunt. Will the king come, that I may breathe my 
In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth? [last 
York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your 
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. [breath; 
Gaunt. O, but they say the tongues of dying men 
Enforce attention like deep harmony: vain, 
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in 
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in 
pain. 
He that no more must say is listen’d more 
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to 
lose; 
More Ns men’s ends mark’d than their lives before: 
The setting sun, and music at the close, 
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, 
Writ in remembrance more than things long past: 
Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear, 
My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. 

York. No; it isstopp’d with other flattering sounds, 
As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, 
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound 
The open ear of youth doth always listen; 

Report of fashions in proud Italy, 

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation 
Limps after in base imitation. 

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity — 
So it be new, there ’s no respect how vile— 
That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears ? 
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, 
Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. 

Direct not him whose way himself will choose: [lose. 
’T is breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou 
Gaunt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired 

And thus expiring do foretell of him: 

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, 

For violent fires soon burn out themselves; 

Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; 
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; 

With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: 
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, 

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. 

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 

This other Eden, demi-paradise, 

This fortress built by Nature for herself 

Against infection and the hand of war, 

This happy breed of men, this little world, 

This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall 

Or as a moat defensive to a house, 

Against the envy of less happier lands, land, 
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Eng- 
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, 
Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 

For Christian service and true chivalry, 

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry 

Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son, 


300 


This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, 


| Dear for her reputation through the world, 


Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, 

Like to a tenement or pelting farm: 

England, bound in with the triumphant sea, 
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, 
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: 
That England, that was wont to conquer others, 
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. 

Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, 

How happy then were my ensuing death! 


Enter King Richard and Queen, Aumerle, Bushy, 
Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby. 


York. Theking is come: deal mildly with his youth; 

For young hot colts being raged do rage the more. 

ueen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster ? 
¢. ich. What comfort, man? how is’t with aged 
Gaunt ? 
Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition | 

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old: 

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; 

And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt ? 

For sleeping England long time have I watch’d ; 

Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt: 

The pleasure that some fathers feed upon, 

Is my strict fast; I mean, my children’s looks ; 

And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt : 

Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, 

Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. 
K. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their 

names ? 
Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: 

Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, 

I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. [live ? 
kK. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that 
Gaunt. No, no, men living flatter those that die. 
ik. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say’st thou flatterest 


me. 
Gaunt. O,no! thou diest, though I the sicker be. 
Ik, Rich. Lam in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. 
Gaunt. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill; 

Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. 

Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land 

Wherein thou liest in reputation sick ; 

And thou, too careless patient as thou art, 

Commit’st thy anointed body to the cure 

Of those physicians that first wounded thee: 

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, 

Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; 

And yet, incaged in so small a verge, 

The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. 

O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eye 

Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons, 

From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame 

Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d, 

Which art possess’d now to depose thyself. 

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, 


‘It were a shame to let this land by lease; 


But for thy world enjoying but this land, 
Is it not more than shame to shame it so ? 


AGT ® ri. 


Landlord of England art thou now, not king: 

Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; 

And thou — 
KK. Rich. A lunatic lean-witted fool, 

Presuming on an ague’s privilege, 

Darest with thy frozen admonition 

Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood 

With fury from his native residence. 

Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty, 

Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son, 

This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head 

Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. 
Gaunt. O, spare me not, my brother Edward’s son, 

For that I was his father Edward’s son; 

That blood already, like the pelican, 

Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly caroused ; 

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, 

Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls! 

May be a precedent and witness good 

That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood: 

Join with the present sickness that I have; 

And thy unkindness be like crooked age, 

To crop at once a too long wither’d flower. 

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee: 

These words hereafter thy tormentors be! 

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave: 

Love they to live that love and honour have. 

[Hxit, borne off by his Attendants. 

kK. Rich. And let them die that age and sullens 


have; 
For both hast thou, and both become the grave. 
“ork. Ido beseech your majesty, impute his words 

To wayward sickliness and age in him: 
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear 
As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here. 

K. Rich. Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, 
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. [so his ; 


Enter Northumberland. 


North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your 
kK. Rich. What says he ? [majesty. 
North. Nay, nothing; all is said: 

His tongue is now a stringless instrument; 

Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent. [so! 
York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt 

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. [he; 
AK. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth 

His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. 

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars: 

We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, 

Which live like venom where no venom else 

But only they have privilege to live. 

And for these great affairs do ask some charge, 

Towards our assistance we do seize to us 

The plate, coin, revenues and moveables, 

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d. 
York. How long shall I be patient ? ah, how long 

Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong ? 

Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment, 

Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs, 

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 

About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, 

Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, 

Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. 

I am the last of noble Edward’s sons, 

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first : 

In war was never lion raged more fierce, ' 

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, 

Than was that young and princely gentleman. 

His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, 

Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours; 

But when he frown’d, it was against the French 

And not against his friends; his noble hand 

Did win what he did spend and spent not that 

Which his triumphant father’s hand had won; 

Ilis hands were guilty of no kindred blood, 

But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE I, 


O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, 
Or else he never would compare between. 
K. Rich. Why, uncle, what’s the matter ? 
York. O iy liege, 
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased 
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal. 
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands 
The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford ? 
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live ? 
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true ? 
Did not the one deserve to have an heir ? 
Is not his heir a well-deserving son ? 
Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time 
His charters and his customary rights ; 
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ; 
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king 
But by fair sequence and succession ? 
Now, afore God — God forbid I say true! — 
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights, 
Call in the letters-patent that he hath 
By his attorneys-general to sue 
His livery, and deny his offer’d homage, 
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, 
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts 
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts 
Which honour and allegiance cannot think. 
Ak. Rich. Think what you will, we seize into our 
hands 
His plate, his goods, his money and his lands. 
York. I’ll not be by the while: my liege, fare- 


well: 
What will ensue hereof, there ’s none can tell; 
But by bad courses may be understood 
That their events can never fall out good. —_ [ Evit. 
Kk. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire 
Bid him repair to us to Ely House [straight : 
To see this business. To-morrow next 
We will for Ireland; and ’tis time, I trow: 
And we create, in absence of ourself, 
Our uncle York lord governor of England; 
For he is just and always loved us well. 
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part; 
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. 
[ Flourish. Exeunt King, Queen, Aumerle, 
Bushy, Green, and Bagot. 
North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. 
Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke. 
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue. 
North. Richly in both, if justice had her right. 
Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with 
silence, 
Ere ’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue. 
North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er 
speak more 
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! 
Willo. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the 
Duke of Hereford ? 
If it be so, out with it boldly, man; 
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. 
Ross. No good at all that I can do for him, 
Unless you call it good to pity him, 
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. [are borne 
North. Now, afore God, ’t is shame such wrongs 
In him, a royal prince, and many moe 
Of noble blood in this declining land. 
The king is not himself, but basely led 
By flatterers; and what they will inform, 
Merely in hate, ’gainst any of us all, 
That will the king severely prosecute 
’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. 
Ross. The commons hath he pill’d with grievous 
taxes, {fined 
And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he 
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts. 
Willo. And daily new exactions are devised, 
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what: 
But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this? 


301 


ACT II. 


North. Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he 
hath not, 
But basely yielded upon compromise 
That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows: 
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. 
Ross. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in 
farm. [man. 
Willo. The king ’s grown bankrupt, like a broken 


North. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over | 


him. 
Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, 
fis burthenous taxations notwithstanding, 
But by the robbing of the banish’d duke. 


But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, 
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; 
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, 
And yet we strike not, but securely perish. 
Ross. We see the very wreck that we must suffer ; 
And unavoided is the danger now, 
For suffering so the causes of our wreck. [death 
North. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of 
I spy life peering; but I dare not say 
How near the tidings of our comfort is. 
Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou 
dost ours. 
Ross. Be confident to speak, Northumberland: 
We three are but thyself; and, speaking so 
Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold. 
North. Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a 
In Brittany, received intelligence [bay 
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord 
Cobham, 


That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, 

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, 

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, 

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton and Francis 

Quoint, 

All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bretagne 

With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, 

Are making hither with all due expedience 

And shortly mean to touch our northern shore: 

Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay 

The first departing of the king for Ireland. 

If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, 

Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, 

Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown, 

Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt 

And make high majesty look like itself, 

Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh ; 

But if you faint, as fearing to do so, 

Stay and be secret, and myself will go. [that fear. 
Foss. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them 
Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be 

there. [ Hxceunt. 


SCENE II. — The palace. 


Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot. 


Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad: 
You promised, when you parted with the king, 
To lay aside Ea keine aer heaviness 
And entertain a cheerful disposition. 
Queen. To please the king I did; to please my- 
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause [self 
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, 
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 
As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks, 
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, 
Is coming towards me, and my inward soul 
With nothing trembles: at some thing it grieves, 
More than with parting from my lord the king. 
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty 
shadows, 
Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; 
For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, 


302 


KING) RYOCHA BD TE 


SCENE II. 


Divides one thing entire to many objects; 

Like perspectives, which rightly pe upon 

Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry 
Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, 

Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, 

Find shapes of grief, more than himself, to wail; 
Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows 
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen, 
More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’ 


_ Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye, [not seen; 
_ Which for things true weeps things imaginary. 


Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul 


of t. | Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be, 
North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate king! | 


I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad 


_ As, though on thinking on no thought I think, 


Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. 

Sues *T is nothing but conceit, my gracious 
ady. 

Queen. ’T is nothing less: conceit is still derived 

From some forefather grief; mine is not so 

For nothing hath begot my something grief ; 

Or something hath the nothing that I grieve: 

T is in reversion that I do possess; 

But what it is, that is not yet known; what 

I cannot name; ’tis nameless woe, I wot. ~ 


Enter Green. 


Green. God save your majesty! and well met, 
gentlemen : 
I hope the king is not yet pect for Ireland. [is; 
Queen. Why hopest thou so? *tis better hope he 
For his tien crave haste, his haste good hope: 
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d ? 
Green. That he, our hope, might have retired 
his power, 
And driven into despair an enemy’s hope, 
Who strongly hath set footing in this land: 
The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself, 
And with uplifted arms is safe arrived 
At Ravenspurgh. 
een Now God in heaven forbid! 
reen. Ah, madam, ’tis too true: and that is 
worse, [Percy, 
The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry 
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, 
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. 
Bushy. Why have you not proclaim’d Northum- 
berland 
And all the rest revolted faction traitors? [cester 
Green. We have: whereupon the Earl of Wor- 
Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship, 
And all the household servants fled with him 
To Bolingbroke. [woe, 
Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my 
And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir; 
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, 
And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother, 
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d. 
Bushy. Despair not, madam. 
Queen. Who shall hinder me? 
I will despair, and be at enmity — 
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer, 
A parasite, a keeper back of death, 
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, 
Which false hope lingers in extremity. 


Enter York. 


Green. Here comes the Duke of York. 
Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck: 
O, full of careful business are his looks! 
Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words. 
York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts: 
Comfort ’s in heaven; and we are on the earth, 
Where nothing lives but crosses, cares and grief. 
Your husband, he is gone to save far off, 
Whilst others come to make him lose at home: 
Here am I left to underprop his land, 


ACT Il. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE IIf. 


Who, weak with age, cannot support myself: 
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made : 
Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came. 
York. He was? Why, so! go all which way it 
will! [cold, 
The nobles they are fled, the commons they are 
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. 
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester ; 
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound : 
Hold, take my ring. 

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, 
To-day, as I came by, I called there; 

But I shall grieve you to report the rest. 

York. What is *t, knave ? 

Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died. 

York. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes 
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! 

I know not what to do: I would to God, 
So my untruth had not provoked him to it, 
The king had cut off my head with my brother’s. 
What, are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland ? 
How shall we do for money for these wars? _ [me. 
Come, sister,— cousin, I would say,— pray, pardon 
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts 
And bring away the armour that is there. 
[Exit Servant. 

Gentlemen, will you go muster men ? 
If I know how or which way to order these affairs 
Thus thrust disorderly into my hands, 
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen: 
The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath 
And duty bids defend; the other again 
Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d, 
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. 
Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I'll 
Dispose of you. 
Gentlemen, go, muster up your men, 
And meet me presently at Berkeley. 
I should to Plashy too; 
But time will not permit: all is uneven, 
And every thing is left at six and seven. 

[Exeunt York and Queen. 

Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, 
But none returns. For us to levy power 
Proportionable to the enemy 
Is all unpossible. 

Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love 
Is near the hate of those love not the king. 

Bagot. And that’s the wavering commons: for 

their love 
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them 
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. 

Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con- 

demn/’d. 

Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, 
Because we ever have been near the king. [castle: 

Green. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol 
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. 

Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little office 
The hateful commons will perform for us, 

Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. 
Will you go along with us? 

Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. 
Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain, 

We three here part that ne’er shall meet again. 

Bushy. That’s as York thrives to beat back Bo- 

lingbroke. 

Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes 
Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry: 
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. 
Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. 

Bushy. Well, we may meet again. 

Bagot. I fear me, never. 

[| Haeunt. 


SCENES III. — Wilds in Gloucestershire. 


Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, wii/ 
Forces. 


Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now ” 
North. Believe me, noble lord, 

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire : 

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 

Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome ; 

And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, 

Making the hard way sweet and delectable. 

But I bethink me what a weary way 

From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found 

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, 

Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled 

The tediousness and process of my travel: 

But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have 

The present benefit which I possess; 

And hope to joy is little less in joy 

Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords 

Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done 

By sight of what I have, your noble company. 
Boling. Of much less value is my company 

Than your good words. But who comes here ? 


Enter Henry Percy. 
North. It is my son, young Harry Percy, 

Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. 

Harry, how fares your uncle? 

Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d 
his health of you. 

North. Why, is he not with the queen? __[court, 

Percy. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the 

Broken his staff of office and dispersed 

The household of the king. 

North. What was his reason ? 

He was not so resolved when last we spake together. 
Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed trai- 

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh, [tor. 

To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, 

And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover 

What power the Duke of York had levied there ; 

Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. 

N Bey ee you forgot the Duke of Hereford, 
oy! 
Percy. No, my good lord, for that is not forgot 

Which ne’er I did remember: to my knowledge, 

I never in my life did look on him. [duke. 
North. Then learn to know him now; this is the 
Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, 

Such as it is, being tender, raw and young; 

Which elder days shal) ripen and confirm 

To more approved service and desert. 

Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure 

I count myself in nothing else so happy 

As in a soul remembering my good friends ; 

And, as my fortune ripens with thy love, 

It shall be still thy true love’s recompense: 

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. 
North. How far is it to Berkeley ? and what stir 

Keeps good old York there with his men of war ? 
Percy. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, 

Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have heard; 

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Sey- 

None else of name and noble estimate. [mour ; 


Enter Ross and Willoughby. 


North. Here come the Lords of Ross and W illough- 
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. DY, 

Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pur- 
A banish’d traitor: all my treasury [sues 
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich’d 
Shall be your love and labour’s recompense. lord. 

Ross. Your presence makes us rich, most noble 

Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it. 

Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the 

poor ; 
303 


ACT DE, 


Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, 
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here ? 


Enter Berkeley. 


North. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. 
Berk. My Lord of Hereford, my message isto you. 
Boling. My lord, my answer is—to Lancaster ; 
And I am come to seek that name in England ; 
And I must find that title in your tongue, 
Before I make reply to aught you say. 
Berk. Mistake me not, my lord; ’tis not my 
meaning 
To raze one title of your honour out: 
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, 
From the most gracious regent of this land, 
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on 
To take advantage of the absent time 
And fright our native peace with self-born arms. 


Enter York, attended. 


Boling. I shall not need transport my words by 
Here comes his grace in person. [you; 
My noble uncle! [Kneels. 
York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy 
Whose duty is deceivable and false. [knee, 
Boling. My gracious uncle— 
York. Tut, tut. 
Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle: 
T am no traitor’s uncle; and that word ‘ grace’ 
In an ungracious mouth is but profane. 
Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs 
Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground ? 
But then more ‘why’? why have they dared to 
march 
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, 
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war 
And ostentation of despised arms ? 
Comest thou because the anointed king is hence ? 
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind, 
And in my loyal bosom lies his power. 
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth 
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself 
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, 
From forth the ranks of many thousand French, 
O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, 
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee 
And minister correction to thy fault! 
Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault: 
On what condition stands it and wherein ? 
York. Even in condition of the worst degree, 
In gross rebellion and detested treason : 
Thou art a banisnh’d mai, and here art come 
Before the expiration of thy time, 
In braving arms against thy sovereign. [ford ; 
Boling. As I was banish’d, I was banish’d Here- 
But as I come, I come for Lancaster. 
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace 
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye: 
You are my father, for methinks in you 
[ see old Gaunt alive; O, then, my father, 
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d 
A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties 
Pluck’d from my arms perforce and given away 
To upstart unthrifts ? Wherefore was I born ? 
If that my cousin king be King of England, 
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. 
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin ; 
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down, 
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father, 
‘o rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. 
I am denied to sue my livery here, 
And yet my letters-patents give me leave: 


304 


RING RICHARD I1. 


SCENE IV. 


My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold, 

And these and all are all amiss employ’d. 

What would you have me do? Iam a subject, 

And I challenge law: attorneys are denied me; 

And therefore personally I lay my claim 

To my inheritance of free descent. 
North. Thenoble duke hath been too much abused. 
Ross. It stands your grace upon to do him right. 
Willo. Base men by his endowments are made 


great. 
York. My lords of England, let me tell you this: 
I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs 
And laboured all I could to do him right ; 
But in this kind to come, in braving arms, 
Be his own carver and cut out his way, 
To find out right with wrong, it may not be; 
And you that do abet him in this kind 
Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. 
North. The noble duke hath sworn his coming is 
But for his own; and for the right of that 
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid; 
And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath! 
York. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms: 
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, 
Because my power is weak and all ill left: 
But if I could, by Him that gave me life, 
I would attach you all and make you stoop 
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king; 
But since I cannot, be it known to you 
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well; 
Unless you please to enter in the castle 
And there repose you for this night. 
Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept: 
But we must win your grace to go with us 
To Bristol castle, which they say is held 
By Bushy, Bagot and their complices, 
The caterpillars of the commonwealth, 
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. 
York. It may be I wiil go with you: but yet Il 
pause : 
For I am loath to break our country’s laws. 
Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are: 
Things past redress are now with me past care. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.—A camp in Wales. 


Enter Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. 


Cap. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten 
And hardly kept our countrymen together, [days, 
And yet we hear no tidings from the king; 
Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell. 

Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman: 
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee. 

pes is thought the king is dead; we will not 

sta 


y. 

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d 

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; 

The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth 

And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change ; 

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap, 

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, 

The other to enjoy by rage and war: 

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. 

Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled, 

As well assured Richard their king is dead. [Hzit. 
Sal. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind 

I see thy glory like a shooting star 

Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west, 

Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest: 

Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes, 


And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [ Exit. 


ACT IfI. 


KING RICHARD I1. 


SCENE II. 


NCL OP IT, 


SCENE I.—Bristol. Before the castle. 


Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Ross, 
Percy, Willoughby, with Bushy and Green, pris- 
oners. 


Boling. Bring forth these men. 
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls — 
Since presently your souls must part your bodies — 
With too much urging your pernicious lives, 
For ’t were no charity; yet, to wash your blood 
From off my hands, here in the view of men 
I will unfold some causes of your deaths. 
You have misled a prince, a royal king, 
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, 
By you unhappied and disfigured clean: 
You have in manner with your sinful hours 
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, 
Broke the possession of a royal bed 
And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks 
With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs. 
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth, 
Near to the king in blood, and near in love 
Till you did make him misinterpret me, 
Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries, 
And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds, 
Eating the bitter bread of banishment; 
Whilst you have fed upon my signories, 
Dispark’d my parks and fell’d my forest woods, 
From my own windows torn my household coat, 
Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign, 
Save men’s opinions and my living blood, 
To show the world I am a gentleman. 
This and much more, much more than twice all this, 
Condemns you to the death. See them deliver’d over 
To execution and the hand of death. 
Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to me 
Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. 
Green. My comfort is that heaven will take our 
And plague injustice with the pains of hell. [souls 
Boling. My Lord Northumberland, see them dis- 
patch’d. 
| Exeunt Northumberland and others, 
with the prisoners. 
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house; 
For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated : 
Tell her I send to her my kind commends; 
Take special care my greetings be deliver’d. 
York. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d 
With letters of your love to her at large. 
Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords,away, 
To fight with Glendower and his complices: 
Awhile to work, and after holiday. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The coast of Wales. <A castle in view. 


Drums : flourish and colours. Enter King Richard, 
the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers. 


K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call they this at hand ? 
Aum. Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the 
After your late tossing on the breaking seas? [air, 
K. Rich. Needs must I like it well: I weep for 
To stand upon my kingdom once again. [joy 
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, 
Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs: 
As a long-parted mother with her child 
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, 
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, 
And do thee favours with my royal hands. 
Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, 
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense; 
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, 
And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, 
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 
Which with usurping steps do trample thee 


20 


! 
| 


Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; 
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder 
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies: 
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords: 
This earth shall have a feeling and these stones 
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms. [king 
Car. Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you 
Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 
The means that heaven yields must be embraced, 
And not neglected; else, if heaven would, 
And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse, 
The proffer’d means of succour and redress. 
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; 
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, 
Grows strong and great in substance and in power. 
K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not 
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid, 
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, 
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen 
In murders and in outrage, boldly here; 
But when from under this terrestrial ball 
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines 
And darts his light through every guilty hole, 
Then murders, treasons and detested sins, [backs, 
The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their 
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves ? 
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, 
Who all this while hath revell’d in the night 
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes, 
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, 
His treasons will sit blushing in his face, 
Not able to endure the sight of day, 
But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. 
Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; 
The breath of worldly men cannot depose 
The deputy elected by the Lord: 
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d 
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, 
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay 
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, [right. 
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the 


Enter Salisbury. 


Welcome, my lord: how far off lies your power ? 
Sal. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, 
Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue 
And bids me speak of nothing but despair. 
One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, 
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth: 
O, call back yesterday, bid time return, 
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! 
To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, 
O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune and thy state: 
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, 
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled. 
Aum. Comfort, my liege: why looks your grace 
so pale ? [men 
K. Rich. But now the blood of twenty thousand 
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled ; 
And, till so much blood thither come again, 
Have I not reason to look pale and dead ? 
All souls that will be safe fly from my side, 
For time hath set a blot upon my pride. 
Aum. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. 
K. Rich. I had forgot myself: am I not king? 
Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. 
Is not the king’s name twenty thousand names ? 
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes 
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, 
Ye favourites of a king: are we not high? 
305 


MOT ATT: 


High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York 
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who 
comes here ? 


Enter Scroop. 


Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege 

Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him ! 
Kk. Rich. Mine ear is open and my heart prepared: 

The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. 

Say, is my kingdom lost ? why, ’t was my care; 

And what loss is it to be rid of care ? 

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we ? 

Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, 

We ’ll serve Him too and be his fellow so: 

Revolt our subjects ? that we cannot mend; 

They break their faith to God as well as us: 

Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay; 

The worst is death, and death will have his day. 
Scroop. Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d 

To bear the tidings of calamity. 

Like an unseasonable stormy day, 

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, 

As if the world were all dissolved to tears, 

So high above his limits swells the rage 

Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land 

With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. 

White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless 

scalps 

Against thy majesty ; boys, with women’s voices, 

Strive to speak big and clap their female joints 

In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown: 

Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows 

Of double-fatal yew against thy state ; 

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills 

Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, 

And all goes worse than I have power to tell. __[ill. 
Kk. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so 

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot ? 

What is become of Bushy ? where is Green ? 

That they have let the dangerous enemy 

Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ? 

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it: 

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. 
Scroop. Peace have they made with him indeed, 

my lord. 

kK. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn’d without re- 

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! [heart ! 


Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my | 


Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! 
Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war 
Upon their spotted souls for this offence! 
Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, 
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate: 
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made 
With heads, and not with hands: those whom you 
curse 
Have felt the worst,of death’s destroying wound 
And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground. 
ne 1s eae Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire 
ea 
Scroop. Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. 
Aum. Where is the duke my father with his 
ower ? [speak : 
K. Rich. No matter where; of comfort no man 
Let ’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs; 
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth, 
Let ’s choose executors and talk of wills: 
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath 
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? 
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s, 
And nothing can we call our own but death 
And that small model of the barren earth 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings: 
How some have been deposed; some slain in war; 


306 


KU MGS LO RA BY MT 


[demption! | 


SCENE IIT. 


Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed ; 

Some poison’d by their wives ; some sleeping kill’d, 

All murder’d: for within the hollow crown 

That rounds the mortal temples of a king 

Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits, 

Scofting his state and grinning at bis pomp, 

Allowing hin a breath, a little scene, 

To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks, 

Infusing him with self and vain conceit, 

As if this flesh which walls about our life 

Were brass impregnable, and humour’d thus 

Comes at the last and with a little pin 

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! 

Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood 

With solemn reverence: throw away respect, 

Tradition, form and ceremonious duty, 

For you have but mistook me all this while: 

I live with bread like you, feel want, 

Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, 

How can you say to me, I am a king? 
Cur. My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their 

But presently prevent the ways to wail. [woes, 


| To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, 


Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, 
And so your follies fight against yourself. 
Fear, and be slain; no worse can come to fight: 
And fight and die is death destroying death ; 
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. 
Aum. My father hath a power; inquire of him, 
And learn to make a body of a limb. 
Ak. Rich. Thou chidest me well: proud Boling- 
broke, I come 
To change blows with thee for our day of doom. 
This ague fit of fear is over-blown; 
An easy task it is to win our own. 
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power ? 
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. 
Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky 
The state and inclination of the day: 
So may you by my dull and heavy eye, 
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. 
I play the torturer, by small and small 
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: 
Your uncle York is joined with Bolingbroke, 
And all your northern castles yielded up, 
And all your southern gentlemen in arms 
Upon his party. 
Kk. Rich. Thou hast said enough. 
Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth 
[To Aumerle. 
Of that sweet way I was in to despair! 
What say you now? what comfort have we now ? 
By heaven, I ’ll hate him everlastingly 
That bids me be of comfort any more. 
Go to Flint castle: there Ill pine away; 
A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey. 
That power I have, discharge; and let them go 
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, 
For I have none: let no man speak again 
To alter this, for counsel is but vain. 
Aum. My liege, one word. 
kK. Rich. He does me double wrong 
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. 
Discharge my followers: let them hence away, 
From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day. 
[ Hxewnt. 


SCENE III.— Wales. Before Flint Castie. 


Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke, York, 
Northumberland, Attendants, and forces. 


Boling. So that by this intelligence we learn 
The Welshmen are dispersed, and Salisbury 
Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed 
With some few private friends upon this coast. 
North. The news is very fair and eon my lord: 
Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. 


ACT III. 


To say ‘King Richard:’ alack the heavy day 
When such a sacred king should hide his head. 
North. Your grace mistakes; only to be brief, 
Left I his title out. 
York. The time hath been, 
Would you have been so brief with him, he would 
Have been so brief with you, to shorten you, 
For taking so the head, your whole head’s length. 
Boling. Mistake not, uncle, further than you 
should. [should, 
York. Take not, good cousin, further than you 
Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our heads. 
Boling. I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself 
Against their will. But who comes here ? 


Enter Percy. 


Welcome, Harry: what, will not this castle yield ? 
Percy. The castle royally is mann’d, my lord, 
Against thy entrance. 
oling. Royally! 
Why, it contains no king ? 
Percy. Yes, my good lord, 
It doth contain a king; King Richard lies 
Within the limits of yon lime and stone: 
And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, 
Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman 
Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn. 
North. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. 
Boling. Noble lords, 
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle; 
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley 
Into his ruin’d ears, and thus deliver: 
Henry Bolingbroke 
On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand 
And sends allegiance and true faith of heart 
To his most royal person, hither come 
Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, 
Provided that my banishment repeal’d 
And lands restored again be freely granted: 
If not, Ill use the advantage of my power 
And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood 
Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen: 
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke 
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench 
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land, 
My stooping duty tenderly shall show. 
Go, signify as much, while here we march 
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. 
Let ’s march without the noise of threatening drum, 
That from this castle’s tatter’d battlements 
Our fair appointments may be well perused. 
Methinks King Richard and myself should meet 
With no less terror than the elements 
Of fire and water, when their thundering shock 
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. 
Be he the fire, I ll be the yielding water: 
The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain 
My waters; on the earth, and not on him. 
March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. 


Parle without, and answer within. Thena flourish. Enter 
on the walls, King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, 
Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury. 


See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, 
As doth the blushing discontented sun 

From out the fiery portal of the east, 

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent 
To dim his glory and to stain the track 

Of his bright passage to the occident. 

York. Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye, 
As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth 
Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe, 

That any harm should stain so fair a show! [stood 

K, Rich. We are amazed; and thus long have we 
‘To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, [Zo North. 
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king: 


KING RICHARD II. 


York. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland 


SCENE III, 


nr 


And if we be, how dare thy joints forget 
To pay their awful duty to our presence ? 
If we be not, show us the hand of God 
That hath dismiss’d us from our stewardship; 
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone 
Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, 
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. 
And though you think that all, as you have done, 
Have torn their souls by turning them from us, 
And we are barren and bereft of friends; 
Yet know, my master, God omnipotent, 
Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf 
Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike 
Your children yet unborn and unbegot, 
That lift your vassal hands against my head 
And threat the glory of my precious crown. 
Tell Bolingbroke —for yond methinks he stands— 
That every stride he makes upon my land 
Is dangerous treason: he is come to open 
The purple testament of bleeding war; 
But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, 
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons 
Shall ill become the flower of England’s face, 
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace 
To scarlet indignation and bedew 
Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood. 
North. The king of heaven forbid our lord the king 
Should so with civil and uncivil arms 
Be rush’d upon! Thy thrice noble cousin 
Harry Bolingbroke doth humbly kiss thy hand; 
And by the honourable tomb he swears, 
That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones, 
And by the royalties of both your bloods, 
Currents that spring from one most gracious head, 
And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, 
And by the worth and honour of himself, 
Comprising all that may be sworn or said, 
His coming hither hath no further scope 
Than for his lineal royalties and to beg 
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees: 
Which on thy royal party granted once, 
His glittering arms he will commend to rust, 
His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart 
To faithful service of your majesty. 
This swears he, as he is a prince, is just; 
And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him. [turns: 
K. Rich. Northumberland, say thus the king re- 
His noble cousin is right welcome hither; 
And all the number of his fair demands 
Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction ; 
With all the gracious utterance thou hast 
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends. 
We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not, 
[To Aumerle. 
To look so poorly and to speak so fair ? 
Shall we call back Northumberland, and send 
Defiance to the traitor, and so die? [words 
Aum. No, good my lord; let’s fight with gentle 
Till time lend friends and friends their helpful 
Swords. [mine, 
K. Rich. O God, O God! that e’er this tongue of 
That laid the sentence of dread banishment 
On yon proud man, should take it off again 
With words of sooth! O that I were as great 
As is my grief, or lesser than my name! 
Or that I could forget what I have been, 
Or not remember what I must be now! [beat, 
Swell’st thou, proud heart? Ill give thee scope to 
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. 
Aum. Northumberland comes back from Boling- 
broke. [submit ? 
K. Rich. What must the king do now? must he 
The king shall do it: must he be deposed ? 
The king shall be contented : must he lose 
The name of king? 0’ God’s name, let it go: 
I’ give my jewels for a set of beads, 
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, 


307 


ACT III. 


My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown, 
My figured goblets for a dish of wood, 
My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff, 
My subjects for a pair of carved saints 
And my large kingdom for a little grave, 
A little little grave, an obscure grave ; 
Or Ill be buried in the king’s highway, 
Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet 
May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head ; 
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live; 
And buried once, why not upon my head ? 
Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted cousin! 
We’ll make foul weather with despised tears ; 
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn, 
And make a dearth in this revolting land. 
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, 
And make some pretty match with shedding tears ? 
As thus, to drop them still upon one place, 
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves 
Within the earth; and, therein laid,—there lies 
Two kinsmen digg’d their graves with weeping eyes. 
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see 
I talk but idly, and you laugh at me. 
Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, 
What says King Bolingbroke ? will his majesty 
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die? 
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay. 
North. My lord, in the base court he doth attend 
To speak with you; may it please you to come down. 
K. Rich. Down, down I come; like glistering 
Phaethon, 
Wanting the manage of unruly jades. [base, 
In the base court ? . Base court, where kings grow 
To come at traitors’ calls and do them grace. 
In the base court? Come down? Down, court! 
down, king! 
For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should 
sing. [Hxeunt from above. 
Boling. What says his majesty ? 
North. Sorrow and grief of heart 
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man: 
Yet he is come. 


Enter King Richard and his Attendants below. 


Boling. Stand all apart, 
And show fair duty to his majesty. 
. [He kneels down. 
My gracious lord,— [knee 
AK. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your princely 
To make the base earth proud with kissing it: 
Me rather had my heart might feel your love 
Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy. 
Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know, 
Thus high at least, although your knee be low. 
Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine 
own. [and all. 
K. Rich. Your own is yours, and I am yours, 
Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, 
As my true service shall deserve your love. [have, 
kK. Rich. Well you deserve: they well deserve to 
That know the strong’st and surest way to get. 
Uncle, give me your hands: nay, dry your eyes; 
Tears show their love, but want their remedies. 
Cousin, I am too young to be your father, 
Though you are old enough to be my heir. 
What you will have, I ’ll give, and willing too; 
For do we must what force will have us do. 
Set on towards London, cousin, is it so ? 
Boling. Yea, my good lord. 
Rich. Then I must not say no. 
[ Flourish. Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—Langley. The Duke of York’s garden. 


Enter the Queen and two Ladies. 


(ueen. What sport shall we devise here in this gar- 
To drive away the heavy thought of care? [den, 


308 


KING RICHARD I]. 


SCENE IV. 


Lady. Madam, we ’ll play at bowls. [rubs. 

Queen. ’T will make me think the world is full of 
And that my fortune runs against the bias. 

Lady. Madam, we ’ll dance. 

Queen. My legs can keep no measure in delight, 
When my poor heart no measure Keeps in grief : 
Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport. 

Lady. Madam, we ’Il tell tales. 

es Of sorrow or of joy? 

acy. 
Queen. Of neither, girl: 
For if of joy, being altogether wanting, 
It doth remember me the more of sorrow; 
Or if of grief, being altogether had, 
It adds more sorrow to my want of joy: 
For what I have I need not to repeat ; 
And what I want it boots not to complain. 
Lady. Madam, I’ll sing. 
ween. °T is well that thou hast cause; 
But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou 
weep. [good. 

Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do you 

Queen. And I could sing, would weeping do me 
And never borrow any tear of thee. [good, 


Of either, madam. 


Enter a Gar--sner, and two Servants. 


But stay, here come the gardeners: 

let ’s step into the shadow of these trees. 

My wretchedness unto a row of pins, 

They ’ll talk of state; for every one doth so 

Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. 
[Queen and Ladies retire. 

Gard. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, 
Which, like unruly children, make their sire 
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight: 
Give some supportance to the bending twigs. 

Go thou, and like an executioner, 

Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, 
That look too lofty in our commonwealth: 
All must be even in our government. 

You thus employ’d, I will go root away 

The noisome weeds, which without profit suck 
The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers. 

Serv. Why should we in the compass of a pale 
Keep law and form and due proportion, 

Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, 

When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, 
Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up 
Her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruin’d, 
Her knots disorder’d and her wholesome herbs 
Swarming with caterpillars ? 

ard. Hold thy peace: 
He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d sprin 
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf: 
The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did 

shelter, 

That seem’d in eating him to hold him up, 
Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke, 
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. 

Serv. What, are they dead ? 

Gard. They are; and Bolingbroke 
Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it 
That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land 
As we this garden! We at time of year 
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, 

With too much riches it confound itself: 

Had he done so to great and growing men, 

They might have lived to bear and he to taste 
Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches 

We lop away, that bearing boughs may live: 

Had he done so, himself had borne the crown 
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. 

Serv. What, think you then the king shall be de- 

posed ? 

Gard. Depress’d he is already, and deposed 
°T is doubt he will be: letters came last night 


WO LYS 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE I, 


To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s, 
That tell black tidings. 
Queen. O, I am press’d to death through want of 
speaking! [Coming forward. 
Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, 
Ilow dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this un- 
plessiay news ? 
What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee 
To make a second fall of cursed man ? 
Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed ? 
Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth, 
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, 
Camest thou by this ill tidings ? speak, thou wretch. 
Gard. Pardon me, madam: little joy have I 
To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. 
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold 
Of Bolingbroke: their fortunes both are weigh’d: 
In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, 
And some few vanities that make him light; 
But in the balance of iene Bolingbroke, 
Besides himself, are all the English peers, 


And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. 
Post you to London, and you will find it so; 
I speak no more than every one doth know. 
Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, 
Doth not thy embassage belong to me, 
And am I last that knows it? O, thou think’st 
To serve me last, that I may longest keep , 
Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, 
To meet at London London’s king in woe. 
What, was I born to this, that my sad look 
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke ? 
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, 
Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow. 
[Exeunt Queen and Ladies. 
Gard. Poor queen! so that thy state might be no 
worse, 
I would my skill were subject to thy curse. 
Here did she fall a tear; here in this place 
Ill set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace: 
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, 
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Hzeunt. 


UNG) TV. 


SCENE I.— Westminster Hall. 


Enter, as to the Parliament, Bolingbroke, Aumerle, 
Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, Surrey, the 
Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and 
another Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot. 


Boling. Call forth Bagot. 
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind; 
What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death, 
Who wrought it with the king, and who perform’d 
The bloody office of his timeless end. 
Bagot. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. 
Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that 
man. [tongue 
Bagot. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring 
Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d. 
In that dead time when Gloucester’s death was 
plotted, 
I heard you say, ‘Is not my arm of length, 
That reacheth from the wrestful English court 
As far as Calais, to mine uncle’s head ?’ 
Amongst much other talk, that very time, 
I heard you say that you had rather refuse 
The offer of an hundred thousand crowns 
Than Bolingbroke’s return to England; 
Adding withal, how blest this land would be 
In this your cousin’s death. 
Aum. Princes and noble lords, 
What answer shall I make to this base man ? 
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars, 
On equal terms to give him chastisement ? 
Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d 
With the attainder of his slanderous lips. 
There is my gage, the manual seal of death, 
That marks thee out for hell: I say, thou liest, 
And will maintain what thou hast said is false 
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base 
To stain the temper of my knightly sword. 
Boling. Bagot, forbear: thou shalt not take it up. 
Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best 
In all this presence that hath moved me so. 
Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, 
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine: 
By that fair son which shows me where thou stand’st, 
1 heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spakest it, 
That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s death. 
If thou deny’st it twenty times, thou liest ; 
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, 
Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. [day. 
Aum. Thou darest not, coward, live to see that 


\ 


Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. 
Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this. 
Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true 
In this appeal as thou art all unjust; 
And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, 
To prove it on thee to the extremest point 
Of mortal breathing: seize it, if thou darest. 
Aum. An if I do not, may my hands rot off 
And never brandish more revengeful steel 
Over the glittering helmet of my foe! 
Another Lord. I task the earth to the like, for- 
sworn Aumerle ; 
And spur thee on with full as many lies 
As may be holloa’d in thy treacherous ear 
From sun to sun: there is my honour’s pawn; 
Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. 
um. ee sets me else? by heaven, Ill throw 
at all: 
IT have a thousand spirits in one breast, 
To answer twenty thousand such as you. 
Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well 
The very time Aumerle and you did talk. 
Fitz. "Tis very true: you were in presence then; 
And you can witness with me this is true. 
Surrey. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is 
Fitz. Surrey, thou liest. [true. 
urrey. Dishonourable boy! 
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword, 
That it shall render vengeance and revenge 
Till thou the lie-giver and that le do lie 
In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull: 
In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn; 
Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. 
Fitz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse! 
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, 
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, 
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies, 
And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith, 
To tie thee to my strong correction. 
As I intend to thrive in this new world, 
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal: 
Besides, I heard the banish’d Norfolk say 
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men 
To execute the noble duke at Calais. 
Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage, 
That Norfolk lies: here do I throw down this, 
If he may be repeal’d, to try his honour. 
Boling. These differences shall all rest under gage, 
Till Norfolk be repeal’d: repeal’d he shail be, 
And, though mine enemy, restored again 


309 


ACT IV. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE ft. 


To all his lands and signories: when he’s returned, 
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. 
Car. That honourable day shall ne’er be seen. 
Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought 
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, 
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross 
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; 
And toil’d with works of war, retired himself 
To Italy; and there at Venice gave 
His body to that pleasant country’s earth, 
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, 
Under whose colours he had fought so long. 
Boling. Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead ? 
Car. As surely as I live, my lord. 
Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the 
bosom 
Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, 
Your differences shall all rest under gage 
Till we assign you to your days of trial. 


Enter York, attended. 


York. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee 
From pluine-pluck’d Richard ; who with willing soul 
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields 
To the possession of thy royal hand: 

Ascend his throne, descending now from him; 
And long live Henry, fourth of that name! 

Boling. In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal 

Car. Marry, God forbid! [throne. 
Worst in this royal presence may I speak, 

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 
Would God that any in this noble presence 
Were enough noble to be upright judge 

Of noble Richard! then true noblesse would 
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 
What subject can give sentence on his king ? 
And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject ? 
Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear, 
Although apparent guilt be seen in them; 

And shall the figure of God’s majesty, 

His captain, steward, deputy-elect, 

Anointed, crowned, planted many years, 

Be judged by subject and inferior breath, 

And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God, 
That in a Christian climate souls refined 

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! 

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 

Stirr’d up by God, thus boldly for his king. 

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, 
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king: 
And if you crown him, let me prophesy: 

The blood of English shall manure the ground, 
And future ages groan for this foul act; 
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, 
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars 

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound; 
Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny 

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d 

The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. 

O, if you raise this house against this house, 

It will the woefullest division prove 

That ever fell upon this cursed earth. 

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, 

Lest child, child’s children, ery against you ‘ woe!’ 

North. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your 
Of capital treason we arrest you here. [pains, 
My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge 
To keep him safely till his day of trial. 

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit. 

Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common 


He may surrender; so we shall proceed [view 
Without suspicion. 
York. I will be his conduct. [Evit. 


Boling. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, 


Procure your sureties for your days of answer. 
Little are we beholding to your love, 
And little look’d for at your helping hands. 


310 


Re-enter York, with Richard, and Officers bearing 
the regalia. 


K. Rich, Alack, why am I sent for to a king, 
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts 
Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d 
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs: 
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me 
To this submission. Yet I well remember 
The favours of these men: were they not mine ? 
Did they not sometime cry, ‘all hail!’ to me? 

So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve, [none. 

Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, 

God save the king! Will no man say amen? 

Am I both priest and clerk ? well then, amen. 

God save the king! although I be not he; 

And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me. 

To do what service am I sent for hither ? 

York. To do that office of thine own good will 
Which tired majesty did make thee offer, 

The resignation of thy state and crown 

To Henry Bolingbroke. 

K. Rich. Giveme the crown. Here, cousin, seize 
Here cousin ; [the crown; 
On this side my hand, and on that side yours. 
Now is this golden crown like a deep well 
That owes two buckets, filling one another, 

The emptier ever dancing in the air, 

The other down, unseen and full of water: 

That bucket down and full of tears am I, 

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. 
Boling. I thought you had been willing to resign. 
K. Rich. My crown I am; but still my griefs are 

You may my glories and my state depose, [mine: 

But not my griefs; still am I king of those. [crown. 
Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your 
K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares 

My care is loss of care, by old care done; {down. 

Your care is gain of care, by new care won: 

The cares I give I have, though given away ; 

They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay. 
Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown ? 
K. Rich. Ay,no; no,ay; for I must nothing be; 

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. 

Now mark me, how I will undo myself: 

I give this heavy weight from off my head 

And this unwieldly sceptre from my hand, 

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart; 

With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 

With mine own hands I give away my crown, 

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 

With mine own breath release all duty’s rites: 

All pomp and majesty I do forswear ; 

My manors, rents, revenues I forego; 

My acts, decrees, and statutes deny: | 

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me! 

God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee! 

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved, 

And thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved! 

Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit, 

And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit! 

God save King Harry, unking’d Richard Says, 

And send him many years of sunshine days! 

What more remains ? 

North. No more, but that you read 
These accusations and these grievous crimes 
Committed by your person and your followers 
Against the state and profit of this land; 

That, by confessing them, the souls of men 

May deem that you are worthily deposed. 

KK. Rich. Must I do so? and must I ravel out 
My weaved-up folly ? Gentle Northumberland, 

If thy offences were upon record, 

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop 

To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst, 

There shouldst thou find one heinous article, 

Containing the deposing of a king 


ACT V. 


And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, 
Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of heaven: 
Nay, all of you that stand and look upon, 
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, 
Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands 
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 
Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross, 
And water cannot wash away your sin. 
North. My lord, dispatch ; read o’er these articles. 
KK. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: 
And yet salt water blinds them not so much 
But they can see a sort of traitors here. 
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, 
I find myself a traitor with the rest; 
For I have given here my soul’s consent 
To undeck the pompous body of a king ; 
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave, 
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant. 
North. My lord,— [man, 
K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting 
Nor no man’s lord; I have no name, no title, 
No, not that name was given me at the font, 
But ’tis usurp’d: alack the heavy day, 
That I have worn so many winters out, 
And know not now what name to call myself! 
O that I were a mockery king of snow, 
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, 
To melt myself away in water-drops! 
Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, 
An if my word be sterling yet in England, 
Let it command a mirror hither straight, 
That it may show me what a face I have, 
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. 
Boling. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass. 
| Hxit an attendant. 
North. Read o’er this paper while the glass doth 


come. 
A. Ftich. Fiend, thou torment’st me ere I come 
to hell! 
oor ete it no more, my Lord Northumber- 
and. 
North. The commons will not then be satisfied. 
K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I read enough, 
When I do see the very book indeed ; 
Where all my sins are writ, and that ’s myself. 


Ke-enter Attendant, with a glass. 


Give me the glass, and therein will I read. 

No deeper wrinkles yet ? hath sorrow struck 

So many blows upon this face of mine, 

And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass, 
Like to my followers in prosperity, 

Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face 
That every day under his household roof 

Did keep ten thousand men ? was this the face 
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink ? 


KING RICHARD 11. 


SCENE I. 


Was this the face that faced so many follies, 
And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke ? 
A brittle glory shineth in this face: 
As brittle as the glory is the face; 
[Dashes the glass against the ground. 
For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers. 
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, 
How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face. 
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d 
The shadow of your face. 
Ik. Rich. Say that again. 
The shadow of my sorrow! ha! lets see: 
*T is very true, my grief lies all within; 
And these external manners of laments 
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief 
That swells with silence in the tortured soul ; 
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king, 
For thy great bounty, that not only givest 
Me cause to wail but teachest me the way 
How to lament the cause. Ill beg one boon, 
And then be gone and trouble you no more. 
Shall I obtain it ? 
Boling. Name it, fair cousin. 
KK. Rich. ‘Fair cousin’? Lam greater thanaking: 
For when I was a king, my flatterers 
Were then but subjects ; being now a subject, 
I have a king here to my flatterer. 
Being so great, I have no need to beg. 
Boling. Yet ask. 
kK. Rich. And shall I have ? 
Boling. You shall. 
kK. Rich. Then give me leave to go. 
Boling. Whither ? [sights. 
Kk, Rich. Whither you will, so I were from your 
Boling. Go,some of you convey him to the Tower. 
K. Rich. O, good! convey ? conveyers are you all, 
That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall. 
[| Hxeunt King Richard, some Lords, and a Guard. 
Boling. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down 
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. 
[Hxeunt all except the Bishop of Carlisle, the 
Abbot of Westminster, and Aumerle. 
Abbot. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. 
Car. The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn 
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. 
Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot 
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot ? 
Abbot. My lord, 
Before I freely speak my mind herein, 
You shall not only take the sacrament 
To bury mine intents, but also to effect 
Whatever I shall happen to devise. 
I see your brows are full of discontent, 
Your hearts of sorrow and your eyes of tears: 
Come home with me to supper; and Il] lay 
A plot shall show us all a merry day. | Hxeunt. 


DANY Ohd Da AV AS 


SCENE I.—London. 


Enter Queen and Ladies. 
Queen. This way the king will come; this is the 
To Julius Cesar’s ill-erected tower, [way 
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord 
Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke: 
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth 
Have any resting for her true king’s queen. 


Enter Richard and Guard. 


But soft, but see, or rather do not see, 

My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold, 

That you in pity may dissolve to dew, 

An *vash him fresh again with true-love tears. 


A. street leading to the Tower. 


Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand, 

Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb, 

And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, 

Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodged in thee, 

When triumph is become an alehouse guest? [so, 
kK, Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not 

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul, 

To think our former state a happy dream; 

From which awaked, the truth of what we are 

Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet, 

To grim Necessity, and he and I 

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France 

And cloister thee in some religious house: 

Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, 

Which our profane hours here have stricken down. 


311 


ACT V. 


Queen. What, is my Richard both in shape and 
mind [posed 

Transform’d and weaken’d ? hath Bolingbroke de- 
Thine intellect ? hath he been in thy heart ? 
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw, 
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage 
To be o’erpower’d; and wilt thou, pupil-like, 
Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 
And fawn on rage with base humility, 


Which art a lion and a king of beasts ? [beasts. 


Kk. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but | 


I had been still a happy king of men. [France: 
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for 
Think I am dead and that even here thou takest, 
As from my death-bed, thy last living leave. 

In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire 

With good old folks and let them tell thee tales 

Of woeful ages long ago betid; 

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, 
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me 

And send the hearers weeping to their beds: 

For why, the senseless brands will sympathize 

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue 

And in compassion weep the fire out ; 

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, 
For the deposing of a rightful king. 


Enter Northumberland and others. 


North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is 
changed ; 
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. 
And, madam, there is order ta’en for you; 
With all swift speed you must away to France. 
K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder where- 
withal 
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, 
The time shall not be many hours of age 
More than it is ere foul sin gathering head 
Shall break into corruption: thou shalt think, 
Though he divide the realm and give thee half, 
It is too little, helping him to all; 
And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way 
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, 
Being ne’er so little urged, another way 
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. 
The love of wicked men converts to fear; 
That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both 
To worthy danger and deserved death. 


North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. | 


Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith. 
K. Rich. Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate 

A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me, 

And then betwixt me and my married wife. 

Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me; 

And yet not so, for with a kiss ’t was made. 

Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north, 


Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; | 


My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp, 
She came adorned hither like sweet May, 
Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day. 
ueen. And must we be divided ? must we part ? 
{. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart 
from heart. 
Queen. Banish us both and send the king with me. 
North. That were some love but little policy. 
Q@ueen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. 
KK. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe. 
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; 
Better far off than near, be ne’er the near. 
Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans. 
ueen. SO longest way shall have the longest 
_. moans. 
K. Rich. Twice for one step Ill groan, the way 
being short, 
And piece the way out with a heavy heart. 
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief, 
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief: 
312 


KING RICHARD II. 


| Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried ‘ 


SCENE II. 


One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; 
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. 
Queen. Give me mine Own again; *t were no good 


To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. art 
So, now I have mine own again, be gone, 
That I may strive to kill it with a groan. _[delay: 


Kk. Rich. We make woe wanton with this fond 
Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.—The Duke of York’s palace. 


Enter York and his Duchess. 


Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, 
When weeping made you break the story off, 

Of our two cousins coming into London. 

York. Where did I leave? 

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, 
Where rude misgovern’d hands from windows’ tops 
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head. 

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, 
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed 
Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know, 

With slow but stately pace kept on his course, 

Whilst all tongues cried ‘God save thee, Boling- 
broke! ’ 

You would have thought the very windows spake, 

So many greedy looks of young and old 

Through casements darted their desiring eyes 

Upon his visage, and that all the walls 

With painted imagery had said at once 

‘ Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke! ’ 

Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, 

Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, 

Bespake them thus; ‘I thank you, countrymen :’ 

And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along. 

Duch. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the 

whilst ? 

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 

Are idly bent on him that enters next, 

Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; 

Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s e 
rt) 
save him!’ 


_No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: 
- But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; 


Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, 
His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
The badges of his grief and patience, 
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d 
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted 
And barbarism itself have pitied him. 
But heaven hath a hand in these events, 
To whose high will we bound our calm contents. 
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, 
Whose state and honour I for aye allow. 
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle. 
York. Aumerle that was; 
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend, 
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now: 
I am in parliament pledge for his truth 
And lasting fealty to the new made king. 


Enter Aumerle. 


Duch. Welcome, my son: who are the violets now 
That strew the green lap of the new come spring ? 

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not :. 
God knows I had as lief be none as one. [time, 

York. Well, bear you well in this new spring of 
Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime. 
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and tri- 

umphs ? 

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do. 

York. You will be there, I know. 

Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so. [bosom ? 

York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy 
Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing. 


ACT V. 


Aum. My lord, tis nothing. 
“ork. No matter, then, who see it: 
I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. 
Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me: 
It is a matter of small consequence, 
Which for some reasons I would not have seen. 

York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. 
I fear, I fear,— 

Duch. What should you fear ? 
°T is nothing but some bond, that he has enter’d into 
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day. 

York. Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond 
That he has bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. 
Boy, let me see the writing. [show it. 

Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not 

York. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. 

[He plucks it out of his bosom and reads tt. 
Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave! 
Duch. What is the matter, my lord ? 
York. Ho! who is within there ? 


Enter a Servant. 


Saddle my horse. 
God for his mercy, what treachery is here! 

Duch. Why, what is it, my lord ? 

York. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. 
[Exit Servant. 
Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth, 

I will appeach the villain. 
What is the matter ? 


Duch. 
York. Peace, foolish woman. Aumerle ? 
Duch. I will not peace. What is the matter, 
Aum. Good mother, be content, it is no more 
Than my poor life must answer. 
Duch. Thy life answer! 


York. Bring me my boots: I will unto the king. 


Re-enter Servant with boots. 


Duch. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art 
amazed. 
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight. 
York. Give me my boots, I say. 
Duch. Why, York, what wilt thou do ? 
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own ? 
Have we more sons? or are we like to have ? 
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time ? 
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, 
And rob me of a happy mother’s name ? 
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own ? 
York. Thou fond mad woman, 
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ? 
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament, 
And interchangeably set down their hands, 
To kill the king at Oxford. 
Duch. He shall be none; 
We’ll keep him here: then what is that to him ? 
York. Away,fond woman! were he twenty times 
I would appeach him. [my son, 
uch. Hadst thou groan’d for him 
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. 
But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect 
That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 
And that he is a bastard, not thy son: 
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind: 
He is as like thee as a man may be, 
Not like to me, or any of my kin, 
And yet I love him. 
York. Make way, unruly woman! 
| Hocit. 
Duch. After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his 
Spur post, and get before him to the king, [horse; 
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. 
L’ll not be long behind; though I be old, 
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York: 
_And never will I rise up from the ground 
Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away, be 
gone! [ Hxewnt. 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE III 


a 


SCENE III.—A royal palace. 


Enter Bolingbroke, Percy, and other Lords. 


Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son ? 
*T is full three months since I did see him last: 

If any plague hang over us, ’t is he. 

I would to God, my lords, he might be found: 
Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there, 

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent, 

With unrestrained loose companions, 

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes, 
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers, 
Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, 
Takes on the point of honour to support 

So dissolute a crew. [prince, 

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the 
And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. 

Boling. And what said the gallant ? 

Percy. His answer was, he would unto the stews, 
And from the common’st creature pluck a glove, 
And wear it as a favour: and with that 
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. [both 

Boling. As dissolute as desperate; yet through 
I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years 
May happily bring forth. But who comes here ? 


Enter Aumerle. 


Aum. Where is the king ? [looks 
Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares and 
So wildly ? [majesty, 
Aum. God save your grace! I do beseech your 
To have some conference with your grace alone. 
Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here 
alone. [ Hxeunt Percy and Lords. 
What is the matter with our cousin now ? 

Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, 
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, 
Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. 

Boling. Intended or committed was this fault ? 
If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, 

To win thy after-love I pardon thee. [key, 

Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the 
That no man enter till my tale be done. 

Boling. Have thy desire. 

York. [ Within] My liege, beware: look to thyself ; 
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. 

Boling. Villain, I’1] make thee safe. [Drawing. 

Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no 

cause to fear. [king : 

York. [ Within] Open the door, secure, fool-hardy 
Shall I for love speak treason to thy face ? 

Open the door, or I will break it open. 


Enter York. 


Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak; 
Recover breath; tell us how near is danger, 
That we may arm us to encounter it. [know 
York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt 
The treason that my haste forbids me show. 
Aum. Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise 
I do repent me; read not my name there; [pass’d: 
My heart is not confederate with my hand. 
York. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down. 
I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king; 
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence: 
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove 
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. _ 
Boling. O heinous, strong and bold conspiracy! 
O loyal father of a treacherous son! 
Thou sheer, immaculate and silver fountain, 
From whence this stream through muddy passages 
Hath held his current and defiled himselt! 
Thy overflow of good converts to bad, 
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse 
This deadly blot in thy digressing son. 
York. So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd ; 
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, 


315 


ACT V. 


As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold. 
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, 

Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies: 

Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath, 
The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death. 

Duch. [Within] What ho, my liege! for God’s 

sake, let me in. 

Boling. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this 

eager cry ? 

Duch. A woman, and thy aunt, great king; ’tis I. 
Speak with me, pity me, open the door: 

A beggar begs that never begg’d before. 

Boling. Our scene is alter’d from a serious thing, 
And now changed to ‘ The Beggar and the King.’ 
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in: 

I know she is come to pray for your foul sin. 

York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray, 
More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. 
This fester’d joint cut off, the rest rest sound; 
This let alone will all the rest confound. 


Enter Duchess. 


Duch. O king, believe not this hard-hearted man! 
Love loving not itself none other can. [here ? 

York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make 
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear ? 


Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle 
liege. Isneels. 

Boling. Rise up, good aunt. 

Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech: 


For ever will I walk upon my knees, 

And never see day that the happy sees, 

Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy, 

By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. 
Aum. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee. 
York. Against them both my true joints bended 

Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace! _[be. 
Duch. Pleads he in earnest ? look upon his face; 

His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; ° 

His words come from his mouth, ours from our 

breast : 

He prays but faintly and would be denied; 

We pray with heart and soul and all beside: 

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; 

Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow: 

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ; 

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. 

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have 

That mercy which true prayer ought to have. 
Boling. Good aunt, stand up. 

Duch. Nay, do not say, ‘stand up;’ 

Say ‘ pardon’ first, and afterwards ‘ stand up.’ 

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 

‘Pardon’ should be the first word of thy speech. 

I never long’d to hear a word till now; 

Say ‘pardon,’ king; let pity teach thee how: 

The word is short, but not so short as sweet; 

No word like ‘ pardon’ for kings’ mouths so meet. 
York. Speak it in French, king; say, ‘ pardonne 

moi.’ 
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy ? 

Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, 

That set’st the word itself against the word! 

Speak ‘ pardon’ as ’tis current in our land; 

The chopping French we do not understand. 

Thine eye begins to speak; set thy tongue there; 

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear; 

That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, 

Pity may move thee ‘ pardon ’ to rehearse. 

Boling. Good aunt, stand up. 
Duch. 1 do not sue to stand; 

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. 

Boling. 1 pardon him, as God shall pardon me. 
Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee! 

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again; 

‘Twice saying ‘ pardon’ doth not pardon twain, 

But makes one pardon strong. 


314 


KING RICHARD I. 


“With being nothing. 


® 


SCENE VY. 
Boling. With all my heart 
I pardon him. 
Duch. A god on earth thou art. _[abbot, 


Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the 
With all the rest of that consorted crew, 
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. 
Good uncle, help to order several powers 
To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are: 

They shall not live within this world, I swear, 
But I will have them, if I once know where. 
Uncle, farewell: and, cousin too, adieu: 

Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true. 

Duch. Come, my old son: I pray God make thee 

new. [ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.— The same. 


Enter Exton and Servant. 


Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words 
he spake, 

‘Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear ?’ 
Was it not so? 

Ser. These were his very words. 

Exton. ‘Have Ino friend ?’ quoth he: he spake it 
And urged it twice together, did he not?  [twice, 

Serv. He did. 

Exton. And speaking it, he wistly look’d on me; 
As who should say, ‘I would thou wert the man 
That would divorce this terror from my heart ;’ 
Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let’s go: 
Iam the king’s friend, and willridhisfoe. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— Pomfret castle. 


Enter King Richard. 


K. Rich. Ihave been studying how I may compare 
This prison where I live unto the world: 
And for because the world is populous 
And here is not a creature but myself, 
I cannot do it; yet Ill hammer it out. 
My brain [’ll prove the female to my soul, 
My soul the father; and these two beget 
A generation of still-breeding thoughts, 
And these same thoughts people this little world, 
In humours like the people of this world, 
For no thought is contented. The better sort, 
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d 
With scruples and do set the word itself 
Against the word: 
As thus, ‘Come, little ones,’ and then again, 
‘It is as hard to come as for a camel 
To thread the postern of a small needle’s eye.’ 
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot 
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails 
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs 
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, 
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. 
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves 
That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, 
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars 
Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, 
That many have and others must sit there; 
And in this thought they find a kind of ease, 
Bearing their own misfortunes on the back 
Of such as have before endured the like. 
Thus play I in one person many people, 
And none contented; sometimes am I king}; 
Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, 
And so Iam: then crushing penury 
Persuades me I was better when a king; 
Then am I king’d again: and by and by 
Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke, 
And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be, 
Nor I nor any man that but man is 
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased 
Music do I hear ? [Music 
Ha, ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is, 
When time is broke and no proportion kept! 


ACT V. 


So is it in the music of men’s lives. 

And here have I the daintiness of ear 

To check time broke in a disorder’d string ; 

But for the concord of my state and time 

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. 

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; 

For now hath time made me his numbering clock: 
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar 
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward 
Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point, [watch, 
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. 
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is 

Are clamorous groans, which strike upon my heart, 
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans 
Show minutes, times, and hours: but my time 
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, 

While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock. 
This music mads me; let it sound no more; 

For though it have holp madmen to their wits, 

In me it seems it will make wise men mad. 

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! 

For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard 

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. 


Enter a Groom of the Stable. 


Groom. Hail, royal prince! 
K. Rich. Thanks, noble peer ; 
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. 
What art thou? and how comest thou hither, 
Where no man never comes but that sad dog 
That brings me food to make misfortune live ? 
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, 
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards 
With much ado at length have gotten leave [York, 
To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face. 
O, how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld 
In London streets, that coronation-day, 
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, 
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, 
That horse that I so carefully have dress’d! 
K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle 
How went he under him ? [friend, 
Groom. So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground. 
re Net So proud that Bolingbroke was on his 


ack ! 
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; 
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. 
Would he not stumble ? would he not fall down, 
Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck 
Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? 
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee, 

Since thou, created to be awed by man, 

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; 
And yet I bear a burthen like an ass, 

Spurr’d, gall’d and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke. 


Enter Keeper, with a dish. 
Keep. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. 
K. Bich. If thou love me, ’t istime thou wert away. 
Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart 
shall say. [Hx 
Keep. My lord, will ’t please you to fall to ? 
K. Rich. Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do. 
Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who 
lately came from the king, commands the contrary. 
kK. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and 
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [thee! 
| Beats the keeper. 
Keep. Help, help, help! 


Enter Exton and Servants, armed. 


K. Rich. How now! what means death in this 
rude assault ? 
Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument. 
[Snatching an axe froma Servant and killing him. 
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. 
[He kills another. Then Exton strikes him down. 
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire 


KING RICHARD II. 


SCENE VI. 


Exton, thy fierce 
Lland. 

Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own 

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; 

Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. 

Dies. 
Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood: 

Both have I spill’d; O would the deed were good! 

For now the devil, that told me I did well, 

Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. 

This dead king to the living king I’ll bear: 

Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE VI.— Windsor castle. 


Enter Bolingbroke, York, with other 
Lords, and Attendants. 


Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear 
Is that the rebels have consumed with fire 
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire ; 
But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. 


Enter Northumberland. 


Welcome, my lord: what is the news ? 

North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all hap- 
The next news is, I have to London sent __[piness. 
The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent: 
The manner of their taking may appear 
At large discoursed in this paper here. 

Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; 
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. 


That staggers thus my person. 
hand | 


Flourish. 


Enter Fitzwater. 


Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London 
The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, 
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors 
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. 

Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot ; 
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. 


Enter Percy, and the Bishop of Carlisle. 


Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of West- 
minster, 
With clog of conscience and sour melancholy 
Hath yielded up his body to the grave; 
But here is Carlisle living, to abide 
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride. 
Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom: 
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, 
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life; 
So as thou livest in peace, die free from strife: 
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, 
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. 


Enter Exton, with persons bearing a coffin. 


Exton. Great king, within this coftin I present 
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies 
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, 
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. 
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast 
A deed of slander with thy fatalhand [wrought 
Upon my head and all this famous land. [deed. 
EKxton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this 
Boling. They love not poison that do poison need, 
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, 
I hate the murderer, love him murdered. 
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, 
But neither my good word nor princely favour: 
With Cain go wander through shades of night, 
And never show thy head by day nor light. 
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe, 
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. 
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament, 
And put on sullen black incontinent : 
Ill make a voyage to the Holy Land, 
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand: 
March sadly after; grace my mournings here; 
In weeping after this untimely bier. [ Exeunt. 


315 


THE FIRST PART OF 


KING HENRY THE FOURTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


King Henry the Fourth. 
Henry, Prince of Wales, )} : 
John of Lancaster, oie iD Pore ADS 
Earl of Westmoreland. 

Sir Walter Blunt. 

Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. 

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. 
Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. 
Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. 
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York. 
Archibald, Earl of Douglas. 

Owen Glendower. 

Sir Richard Vernon. 

Sir John Falstaff. 


Sir Michael, a Friend to the Archbishop of York. 

Poins. 

Gadshill. 

Peto. 

Bardolph. 

Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer. 

Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, and wife 
to Mortimer. 

Mistress Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. 


Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, 
two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants. 


SCENE — England. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Liv.] 


Jae OTA Rae Be 


SCENE I.—London. The palace. 
Enter King Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, the 
Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, 


and 

others. - 

King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, 
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, 
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils 
To be commenced in strands afar remote. 
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil 
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood; 
No more shall trenching war channel her fields, 
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs 
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, 
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, 
All of one nature, of one substance bred, 
Did lately meet in the intestine shock 
And furious close of civil butchery 
Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, 
March all one way and be no more opposed 
Against acquaintance, kindred and allies: 
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife, 
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, 
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ, 
Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross 
We are impressed and engaged to fight, 
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy; 
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ womb 
To chase these pagans in those holy fields 
Over whose acres walk ’d those blessed feet 
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d 
For our advantage on the bitter cross. 
But this our purpose now is twelve month old, 
And bootless ’t is to tell you we will go: 
Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear 
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland, 
What yesternight our council did decree 
In forwarding this dear expedience. 

West. My liege, this haste was hot in question, 
And many limits of the charge set down 
But yesternight: when all athwart there came 


316 


A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; 
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer, 
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight 
Against the irregular and wild Glendower, 

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, 
A thousand of his people butchered ; 

Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, 
Such beastly shameless transformation, 

By those Welshwomen done as may not be 
Without much shame retold or spoken of. 

King. It seems then that the tidings of this broil 
Brake off our business for the Holy Land. _ [lord; 

West. This match’d with other did, my gracious 
For more uneven and unwelcome news 
Came from the north and thus it did import: 

On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there, 
Young Harry Percy and brave Archibald, 
That ever-valiant and approved Scot, 

At Holmedon met, . 

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour; 
As by discharge of their artillery, 

And shape of likelihood, the news was told; 
For he that brought them, in the very heat 
And pride of their contention did take horse, 
Uncertain of the issue any way. 

KIking. Here is a dear, a true industrious friend, 
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse, 
Stain’d with the variation of each soil 
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours; 
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news. 
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited : : 
Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights, 
Balk’d in their own blood did Sir Walter see 
On Holmedon’s plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took 
Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son 
To beaten Douglas; and the Eari of Athol, 

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith: 
And is not this an honourable spoil ? 
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not ? 

West. In faith, 

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of. 


ACT I. 


King. Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest 
In envy that my Lord Northumberland [me sin 
Should be the father to so blest a son, 

A. son who is the theme of honour’s tongue; 
Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant; 

Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride: 
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, 

See riot and dishonour stain the brow 

Of my young Harry. O that it could be proved 
That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged 

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, 

And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet ! 

Then would I have his Harry,and he mine. _ [coz, 
But let him from my thoughts. What think you, 
Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners, 

Which he in this adventure hath surprised, 

To his own use he keeps; and sends me word, 

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife. [ter, 

West. This is his uncle’s teaching ; this is Worces- 
Malevolent to you in all aspects; 

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up 
The crest of youth against your dignity. 

King. But I have sent for him to answer this; 
And for this cause awhile we must neglect 
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. 

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we 
Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords: 
But come yourself with speed to us again; 
For more is to be said and to be done 
Than out of anger can be uttered. 

West. I will, my liege. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE I1.— London. An apartment of the Prince’s. 


Enter the Prince of Wales and Falstaff. 


Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad ? 

Prince. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of 
old sack and unbuttoning thee after supper and 
sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast 
forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst 
truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the 
time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack 
and minutes capons and clocks the tongues of bawds 
and dials the signs of leaping-houses and the blessed 
sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taf- 
feta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so super- 
fluous to demand the time of the day. 

Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we 
that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, 
and not by Pheebus, he, ‘that wandering knight so 
fair.’ And,I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art 
king, as, God save thy grace,— majesty I should say, 
for grace thou wilt have none,— 

Prince. What, none? 

Fal. No, by my troth, not so much as will serve 
to be prologue to an egg and butter. 

Prince. Well, howthen ? come, roundly, roundly. 

Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, 
let not us that are squires of the night’s body be 
called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s 
foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the 
moon; and let men say we be men of good govern- 
ment, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble 
and chaste mistress the moon, under whose coun- 
tenance we steal. 

Prince. Thou sayest well, and it holds well, too; 
for the fortune of us that are the moon’s men doth 
ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea 
is, by the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of 
gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and 
most dissolutely spent onTuesday morning; got with 
swearing ‘ Lay by’ and spent with crying ‘ Bring 
in;’ now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder 
and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the 
gallows. 

Fal. By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is 
not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench ? 


EAS DAT OF KING) HENRY LV. 


SCENE II. 


Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the 
castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe 
of durance ? 

Lal. How now, how now, mad wag! what,in thy 
quips and thy quiddities ? what a plague have I to 
do with a buff jerkin ? 

Prince. Why, what a 
hostess of the tavern ? 

Fal. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning 
many a time and oft. 

Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part ? 

Fal. No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid 
all there. 

Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin 
would stretch; and where it would not, I have used 
my credit. 

Fal. Yea, and so used it that, were it not here 
apparent that thou art heir apparent—But, I prithee, 
sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in Eng- 
land when thou art king? and resolution thus 
fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father 
antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, 
hang a thief. 

Prince. No; thou shalt. [judge. 

Fal. ShallI? Orare! By the Lord, Ill bea brave 

Prince. Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou 
shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become 
a rare hangman. 

fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps 
with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I 
can tell you. 

Prince. For obtaining of suits ? 

Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the 
hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as 
melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear. 

Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute. 

Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. 

Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the mel- 
ancholy of Moor-ditch ? 

Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and 
art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet 
young prince. But, Hal, I prithee, trouble me no 
more with vanity. I would to God thou and I 
knew where a commodity of good names were to 
be bought. An old lord of the council rated me 
the other day in the street about you, sir, but I 
marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely, 
but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, 
and in the street too. 

Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in 
the streets, and no man regards it. 

Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration and art in- 
deed able to corrupt asaint. Thou hast done much 
harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Be- 
fore I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now 
am I, if aman should speak truly, little better than 
one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and 
I will give it over: by the Lord, an I do not, Lam 
a villain: I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in 
Christendom. [Jack ? 

Prince. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, 

Fal. ’Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; Ill make 
one; an I do not, call me villain and baffle me. 

Prince. I see a good amendment of life in thee; 
from praying to purse-taking. 

Fal. Why, Hal, ’t is my vocation, Hal; ‘tis no sin 
for a man to labour in his vocation. 


pox have I to do with my 


Enter Poins. 


Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a 
match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what 
hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the 
most omnipotent villain that ever cried ‘Stand’ toa 

Prince. Good morrow, Ned. [true man. 

Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says 
Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack and 
Sugar? Jack! how agrees the devil and thee about 


317 


Poins! 


ACT qs 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. Scene iit. 


thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last 
for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg ? 

Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the devil 
shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a 
breaker of proverbs: he will give the devil his due. 

Poins. Then art thou damned for keeping thy 
word with the devil. 

Prince. Else he had been damned for cozening 
the devil. 

Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morn- 
ing, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! there are 
pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, 
and traders riding to London with fat purses: I 
have vizards for you all; you have horses for your- 
selves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have 
bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we 
may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will 
stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, 
tarry at home and be hanged. 

Fal. Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry.at home and 
go not, I’ll hang you for going. 

Poins. You will, chops ? 

Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one ? 

Prince. Who, I rob? Ia thief ? not I, by my faith. 

Fal. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good 
fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood 
royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings. 

Prince. Well then, once in my days I ll be a mad- 

Fal. Why, that’s well said. [cap. 

Prince. Well, come what will, Ill tarry at home. 


Fal. By the Lord, Il] be a traitor then, when thou | 


Prince. I care not. [art king. 

Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and 
me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this 
adventure that he shall go. 

Fal. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion 
and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speak- 
est may move and what he hears may be believed, 
that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a 
false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want coun- 
tenance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap. 


Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, | 
[Haut Falstaff. | 
Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with | 


All-hallown summer! 


us to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I can- 
not manage alona Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and 
Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already 
waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and 
when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob 
them, cut this head off from my shoulders. [forth ? 

Prince. How shall we part with them in setting 

Poins, Why, we will set forth before or after them, 
and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is 
at our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure 
upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have 
no sooner achieved, but we ’ll set upon them. 

Prince. Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us 
by our horses, by our habits and by every other ap- 
pointment, to be ourselves. 

Poins. Tut! our horses they shall not see; I ’l] tie 
them in the wood; our vizards we will change after 
we leave them: and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram 
for the nonce, to immask our noted outward gar- 
ments. ‘or us. 

Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard 

Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be 
as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for 
the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, Ill 
forswear arms. ‘The virtue of this jest will be, the 
incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will 
tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, 
he fought with, what wards, what blows, what ex- 
tremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies 
the jest. 

Prince. Well, I’ll go with thee: provide us all 
things necessary and meet me to-morrow night in 
Eastcheap; there I’llsup. Farewell. 


318 


1 


Poins. Farewell, my lord. [Hatt. 
Prince. I know you all, and will awhile uphold 

The unyoked humour of your idleness: 

Yet herein will I imitate the sun, 

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds 

To smother up his beauty from the world, 

That, when he please again to be himself, 

Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, 


| By breaking through the foul and ugly mists 


Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. 

If all the year were playing holidays, 

To sport would be as tedious as to work ; 

But when they seldom come, they wish’d for come, 
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off 

And pay the debt I never promised, 

By how much better than my word I am, 

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes; 

And like bright metal on a sullen ground, 

My reformation, glittering o’er my fault, 

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes 
Than that which hath no foil to set it off. 

1°11 so offend, to make offence a skill; 

Redeeming time when men think least I will. [Hzit. 


SCENE III.— London. The palace. 


Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, 
Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with others. 


King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, 
Unapt to stir at these indignities, 
And you have found me; for accordingly 
You tread upon my patience: but be sure 
I will from henceforth rather be myself, 
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition ; 
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, 
And therefore lost that title of respect 
Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud. 
Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves 
The scourge of greatness to be used on it; 
And that same greatness too which our own hands 
Have holp to make so portly. 
North. My lord,— 
king. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see 
Danger and disobedience in thine eye: 
O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, 
And majesty might never yet endure 
The moody frontier of a servant brow. 
You have good leave to leave us: when we need 
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. 


| Exit Wor. 
You were about to speak. [Zo North. 
North. Yea, my good lord. 


Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded, 
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied 
As is deliver’d to your majesty: 
Either envy, therefore, or misprision 
Is guilt? of this fault and not my son. 

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
But I remember, when the fight was done, 
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, f 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d : 
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap’d 
Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home; ¢ 
He was perfumed like a milliner; I 
And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held ‘ 
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose and took ’t away again; 
Who therewith angry, when it next came there, 
Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk’d, 
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 
He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
With many holiday and lady terms 


AGT 1. 


PIL SA ALD OP. KING CHB NEVATY. 


SCENE III. 


He question’d me; amongst the rest, demanded 
My prisoners in your majesty’s behalf. 
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, 
‘To be so pester’d with a popinjay, 
Out of my grief and my impatience, 
Answer’d neglectingly 1 know not what, 
He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad 
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet 
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman 
Of guns and drums and wounds,—God save the 
mark !— 
And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth 
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; 
And that it was great pity, so it was, 
This villanous salt-petre should be digg’d 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d 
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns, 
He would himself have been a soldier. 
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
I answer’d indirectly, as I said; 
And I beseech you, let not his report 
Come current for an accusation 
Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 
Blunt. The circumstance consider’d, good my lord, 
Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said 
To such a person and in such a place, 
At such a time, with all the rest retold, 
May reasonably die and never rise 
To do him wrong or any way impeach 
What then he said, so he unsay it now. 
King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, 
But with proviso and exception, 
That we at our own charge shall ransom straight 
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d 
The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower, 
W hose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March 
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, 
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home ? 
Shall we buy treason ? and indent with fears, 
When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 
No, on the barren mountains let him starve; 
For I shall never hold that man my friend 
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
To,ransom home revolted Mortimer. 
Hot. Revolted Mortimer! 
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 
But by the chance of war: to prove that true 
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, 
When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, 
In single opposition, hand to hand, 
He did confound the best part of an hour 
In changing hardiment with great Glendower : 
Three times they breathed and three times did they 
Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood; _[drink, 
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank 
Bloodstained with these valiant combatants. 
Never did base and rotten policy 
Colour her. working with such deadly wounds; 
Nor never could the noble Mortimer 
lteceive so many, and all willingly: 
Then let not him be slander’d with revolt. [him; 
King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie 
He never did encounter with Glendower : 
I tell thee, 
He durst as well have met the devil alone 
As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 
Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth 
~ Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer: 
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 
As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland, 


We license your departure with your son. 
Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it. 
[Haxeunt King Henry, Blunt, and train. 

Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them, 

I will not send them: I will after straight 

And tell him so; for I will ease my heart, 

Albeit I make a hazard of my head. [awhile: 
North. What, drunk with choler ? stay and pause 


_Here comes your uncle. 


Re-enter Worcester. 


ot. Speak of Mortimer! 
’Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul 
Want mercy, if I do not join with him: 
Yea, on his part Ill empty all these veins, 
And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust, 
But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer 
As high in the air as this unthankful king, 
As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke. [mad. 
North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew 
Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone ? 
Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners; 
And when I urged the ransom once again 
Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale, 
And on my face he turn’d an eye of death, 
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 
Wor. I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim’d 
By Richard that dead is the next of blood ? 
North. He was; I heard the proclamation: 
And then it was when the unhappy king,— 
Whose wrongs in us God pardon! —did set forth 
Upon his Irish expedition ; 
From whence he intercepted did return 
To be deposed and shortly murdered. {mouth 
Wor. And for whose death we in the world’s wide 
Live scandalized and foully spoken of. 
Hot. But, soft, I pray you; did King Richard then 
Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer 
Heir to the crown ? 
North. He did; myself did hear it. 
Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, 
That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve. 
But shall it be, that you, that set the crown 
Upon the head of this forgetful man — 
And for his sake wear the detested blot 
Of murderous subornation, shall it be, 
That you a world of curses undergo, 
Being the agents, or base second means, 
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather ? 
O, pardon me that I descend so low, 
To show the line and the predicament 
Wherein you range under this subtle king; 
Shall it for shame be spoken in these days, 
Or fill up chronicles in time to come, 
That men of your nobility and power 
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf, 
As both of you — God pardon it !—have done, 
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, 
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke ? 
And shall it in more shame be further spoken, 
That you are fool’d, discarded and shook off 
By him for whom these shames ye underwent ? 
No; yet time serves wherein you may redeem 
Your banish’d honours and restore yourselves 
Into the good thoughts of the world again, 
Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt 
Of this proud king, who studies day and night 
To answer all the debt he owes to you 
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths: 
Therefore, I say,— 
Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more: 
And now I will unclasp a secret book, 
And to your quick-conceiving discontents - 
Ill read you matter deep and dangerous, 
As full of peril and adventurous spirit 
As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud 
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 


319 


AGT ah, 


Hot. If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim: 
Send danger from the east unto the west, 

So honour cross it from the north to south, 
And let them grapple: O, the blood more stirs 
To rouse a lion than to start a hare! 

North. Imagination of some great exploit 
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. 

Hot. By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, 
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks; 

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear 
Without corrival all her dignities: 

But out upon this half-faced fellowship! 

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, 
But not the form of what he should attend. 

Good cousin, give me audience for a while. 

Hot. I ery you mercy. 

Wor. 

That are your prisoners,— 

Ho 


Those same noble Scots 


; Il) keep them all; 
By God, he shall not have a Scot of them ; 
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not: 
Ill keep them, by this hand. 
Wor. You start away 
And lend no ear unto my purposes. 
Those prisoners you shall keep. 
Hot. Nay, I will; that’s flat: 
He said he would not ransom Mortimer ; 
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer; 
But I will find him when he lies asleep, 
And in his ear Ill holla ‘ Mortimer! ’ 
Nay, 
I ll have a starling shall be taught to speak 
Nothing but ‘ Mortimer,’ and give it him, 
To keep his anger still in motion. 
Wor. Hear you, cousin; a word. 
Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy, 
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke: 
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales, 
But that I think his father loves him not 
And would be glad he met with some mischance, 
I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale. 
Wor. Farewell, kinsman: [ll talk to you 
When you are better temper’d to attend. [fool 
North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient 
Art thou to break into this woman’s mood, 
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own! 
Hot. Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged 
with rods, 
Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear 
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. 
In Richard’s time,—what do you call the place ?— 
A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire ; 
*T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept, 
His uncle York; where I first bow’d my knee 
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,— 
*Sblood ! — 
When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh. 


FIRST! PART OP. KIN GV A eae: 


SCENETL. 


North. At Berkley castle. 
Hot. You say true: 
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy 
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me! 
Look, ‘ when his infant fortune came to age,’ 
And ‘ gentle Harry Percy,’ and ‘ kind cousin ;’ 
O, the devil take such cozeners! God forgive me! 
Good uncle, tell your tale; I have done. 
Wor. Nay, if you have not, to it again; 
We will stay your leisure. 
Hot. I have done, i’ faith. 
Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. 
Deliver them up without their ransom straight, 
And make the Douglas’ son your only mean 
For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons 
Which I shall send you written, be assured, 
Will easily be granted. You, my lord, 
[Zo Northumberland. 
Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, 
Shall secretly into the bosom creep 
Of that same noble prelate, well beloved, 
The archbishop. 
Hot. Ot York, is it not? 
Wor. True; who bears hard 
His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop. 
I speak not this in estimation, 
As what I think might be, but what I know 
Is ruminated, plotted and set down, 
And only stays but to behold the face 
Of that occasion that shall bring it on. 
Hot. I smell it: upon my life, it will do well. 
sae Before the game is afoot, thou still let’st 
slip. 
Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot: 
And then the power of Scotland and of York, 
To join with Mortimer, ha? 
Wor. And so they shall. 
Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d. 
Wor. And *tis no little reason bids us speed, 
To save our heads by raising of a head; 
For, bear ourselves as even aS we can, 
The king will always think him in our debt, 
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, 
Till he hath found a time to pay us home! 
And see already how he doth begin 
To make us strangers to his looks of love. 
Hot. He does, he does: we’ll be revenged on him. 
Wor. Cousin, farewell: no further go in this 
Than I by letters shall direct your course. 
When time is ripe, which will be suddenly, 
I ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer: 
Where you and Douglas and our powers at once, 
As I will fashion it, shall happily meet, 
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, 
Which now we hold at much uncertainty. 
North. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, L 
trust. 
Hot. Uncle, adieu: O, let the hours be short 
Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport! 
| Hxewnt. 


Ue be 0 9 Rad el 


SCENE I.— Rochester. 


Enter «a Carrier with a lantern in his hand. 

First Car. Heigh-ho! an it be not four by the 
day, Ill be hanged: Charles’ wain is over the new 
chimney, and yet our horse not packed. What, 
ostler ! 

Ost. [ Within] Anon, anon. 

First Car. I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put 


An inn yard. 


a few flocks in the point; poor jade, is wrung in the 


withers out of all cess. 
320 


Enter another Carrier. 


Sec. Cav. Peas and beans are as dank here as a 
dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the 
bots: this house is turned upside down since Robin 
Ostler died. 7 

First Car. Poor fellow, never joyed since the 
price of oats rose; it was the death of him. 

Sec. Car. I think this be the most villanous house 
in all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench. 

First Car. Like a tench! by the mass, there is. 


ACT II. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY ITV. 


SCENE ITI. 


ne’er a king christen could be better bit than I have 
been since the first cock. 

Sec. Car. Why, they will allow us ne’er a jordan, 
and then we leak in your chimney; and your cham- 
ber-lie breeds fleas like a loach. 

First Car. What, ostler! come away and be 
hanged! come away. 

Sec. Car. Ihave a gammon of bacon and two razes 
ot ginger, to be delivered as far as Charingcross. 

First Car. God’s body! the turkeys in my pannier 
are quite starved. What, ostler! A plague on thee! 
hast thou never an eye in thy head ? canst not hear ? 
An ’t were not as good deed as drink, to break the 
pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be 
hanged! hast no faith in thee ? 


Enter Gadshill. 


Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock ? 

First Car. I think it be two o’clock. 

Gads. I prithee, lend me thy lantern, to see my 
gelding in the stable. 

First Car. Nay, by God soft; I know a trick 
worth two of that, i’ faith. 

Gads. I pray thee, lend me thine. 

Sec. Car. Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy 
lantern, quoth he ? marry, I'll see thee hanged first. 

Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to 
come to London ? 

Sec. Car. Time enough to go to bed with acandle, 
I warrant thee. Come, neighbor Mugs, we’ll call 
up the gentlemen: they will along with company, 
for they have great charge. | Hxeunt Carriers. 

Gads. What, ho! chamberlain! 

Cham. [ Within] At hand, quoth pick-purse. 

Gads. That ’s even as fair as—at hand, quoth 
the chamberlain; for thou variest no more from 
picking of purses than giving direction doth from 
labouring; thou layest the plot how. 


Enter Chamberlain. 


Cham. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds 
current that I told you yesternight: there ’s a frank- 
lin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred 
marks with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one 
of his company last night at supper; a kind of 
auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, 
God knows what. They are up already, and call 
for eggs and butter: they will away presently. 

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nich- 
olas’ clerks, Ill give thee this neck. 

Cham. No, I’ll none of it: I pray thee keep that 
for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest 
Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. 

Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hangman ? 
if I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows; for if I 
hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou know- 
est he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Tro- 
jans that thou dreamest not of, the which for sport 
sake are content to do the profession some grace; 
that would, if matters should be looked into, for 
their own credit sake, make all whole. JI am joined 
with no foot-land rakers, no long-staff sixpenny 
strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued 
malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, 
burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold 
in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak 
sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and 
yet, ’zounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their 
saint, the commonwealth; or rather, not pray to 
her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on 
her and make her their boots. 

Cham. What, the commonwealth their boots ? 
will she hold out water in foul way ? 

Gads. She will, she will; justice hath liquored 
her. We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have 
the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible. 

Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more 


a2 


beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your 
walking invisible. 

Gads. Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share 
in our purchase, as I am a true man. 

Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a 
false thief. 

Gads. Go to; ‘homo’ is a common name to all 
men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the 
stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The highway, near Gadshill. 


Enter Prince Henry and Poins. 


Poins. Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed 
Falstaft’s horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet. 
Prince. Stand close. 


Enter Falstaff. 


Fal. Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins! 

Prince. Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! what a 
brawling dost thou keep! 

fal. Where ’s Poins, Hal ? 

Prince. He is walked up to the top of the hill: 
I’ll go seek him. 

Fal. I am accursed to rob in that thief’s com- 
pany: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied 
him I know not where. If I travel but four foot 
by the squier further afoot, I shall break my wind. 
Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all 
this, if I ’scape hanging for killing that rogue. I 
have forsworn his company hourly any time this 
two and twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with 
the rogue’s company. If the rascal have not given 
me medicines to make me love him, I ’ll be hanged ; 
it could not be else; I have drunk medicines. 
Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both! Bardolph! 
Peto! Ill starve ere Ill rob a foot further. An 
t+ were not as good a deed as drink, to turn true 
man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest 
varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Hight yards 
of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot 
with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it 
well enough: a plague upon it when thieves cannot 
be true one to another! [They whistle.| Whew! 
A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you 
rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged! 

rince. Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down; lay thine 
ear close to the ground and list if thou canst hear 
the tread of travellers. 

Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, 
being down? ’Sblood, Ill not bear mine own flesh 
so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father’s 
seas ey What a plague mean ye to colt me 
thus 

Prince. Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art 
uncolted. 

Fal. I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my 
horse, good king’s son. 

Prince. Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler ? 

Fal. Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent 
garters! If Ibe ta’en, I’ll peach for this. An I 
have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy 
tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest 
is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it. 


Enter Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto with him. 


Gads. Stand. 

Fal. So I do, against my will. 

Poins. O, ’tis our setter: I know his voice. Bar- 
dolph, what news ? 

Bard. Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: 
there ’s money of the king’s coming down the hill; 
tis going to the king’s exchequer. i 

Fal. You lie, ye rogue; ’tis going to the king’s 
tavern. 

Gads. There’s enough to make us all. 

Fal. To be hanged. 


321 


ADOT WE: 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY ITV. 


SCENE I{flf. 


Prince. Sirs, you four shall front them in the nar- | more. ‘The purpose you undertake is dangerous ; ’ 


row lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they 
’scape from your encounter, then they light on us. 

Peto. How many be there of them ? 

Gads. Some eight or ten. 

Fal. ’Zounds, will they not rob us ? 

Prince. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch ? 

Fal. Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grand- 
father; but yet no coward, Hal. 

Prince. Well, we leave that to the proof. 

Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the 
hedge: when thou needest him, there thou shalt find 
him. Farewell, and stand fast. 

Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be 
hanged. 

Prince. Ned, where are our disguises ? 

Poins. Here, hard by: stand close. 

[| Exeunt Prince and Pons. 

Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, 
say I: every man to his business. 


Enter the Travellers. 


First Trav. Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead 
our horses down the hill; we’ll walk afoot awhile, 
and ease our legs. 

Thieves. Stand! 

Travellers. Jesus bless us! 

Fal. Strike; down with them; cut the villains’ 
throats: ah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed 
knaves! they hate us youth: down with them: 
fleece them, 

Travellers. O, we are undone, both we and ours 
for ever! 

Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone ? 
No, ye fat chuffs; I would your store were here! 
On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men 
must live. You are grandjurors, are ye ? we ’ll jure 
ye, faith. 

[Here they rob them and bind them. Exeunt. 


Re-enter Prince Henry and Poins. 


Prince. The thieves have bound the true men. 
Now could thou and I rob the thieves and go mer- 
rily to London, it would be argument for a week, 
laughter for a month and a good jest for ever. 

Poins. Stand close; I hear them coming. 


Enter the Thieves again. 

Fal. Come, my masters, let us share, and then 
to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be 
not two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring: 
there ’s no more valour in that Poins than in a 

Prince. Your money! [wild-duck. 

Poins. Villains! 

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set 
upon them; they all run away; and Falstaff, 
ae a blow or two, runs away too, leaving 
the booty behind them.] 

Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to 
horse : 
The thieves are all scatter’d and possess’d with fear 
So strongly that they dare not meet each other; 
Each takes his fellow for an officer. 
Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death, 
And lards the lean earth as he walks along: 
Were ’t not for laughing, I should pity him. 

Poins. How the rogue roar’d! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE ITII.— Warkworth castle. 


Enter Hotspur, solus, reading a letter. 


Hot. ‘ But, for mine own part, my lord, I could 
be well contented to be there, in respect of the love 
I bear your house.’ He could be contented: why 
is he not, then? In respect of the love he bears our 
house: he shows in this, he loves his own barn 
better than he loves our house. Let me see some 


822 


—why,that’s certain: ’t is dangerous to take a cold, 
to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out 
of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 
‘The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the 
friends you have named uncertain; the time itself 
unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the 
counterpoise of so great an opposition.’ Say you 
so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a 
shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack- 
brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot 
as ever was laid; our friends true and constant; a 
good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an 
excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty- 
spirited rogue is this! Why, my lord of York com- 
mends the plot and the general course of the action. 
’*Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I could brain 
him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my father, 
my uncle and myself? lord Edmund Mortimer, my 
lord of York and Owen Glendower? is there not 
besides the Douglas ? have I not all their letters to 
meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month ? 
and are they not some of them set forward already ? 
What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you 
shall see now in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, 
will he to the king and lay open all our proceedings. 
O, I could divide myself and go to buffets, for moving 
such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an ae- 
tion! Hang him! let him tell the king: we are 
prepared. JI will set forward to-night. 


Enter Lady Percy. 


How phe Kate! I must leave you within these two 
ours. 

Lady. O, my good lord, why are you thus alone ? 
For what offence have I this fortnight been 
A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed ? 
Tell me, sweet lord, what is ’t that takes from thee 
Thy stomach, pleasure and thy golden sleep ? 
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, 
And start so often when thou sit’st alone ? 
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks; 
And given my treasures and my rights of thee 
To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy ? 


‘In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, 


And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars; 
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed : 
Cry ‘ Courage! to the field!’ And thou hast talk’d 
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, 
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, 
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin, 
Of prisoners’ ransom and of soldiers slain, 
And all the currents of a heady fight. 
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war 
And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep, 
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, 
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream ; 
And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, 
Such as we see when men restrain their breath 
On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are 
these ? 
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, 
And I must know it, else he loves me not. 
Hot. What, ho! 
Enter Servant. 
Is Gilliams with the packet gone ? 
Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago. [sheriff ? 
Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the 
Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now. 
Hot. What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not? 
Serv. It is, my lord. 
Hot. That roan shall be my throne. 
Well, I will back him straight: O esperance! 
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. 
[Exit Servant. 
Lady. But hear you, my lord. 
Hot. What say’st thou, my lady ? 


Ae PART Oe 


Lady. What is it carries you away ? 
Hot. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. 
Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape! 
A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen 
As you are toss’d with. In faith, 
I’l) know your business, Harry, that I will. 
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir 
About his title, and hath sent for you 
To line his enterprise; but if you go,— 
Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. 
Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me 
Directly unto this question that I ask: 
In faith, Ill break thy little finger, Harry, 
An if thou wilt not tell me all things true. 
Hot. Away, 
Away, youtrifler! Love! I love thee not, 
I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world 
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips: 
We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns, 
And pass them current too. God’s me, my horse! 
What say’st thou, Kate? what would’st thou have 
with me? 
Lady. Do you not love me? do you not, indeed ? 
Well, do not then; for since you love me not, 
I will not love myself. Do you not love me? 
Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. 
Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride ? 
And when I am o’ horseback, I will swear 
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate; 
I must not have you henceforth question me 
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout : 
Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude, 
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. 
I know you wise, but yet no farther wise 
Than Harry Percy’s wife: constant you are, 
But yet a woman: and for secrecy, 
No lady closer; for I well believe 
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know; 
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. 
Lady. How! so far? 
Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate: 
Whither I go, thither shall you go too; 
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. 
Will this content you, Kate? 
Lady. It must of force. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE pera The Boar’s-Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 


Enter the Prince and Poins. 


Prince. Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room, 
and lend me thy hand to laugh a little. 

Poins. Where hast been, Hal ? 

Prince. With three or four loggerheads amongst 
three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the 
very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn 
brother to a leash of drawers; and can call them all 
by their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. 
They take it already upon their salvation, that 
though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king 
of courtesy ; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, 
like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a 
good boy, by the Lord, so they call me, and when I 
am king of England, I shall command all the good 
lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dyeing 
scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, 
they cry ‘hem!’ and bid you play it off. To con- 
clude, lam so good a proficient in one quarter of 
an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his 
own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, 
thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with 
me in this action. But, sweet Ned,—to sweeten 
which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of 
sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an under- 
skinker, one that never spake other English in his 
life than ‘ Eight shillings and sixpence,’ and ‘ You 
are welcome,’ with this shrill addition, ‘ Anon, 
anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half- 


AGT LT. 


KEN GON BYOSL¥. 


SCENE IV. 


ae 


moon,’ or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time 
till Falstaff come, I prithee, do thou stand in some 
by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what 
end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never leave 
calling ‘ Francis,’ that his tale to me may be noth- 
ing but ‘Anon.’ Step aside, and I’ll show thee a 

Poins. Francis! [precedent. 

Prince. Thou art perfect. ; 

Poins. Francis! [ Haxit Poins 


Enter Francis. 


Fran. Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the 
Pomgarnet, Ralph. 

Prince. Come hither, Francis. 

Fran. My lord ? 

Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Francis ? 

Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to— 

Poins. [Within] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, anon, sir. 

Prince. Five year! by ’r lady, a long lease for the 
clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be 
so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture 
and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it? 

Fran. O Lord, sir, Ill] be sworn upon all the 
books in England, I could find in my heart. 

Poins. [Within] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, sir. 

Prince. How old art thou, Francis ? 

Fran. Let me see—about Michaelmas next I shall 

Poins. [Within] Francis! [be — 

Fran. Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord. 

Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar 
thou gavest me, ’t was a pennyworth, wast ’t not ? 

Fran. O Lord, I would it had been two! 

Prince. I will give thee for it a thousand pound: 
ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it. 

Poins. [Within] Francis! 

Fran. Anon, anon. 

Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to- 
morrow, Francis; or Francis, 0’ Thursday; or in- 
deed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis! 

Fran. My lord? 

Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal- 
button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking,caddis- 
garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,— 

Fran. O Lord, sir, who do you mean ? 

Prince. Why, then, your brown bastard is your 
only drink ; for look you, Francis, your white canvas 
doublet will sully : in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to 

Fran. What, sir ? [so much. 

Poins. [Within] Francis! 

Prince. Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear 
them call? [Here they both call him; the drawer 
stands amazed, not knowing which way to go. 


Enter Vintner. 


Vint. What, standest thou still, and hearest such 
acalling? Look to the guests within. [Hit Fran- 
cis.]| My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, 
are at the door: shall I let them in ? 

Prince. Let them alone awhile, and then open 
the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins! 


Re-enter Poins. 
Poins. Anon, anon, sir. ; 
Prince. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves 
are at the door: shall we be merry ? 
Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark 
ye; what cunning match have you made with this 
jest of the drawer? come, whats the issue ? 
Prince. Iam now of all humours that have showed 
themselves humours since the old days of goodman 
Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock 
idnight. 
Ce wene Re-enter Francis. 
What ’s o’clock, Francis ? 
Fran. Anon, anon, sir. 


323 


[eet 


# . 


ACT II. 


Prince. That ever this fellow should have fewer 
words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! 
His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs; his elo- 
quence the parcel of a reckoning. Iam not yet of 
Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the north; he that 
kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a break- 
fast, washes his hands, and says to his wife ‘ Fie 
upon this quiet life! I want work.’ *O my sweet 
Harry,’ says she, ‘how many hast thou killed to- 
day?’ ‘Give my roan horse a drench,’ says he; 
and answers ‘Some fourteen,’ an hour after; ‘a 
trifle, a trifle.’ I prithee, call in Falstaff: I ll play 
Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame 
Mortimer his wife. ‘Rivo!’ says the drunkard. 
Call in ribs, call in tallow. 


Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; 
Francis following with wine. 


Poins. Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been ? 

Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a ven- 
geance too! marry, and amen! Give mea cup of 
sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I ll sew nether 
stocks and mend them and foot them too. A plague 
of all cowards! Give mea cup of sack, rogue. Is 
there no virtue extant ? [He drinks. 

Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of 
butter ? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the 
sweet tale of the sun’s! if thou didst, then behold 
that compound. 

Fal. You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: 
there is nothing but roguery to be found in villan- 
ous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack 
with lime init. A villanouscoward! Gothy ways, 
old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good 
manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, 
then am I a shotten herring. There live not three 
good men unhanged in England; and one of them 
is fat and grows old: God help the while! a bad 
world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could 
sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, 
I say still. 

Prince. How now, wool-sack! what mutter you ? 

Fal. A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of 
thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all 
thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, 
Ill never wear hair on my face more. You Prince 
of Wales! 

Prince. Why, you whoreson round man, what ’s 
the matter ? 

Fal. Are not you a coward ? answer me to that: 
and Poins there ? 

Poins. ’Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me 
coward, by the Lord, I ’ll stab thee. 

Fal. I call thee coward! Ill see thee damned 
ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand 
pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are 
straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who 
sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? 
A plague upon such backing! give me them that 
-will faceme. Give mea cup of sack: lama rogue, 
if I drunk to-day. 

Prince. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since 
thou drunkest last. 

Fal. All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague 
of all cowards, still say I. 

Prince. What’s the matter ? 

Fal. What’s the matter! there be four of us here 
have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning. 

Prince. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? 

Fal. Where is it! taken from us it is: a hundred 
upon poor four of us. 

Prince. What, a hundred, man ? 

Fal. lam a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with 
a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scaped 
by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the 


doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut 
through and through; my sword hacked like a 


324 


FIRST ‘PART VOF* KING HEN ei 


cea ere AR “CAO ay 
- 


SCENE IV. 


hand-saw—ecce signum! I never dealt better since 
I wasa man: all would not do. A plague of all cow- 
ards! Let them speak: if they speak more or less 
than truth, they are villains and the sons of dark- 

Prince. Speak, sirs; how was it ? [ness. 

Gads. We four set upon some dozen — 

Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. 

Gads. And bound them. 

Peto. No, no, they were not bound. 

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of 
them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. 

Gads. AS we were sharing, some six or seven 
fresh men set upon us— [other. 

Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the 

Prince. What, fought you with them all ? 

Fal. All! I know not what you call all; but if I 
fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of rad- 
ish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon 
poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature. 

Prince. Pray God you have not murdered some 
of them. , 

Fal. Nay, that’s past praying for: I have pep- 
pered two of them; two I am sure I have paid, two 
rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if 
I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou 
knowest my old ward; here I lay, and thus I bore my 
point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me— 

Prince. What, four? thou saidst but two even now. 

Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four. 

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. 

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly 
thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took 
all their seven points in my target, thus. [now. 

Prince. Seven? why, there were but four even 

Fal. In buckram ? 

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. 

Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. 

Prince. Prithee, let him alone ; we shall have more 

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal? [anon. 

Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These 
nine in buckram that I told thee of — 

Prince. So, two more already. 

Fal. Their points being broken, — 

Poins. Down fell their hose. 

Fal. Began to give me ground: but I followed 
me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought 
seven of the eleven I paid. 

Prince. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown 
out of two! 

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three mis- 
begotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back 
and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that 
thou couldst not see thy hand. 

Prince. These lies are like their father that begets 
them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, 
thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou 
whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch, — 

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not 
the truth the truth ? 

Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these men 
in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst 
not see thy hand ? come, tell us your reason: what 
sayest thou to this ? 

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. 

Fal. What, upon compulsion ? ’Zounds, an I were 
at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I 
would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a rea- 
son on compulsion! if reasons were as plentiful as 
blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon 
compulsion, I. 

Prince. I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin; this 
sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback- 
breaker, this huge hill of flesh, — 

Fal. ’Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you 
dried neat’s tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish ! 
O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor’s- 


aelont 


¢eeee,* ® 


ACT II. 


aoa you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing- 
tuck,— — 
Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: 
and when thou hast tired thyself in base compari- 
sons, hear me speak but this. 

Poins. Mark, Jack. 

Prince. We two saw you four set on four and 
bound them, and were masters of their wealth. 
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. 
Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, 
out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, 
and can show it you here in the house: and, Fal- 
staff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as 
quick dexterity, and roared for mercy and still run 
and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave 
art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and 
then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, 
what starting-hole, canst thou now find out to hide 
thee from this open and apparent shame ? 

Poins. Come, let’s hear, Jack; what trick hast 
thou now ? 

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that 
made ye. Why, hear you, my masters: was it for 
me to kill the heir-apparent ? should I turn upon 
the true prince ? why, thou knowest I am as valiant 
as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not 
touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; 
I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the 
better of myself and thee during my life; I fora 
valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by 
the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. 
Hostess, clap to the doors: watch to-night, pray 
to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all 
the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, 
shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore 7 

Prince. Content; and the argument shall be thy 
running away. 

Fal. Ah,nomore of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! 


Enter Hostess. 


Host. O Jesu, my lord the prince! 

Prince. How now, my lady the hostess! what say- 
est thou to me? 

Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the 
court at door would speak with you: he says he 
comes from your father. 

Prince. Give him as much as will make him a 
royal man, and send him back again to my mother. 

Fal. What manner of man is he? 

Host. An old man. 

Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at mid- 
night? Shall I give him his answer ? 

Prince. Prithee, do, Jack. 

Fal. ’Faith, and I’ll send him packing. _[Ezvit. 

Prince. Now, sirs: by’r lady, you fought fair; 
so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph: you are 
lions too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not 
touch the true prince; no, fie! 

Bard. ’Faith, I ran when I saw others run. 

Prince. ’Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came 
Falstaff’s sword so hacked ? 

Peto. Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and 
said he would swear truth out of England but he 
would make you believe it was done in fight, and 
persuaded us to do the like. 

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear- 
grass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our 
garments with it and swear it was the blood of true 
men. I did that I did not this seven year before, I 
blushed to hear his monstrous devices. 

Prince. Q villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eight- 
een years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and 
ever since thou hast blushed extempore. ‘Thou 
hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou ran- 
nest away: what instinct hadst thou for it? 

Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors ? do you 
behold these exhalations ? 


PHESLOLPART OF KING HENRY (DV. 


SCENE IV. 


Prince. I do. 

Bard. What think you they portend ? 
Prince. Hot livers and cold purses. 
Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. 
Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter. 


Re-enter Falstaff. 


Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How 
now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long 
is *t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee ? 

Fal. My own knee! when I was about thy years, 
Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist; I could 
have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring: a 
plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up 
like a bladder. There’s villanous news abroad: 
here was Sir John Bracy from your father; you 
must to the court in the morning. That same mad 
fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales, that 
gave Amamon the bastinado and made Lucifer 
cuckold and swore the devil his true liegeman upon 
aS a of a Welsh hook — what a plague call you 
im ' 

Poins. O, Glendower. 

Fal. Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law 
Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and _ that 
sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs 0’ 
horseback up a hill perpendicular,— 

Prince. He that rides at high speed and with his 
pistol kills a sparrow flying. 

Fal. You have hit it. 

Prince. So did he never the sparrow. 

Fal. Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him; 
he will not run. 

Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to 
praise him so for running! 

Fal. O’ horseback, ye cuckoo; but afoot he will 
not budge a foot. 

Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. 

Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there 
too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps 
more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy fa- 
ther’s beard is turned white with the news: you 
may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel. 

Prince. Why, then, it is like, if there come a hot 
June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy 
maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds. 

Fal. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like 
we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, 
Hal, art not thou horrible afeard ? thou being heir- 
apparent, could the world pick thee out three such 
enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit 
Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not 
horribly afraid ? doth not thy blood thrill at it? 

Prince. Not a wit, i’faith; I lack some of thy 
instinct. 

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow 
when thou comest to thy father: if thou love me, 
practise an answer. 

Prince. Do thou stand for my father, and examine 
me upon the particulars of my life. 


Fal. Shall 1? content: this chair shall be my 


state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my 
crown. 

Prince. Thy state is taken for a joined-stool, thy 
golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious 
rich crown for a pitiful bald crown! 

Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of 
thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give mea cup of 
sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be 
thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, 
and I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein. 

Prince. Well, here is my leg. a8 

Fal. And hereismy speech. Stand aside, nobility. 

Host. O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i’ faith! 

Fal. Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling tears 

are vain. 

Host. O, the father, how he holds his countenance! 


325 EM | 


ACT II. 


Fal. For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful 


queen ; 
For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes. 

Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these har- 
lotry players as ever I see! 

kal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle- 
brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou 
spendest thy time, but also how thou art accom- 
panied; for though the camomile, the more it is 
trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more 
it is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou art my 
son, I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my 
own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of thine 
eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth 
warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies 
the point; why, being son to me, art thou so pointed 
at ? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher 
and eat blackberries ? a question not to be asked. 
Shall the son of England prove a thief and take 
purses ? a question to be asked. There isa thing, 
Harry, which thou hast often heard of and it is 
known to many in our land by the name of pitch: 
this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile ; 
so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now 
I do not speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in 
pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in 
woes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom I 
have often noted in thy company, but I know not 
his name. 

Prince. What manner of man, an it like your 
majesty ? 

Fal. A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpu- 
lent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most 
noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, 
or, by ’r lady, inclining to three score; and now IL 
remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man 
should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, 
Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree 
may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, 
then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in 
that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And 
tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where 
hast thou been this month ? 

Prince. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou 
stand for me, and Ill play my father. 

Fal. Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, 
so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me 
up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter’s 

Prince. Well, here I am set. [hare. 

Fal. And here I stand: judge, my masters. 

Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you? 

Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. [ous. 

Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are griev- 

Fal. ’Sblood, my lord, they are false: nay, Ill 
tickle ye for a young prince, 1’ faith. 

Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy ? hence- 
forth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently carried 
away from grace: there isa devil haunts thee in 
the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy 
companion. Why dost thou converse with that 
trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, 
that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard 
of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted 
Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that 
reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, 
that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to 
taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, 
but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning 
but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany ? 
wherein villanous, but in all things? wherein 
worthy, but in nothing ? 

Fal. I would your grace would take me with 
you: whom means your grace ? 

Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of 
youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. 

Fal. My lord, the man I know. 

Prince. I know thou dost. 


326 


FIRST PART OR CKING \HEN RYAN 


SCENE IV. 


Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than 
in myself, were to say more than I know. That he 
is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness 
it; but that he is, saving your reverence, a whore- 
master, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be 
a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry 
be a sin, then many an old host that I know is 
damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s 
lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord; 
banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins: but 
for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true 
Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore 
more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, 
banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not 
him thy Harry’s company: banish plump Jack, 
and banish all the world. 

Prince. I do, I will. [A knocking heard. 

[Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph. 


Re-enter Bardolph, running. 
Bard. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a 
most monstrous watch is at the door. 
Fal. Out, ye rogue! Play out the play: I have 
much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff. 


Re-enter the Hostess. 


Host. O Jesu, my lord, my lord! 

Prince. Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a fid- 
dlestick: what’s the matter ? . 

Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at the 
door: they are come to search the house. Shall I 
let them in? 

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece 
of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad, 
without seeming so. [stinct. 

Prince. And thou a natural coward, without in- 

Fal. I deny your major: if you will deny the 
sheriff, so; if not, let him enter: if I become not a 
cart as well as another man, a plague on my bring: 
ing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a 
halter as another. 

Prince. Go, hide thee behind the arras: the rest 
walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face 
and good conscience. 

Fal. Both which I have had: but their date is 
out, and therefore I 71] hide me. 

Prince. Call in the sheriff. 

[ Hxeunt all except the Prince and Peto. 


Enter Sheriff and the Carrier. 


Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me? 
Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and ery 
Hath follow’d certain men unto this house. | 
Prince. What men ? lord, 
Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious 
A gross fat man. 
Jar. As fat as butter. 
Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not here; 
For I myself at this time have employ’d him. 
And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee 
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time, 
Send him to answer thee, or any man, 
For any thing he shall be charged withal: 
And so let me entreat you leave the house. 
Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen 
Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks. 
Prince. It may beso: if he have robb’d these men, 
He shall be answerable; and so farewell. 
Sher. Good night, my noble lord. 
Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not ? 
Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock. 
[Hxeunt Sheriff and Carrier. 
Prince. This oily rascal is known as well as 
Paul’s. Go, call him forth. 
Peto. Falstaff!— Fast asleep behind the arras, 
and snorting like a horse. 
Prince. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search 


ht ae 


ACT III. 


PLESTLVPART. OF KING “HANEY: TV. 


SCEME I. 


his pockets. [He searcheth his pockets, and findeth 
certain papers.| What hast thou found ? 
Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord. 
Prince. Let ’s see what they be: read them. 
Peto. [Reads] Item, A capon, . 2s. 2d. 
Item, Sauce, . : , 4d. 
Item, Sack, two gallons, . 5s. 8d. 
Item, Anchovies and sack 
after supper, 2s. 6d. 
Item, Bread, . : : ob. 
Prince. O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth 


of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What 
there is else, keep close; we’ll read it at more ad- 
vantage: there let him sleep till day. I7ll to the 
court in the morning. We must all to the wars, 
and thy place shall be honourable. I7’ll procure 
this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know his 
death will be a march of twelve-score. The money 
shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with 
me betimes in the morning; and so, good morrow, 
Peto. | Hxeunt. 
Peto. Good morrow, good my lord. 


Ce Bama Bal a 


SCENE I.— Bangor. The Archdeacon’s house. 


Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and 
Glendower. 


Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure, 
And our induction full of prosperous hope. 

Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, 
Will you sit down ? 

And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it! 
I have forgot the map. 

Glend. No, here it is. 

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur. 
For by that name as oft as Lancaster 

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with 
A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven. 

Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears Owen 
Glendower spoke of. 

Glend. I cannot blame him: at my nativity 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 

Of burning cressets; and at my birth 
The frame and huge foundation of the earth 
Shaked like a coward. 

Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same 
season, if your mother’s cat had but kittened, 
though yourself had never been born. 

Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was born. 

Hot. And I say the earth was not of my mind, 
If you suppose as fearing you it shook. 

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did 

tremble. 

Hot. O, then the earth shook to see the heavens 
And not in fear of your nativity. [on fire, 
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d 
By the imprisoning of unruly wind 
Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving, 
Shakes the old beldam earth and topples down 
Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth 
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature, 
In passion shook. 

Glend. Cousin, of many men 
I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 
To tell you once again that at my birth 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds 
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. 
These signs have mark’d me extraordinary ; 

And all the courses of my life do show 

I am not in the roll of common men. 

Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea 

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, 
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? 

And bring him out that is but woman’s son 

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art 

And hold me pace in deep experiments. 

Hot. I think there ’s no man speaks better Welsh. 
_ [711 to dinner. [mad. 
Mort. Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him 
Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 


Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man; 


_ But will they come when you do call for them ? 


Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command 
The devil. 

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil 
By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil. 
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, 
And Ill be sworn I have power to shame him hence. 
O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil! 

Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable 

chat. [head 

Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made 
Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye 
And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him 
Bootless home and weather-beaten back. 

Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too! 
How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name ? 

Glend. Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our 
According to our threefold order ta’en ? [right 

Mort. The archdeacon hath divided it 
Into three limits very equally: 

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto, 

By south and east is to my part assign’d: 

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore, 

And all the fertile land within that bound, 

To Owen Glendower: and, dear coz, to you 

The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. 

And our indentures tripartite are drawn; 

Which being sealed interchangeably, 

A business that this night may execute, 

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I 

And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth 

To meet your father and the Scottish power, 

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. 

My father Glendower is not ready yet, 

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. 

Within that space you may have drawn together 

Your tenants, friends and neighbouring gentlemen. 
Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords: 

And in my conduct shall your ladies come ; 

From whom you now must steal and take no leaye, 

For there will be a world of water shed 

Upon the parting of your wives and you. [here, 
Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton 

In quantity equals not one of yours: 

See how this river comes me cranking in, 

And cuts me from the best of all my land 

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. 

I’) have the current in this place damm’d up; 

And here the smug and silver Trent shall run 

In a new channel, fair and evenly ; 

It shall not wind with such a deep indent, 

To rob me of so rich a bottom here. [doth. 
Glend. Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it 
Mort. Yea, but 

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up 

With like advantage on the other side ; 

Gelding the opposed continent as much 

As on the other side it takes from you. 

Wor. Yea, but alittle charge will trench him here 


327 


ACT f1I. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY TY. SCENE I. 
And on this north side win this cape of land; Upon the beauty of all parts besides, 
And then he runs straight and even. Beguiling them of commendation. [speed ! 


Hot. 1’ll have it so: a little charge will do it. 

Glend. 1 ll not have it alter’d. 

Hot. Will not you ? 

Glend. No, nor you shall not. 

Hot. Who shall say me nay ? 

Glend. Why, that will I. Welsh. 
Hot. Let menot understand you, then; speak it in 
Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you; 

For I was train’d up in the English court; 

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp 

Many an English ditty lovely well 

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament, 

A virtue that was never seen in you. 

Hot. Marry, 

And I am glad of it with all my heart: 

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew 

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers ; 

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d, 

Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ; 

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, 

Nothing so much as mincing poetry: 

’T is like the forced gait of a shuffling nag. 

Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d. 

Hot. I do not care: Ill give thrice so much land 
To any well-deserving friend ; 

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, 

J ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair. 

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone ? 
Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by 

I *ll haste the writer and withal [night : 

Break with your wives of your departure hence: 

I am afraid my daughter will run mad, 

So much she doteth on her Mortimer. [ Exit. 
Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father! 
Hot. I cannot choose: sometime he angers me 

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, 

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, 

And of a dragon and a finless fish, 

A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven, 

A couching lion and a ramping cat, 

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff 

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what; 

He held me last night at least nine hours 

In reckoning up the several devils’ names [to,’ 

That were his lackeys: I cried ‘hum,’ and ‘well, go 

But mark’d him not a word. O, he is as tedious 

As a tired horse, a railing wife; 

Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live 

With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, 

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me 

In any summer-house in Christendom. 

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, 
Exceedingly well read, and profited 
In strange concealments, valiant as a lion 
And wondrous affable and as bountiful 
As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin ? 

He holds your temper in a high respect 

And curbs himself even of his natural scope 

When you come ’cross his humour; faith, he does: 

I warrant you, that man is not alive 

Might so have tempted him as you have done, 

Without the taste of danger and reproof: 

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. 

Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame ; 
And since your coming hither have done enough 
To put him quite beside his patience. 

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault: 

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, 

blood,— 

And that’s the dearest grace it renders you,— 

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, 

Defect of manners, want of government, 

Pride, haughtiness, opinion and disdain: 

The least of which haunting a nobleman 

Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain 


328 


ot. Well, I am school’d: good manners be your 
Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. 


Re-enter Glendower with the ladies. 


Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me; 
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. 

Glend. My daughter weeps: she will not part 

with you; 
She ’ll be a soldier too, she ’ll to the wars. [Percy 

Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt 
Shall follow in your conduct speedily. 

[Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers 

him in the same. 

Glend. She is desperate here; a peevish self-will’d 
harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon. 

[The lady speaks in Welsh. 

Mort. I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh 
Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heay- 
I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, [ens 
In such a parley should I answer thee. 

[The lady speaks again in Welsh. 
I understand thy kisses and thou mine, 
And that’s a feeling disputation: 
But I will never be a truant, love, 
Till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue 
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d, 
Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, 
With ravishing division, to her lute. 
Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. 
[The lady speaks again in Welsh. 

Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this! [down 

Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you 
And rest your gentle head upon her lap, 

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you 
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, 
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, 
Making such difference *twixt wake and sleep 
As is the difference betwixt day and night 
The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team 
Begins his golden progress in the east. 

Mort. With all my heart Ill sit and hear her sing: 
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn. 

Glend. Do so; 

And those musicians that shall play to you 
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence 
And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend. 

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: 
come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy 

Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. ap 
[The music plays. 

Hot. Now I perceive.the devil understands W elsh ; 
And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous. 

By ’r lady, he is a good musician. 

Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical, 
for you are altogether governed by humors. Lie 
still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh. [Irish. 

Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in 

Lady P. Wouldst thou have thy head broken ? 

Hot. No. 

Lady P. Then be still. 

Hot. Neither; ’tis a woman’s fault. 

Lady P. Now God help thee! 

Hot. To the Welsh lady’s bed. 

Lady P. What’s that ? 

Hot. Peace! she sings. 

[Here the lady sings a Welsh song. 

Hot. Come, Kate, Ill have your song too. 

Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth. 

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! Heart! youswear 
like a comfit-maker’s wife. ‘ Not you, in good sooth,’ 
and ‘as true as I live,’ and ‘as God shall mend me,’ 
and ‘as sure as day,’ 

And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths, 
As if thou never walk’st further than Finsbury. 
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, 


ACT III. 


A good mouth-filling oath, and leave ‘ in sooth,’ 
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread, 

To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. 

Come, sing. 

Lady P. I will not sing. 

Hot. Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red- 
breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, Ill 
away within these two hours; and so, come in when 
ye will. [ Hiit. 

Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as 


As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. [slow 
By this our book is drawn; we ’ll but seal, 
And then to horse immediately. 

Mort. With all my heart. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE II. — London. 


Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others. 


King. Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales 
and I [hand, 
Must have some private conference: but be near at 
For we shall presently have need of you. 
[Hxeunt Lords. 
I know not whether God will have it so, 
For some displeasing service I have done, 
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood 
He ’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me; 
But thou dost in thy passages of life 
Make me believe that thou art only mark’d 
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven 
To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, 
Could such inordinate and low desires, 
Such poor, such bare,such lewd, such mean attempts, 
Such barren pleasures, rude society, 
As thou art match’d withal and grafted to, 
Accompany the greatness of thy blood 
And hold their level with thy princely heart ? 
Prince. So please your majesty, I would I could 
Quit all offences with as clear excuse 
As well as I am doubtless I can purge 
Myself of many I am charged withal: 
Yet such extenuation' let me beg, 
As, in reproof of many tales devised, 
Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear, 
By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers, 
I may, for some things true, wherein my youth 
Hath faulty wander’d and irregular, 
Find pardon on my true submission. 
King. God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry, 
At thy affections, which do hold a wing 
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. 
Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost, 
Which by thy younger brother is supplied, 
And art almost an alien to the hearts 
Of all the court and princes of my blood: 
The hope and expectation of thy time 
Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man 
Prophetically doth forethink thy fall. 
Had I so lavish of my presence been, 
So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, 
So stale and cheap to vulgar company, 
Opinion, that did help me to the crown, 
Had still kept loyal to possession 
And left me in reputeless banishment, 
A fellow of no mark nor likelihood. 
By being seldom seen, I could not stir 
But like a comet I was wonder’d at ; 
That men would tell their children ‘ This is he;’ 
Others would say ‘ Where, which is Bolingbroke ?’ 
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, 
And dress’d myself in such humility 
That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts, 
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, 
Even in the presence of the crowned king. 
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new; 
My presence, like a robe pontifical, 
Ne’er seen but wonder’d at: and so my state, 


The palace. 


PLE SL TERIOR KING GENRY LV. 


SCENE II. 


Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast 
And won by rareness such solemnity. 
The skipping king, he ambled up and down 
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, 
Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state, 
Mingled his royalty with capering fools, 
Had his great name profaned with their scorns 
And gave his countenance, against his name, 
To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push 
Of every beardless vain comparative, 
Grew a companion to the common streets, 
Enfeoff’d himself to popularity ; 
That, being daily swallow’d by men’s eyes, 
They surfeited with honey and began 
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little 
More than a little is by much too much. 
So when he had occasion to be seen, 
He was but as the cuckoo is in June, 
Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes 
As, sick and blunted with community, 
Aftord no extraordinary gaze, 
Such as is bent on sun-like majesty 
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; 
But rather drowzed and hung their eyelids down, 
Slept in his face and render’d such aspect 
As cloudy men use to their adversaries, 
Being with his presence glutted, gorged and full. 
And in that very line, Harry, standest thou; 
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege 
With vile participation: not an eye 
But is a-weary of thy common sight, 
Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more; 
Which now doth that I would not have it do, 
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness. 
Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, 
Be more myself. . 
King. For all the world 
As thou art to this hour was Richard then 
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh, 
And even as I was then is Percy now. 
Now, by my sceptre and my soul to boot, 
He hath more worthy interest to the state 
Than thou the shadow of succession ; 
For of no right, nor colour like to right, 
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, 
Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws, 
And, being no more in debt to years than thou, 
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on 
To bloody battles and to bruising arms. 
What never-dying honour hath he got 
Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds, 
Whose hot incursions and great name in arms 
Holds from all soldiers chief majority 
And military title capital ; 
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ : 
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Marsin swathling clothes, 
This infant warrior, in his enterprises 
Discomfited great Douglas, ta’en him once, 
Enlarged him and made a friend of him, 
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up 
And shake the peace and safety of our throne. 
And what say you to this? Percy, Northumber- 
land, [mer, 
The Archbishop’s grace of York, Douglas, Morti- 
Capitulate against us and are up. 
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ? 
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, 
Which art my near’st and dearest enemy ? 
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear, 
Base inclination and the start of spleen, 
To fight against me under Percy’s pay, 
To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns, 
To show how much thou art degenerate. : 
Prince. Do not think so; you shall not find it so: 
And God forgive them that so much have sway’d 
Your majesty’s good thoughts away from me! 
I will redeem all this on Percy’s head 


329 


AO T. EEX. 


And in the closing of some glorious day 
Be bold to tell you that I am your son ; 
When I will wear a garment all of blood 
And stain my favours in a bloody mask, 
Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it: 
And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights, 
That this same child of honour and renown, 
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, 
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet. 
For every honour sitting on his helm, 
Would they were multitudes, and on my head 
My shames redoubled! for the time will come, 
That I shall make this northern youth exchange 
His glorious deeds for my indignities. 
Percy is but my factor, good my lord, 
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; 
And I will call him to so strict account, 
That he shall render every glory up, 
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, 
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. 
This, in the name of God, I promise here: 
The which if He be pleased I shall perform, 
I do beseech your majesty may salve 
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance: 
If not, the end of life cancels all bands; 
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths 
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. 

King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this: 
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein. 


Enter Blunt. 


How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed. 

Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak 
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word [of. 
That Douglas and the English rebels met 
The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury : 
A mighty and a fearful head they are, 
If promises be kept on every hand, 
As ever offer’d foul play in a state. 

King. The Earlof Westmoreland set forth to-day ; 
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster; 
For this advertisement is five days old: 
On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward; 
On Thursday we our selves will march: our meeting 
Is Bridgenorth: and, Harry, you shall march 
Through Gloucestershire ; by which account, 
Our business valued, some twelve days hence 
Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet. 
Our hands are full of business: let ’s away; 
Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE III.—Lastcheap. The Boar’s-Head Tavern. 


Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 


Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely 
since this last action? do I not bate? do I not 
dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like an 
old lady’s loose gown ; I am withered like an old 
apple-john. Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, 
while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart 
shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. 
An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church 
is made of, 1 am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse: 
the inside of a church! Company, villanous com- 
pany, hath been the spoil of me. 

Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot 
live long. 

Fal. Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy 
song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given 
as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough ; swore 
little ; diced not above seven times a week; went to 
a bawdy-house not above once ina quarter —of an. 
hour; paid money that I borrowed, three or four 
times ; lived well and in good compass: and now I 
live out of all order, out of all compass. 

Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you 


030 


FIRST (PART. OF) KING GEN EY. 


SCENE ati, 


must needs be out of all compass, out of all reason- 
able compass, Sir John. 

Fal. Dothou amend thy face, and Ill amend my 
life: thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern 
in the poop, but ’tis in the nose of thee; thou art 
the Knight of the Burning Lamp. 

Bard. Why,Sir John, my face does you no harm. 

Fal. No. I’ll be sworn ; I make as good use of 
it as many a man doth of a Death’s-head or a me- 
mento mori: I never see thy face but I think upon 
hell-fire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he 
is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any 
way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my 
oath should be ‘ By this fire, that’s God? ’s angel : ; 
but thou art altogether given over; and wert in- 
deed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter 
darkness. When thou rannest up Gadshill in the 
night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou 
hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, 
there ’s no purchase in money. QO, thou art a 
perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light ‘ 
Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and 
torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt 
tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast 
drunk me would have bought me lights as good 
cheap at the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have 
maintained that salamander of yours with fire any 
time this two and thirty years; God reward me 


for it! 
Bard. ’Sblood, I would my face were in your 
belly! {burned. 


Fal. God-a-mercy ! so should I be sure to be heart- 


Enter Hostess. 


How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you inquired 
yet who picked my pocket ? 

Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir 
John ? do you think I keep thieves in my house ? 
I have searched, I have inquired, so has my hus- 
band, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: 
the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before. 

Fal. Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved and 
lost many a hair; and Ill be a Jay pocket was 
picked. Go to, you are a woman. 

Host. Who, 1? no; 1 defy eas “God? s light, I 
was never called so in mine own house before. 

Fal. Go to, [ know you well enough. 

Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir 
John. I know you, Sir John: you owe me money, 
Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me 
of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back. 

Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them 
away to bakers’ wives, and they have made bolters 
of them. 

Host. Now,as Iam a true woman, holland of eight 
shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, ‘Sir 
John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money 
lent you, four and twenty pound. 

Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay. 

Host. He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing. 

Fal. How! poor? look upon his face: what call 
you rich? let them coin his nose, let them coin his 
cheeks: Ill not paya denier. What, will you make 
a younker of me? shall I not take mine ease in 
mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked ? I 
have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather’s worth 
forty mark. 

Host. O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell him, I 
know not how oft, that that ring was copper! 

Fal. How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup: 
’s blood, an he were here, I would cudgel him like 
a dog, if he would say So. 


Enter the Prince and Peto, marching, and Falstaff 
meets them playing on his truncheon like a fife. 


How now, lad! is the wind in that door, i’ faith ? 
must we all march ? 


nn eae 


ACT IV. 


Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion. 

Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me. 

Prince. What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly ? 
How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an 
honest man. 

Host. Good my lord, hear me. 

Fal. Prithee, let her alone, and list to me. 

Prince. What sayest thou, Jack ? 

Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind the 
arras and had my pocket picked: this house is turned 
bawdy-house; they pick pockets. 

Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack ? 

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four 
bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal-ring of my 
grandfather’s. 

Prince. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. 

Host. So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard 
your grace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most 
vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is; and 
said he would cudgel you. 

Prince. What! he did not ? 

Host. There’s neither faith, truth, nor woman- 
hood in me else. 

Fal. There’s no more faith in thee than in a 
stewed prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a 
drawn fox; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may 
be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you 
thing, go. 

Host. Say, what thing ? what thing ? 

Fal. What thing ? why, a thing to thank God on. 

Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would 
thou shouldst know it; 1 am an honest man’s wife: 
and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave 
to call me so. 

Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a 
beast to say otherwise. 

Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou ? 

Fal. What beast! why, an otter. 

Prince. An otter, Sir John! why an otter ? 

Fal. Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man 
knows not where to have her. 

Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so: thou 
or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, 
thou! 

Prince. Thou sayest true, hostess; and he slan- 
ders thee most grossly. — 

Host. So he doth you, my lord, and said this other 
day you ought him a thousand pound. 

Prince. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound ? 

Fal. A thousand pound, Hal! a million: thy love 
is worth a million: thou owest me thy love. 

Host. Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said 
he would cudgel you. 

Fal. Did I, Bardoiph ? 

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. 

Fal. Yea, if he said my ring was copper. 

Prince. I say ’t is copper: darest thou be as good 
as thy word now ? 

Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but 
man, I dare: but as thou art prince, I fear thee as 
I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp. 

Prince. And why not as the lion ? 

Fal. The king himself is to be feared as the lion: 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE I, 


dost thou think I ’ll fear thee as I fear thy father ? 
nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break. 

Prince. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall 
about thy knees! But, sirrah, there ’s no room for 
faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it 
is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an 
honest woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou 
whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were 
anything in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, mem- 
orandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor penny- 
worth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if 
thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries 
but these, I am a villain: and yet you will stand 
to it; you will not pocket up wrong: art thou not 
ashamed ? 

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest in the 
state of innocency Adam fell; and what should 
poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany? Thou 
seest I have more flesh than another man, and there- 
fore more frailty. You confess then, you picked 
my pocket ? 

Prince. It appears so by the story. 

Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready 
breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy servants, 
cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me tractable to 
any honest reason: thou seest I am pacified still. 
Nay, prithee, be gone. [Hzxit Hostess.| Now, Hal, 
to the news at court: for the robbery, lad, how is 
that answered ? 

Prince. O, my sweet beef, I must still be good 
angel to thee: the money is paid back again. 

Fal. O, I do not like that paying back; ’tis a 
double labour. 

Prince. I am good friends with my father and 
may do anything. 

Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou 
doest, and do it with unwashed hands too. 

Bard. Do, my lord. 

Prince. I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of 


Fal. 1 would it had been of horse. Where shall 
I find one that can steal well? O for a fine thief, 
of the age of two and twenty or thereabouts! I 
am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked 
for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous: 
I laud them, I praise them. 

Prince. Bardolph! 

Bard. My lord? 

Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lan- 
caster, to my brother John; this to my Lord of 
Westmoreland. [ Exit Bardolph.| Go, Peto, to horse, 
to horse; for thou and I have thirty miles to ride 
yet ere dinner-time. [zit Peto.]| Jack, meet me 
to-morrow in the temple hall at two o’clock in the 
afternoon. 

There shalt thou know thy charge; and there re- 
ceive 

Money and order for their furniture. 

The land is burning; Percy stands on high; 

And either we or they must lower le. 

Fal. Rare words! brave world! 

breakfast, come! 
O, I could wish this tavern were my drum! [Hvwit. 


[ Exit. 
Hostess, my 


NCI STV. 


SCENE I.—The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. 


Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas. 


Hot. Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth 
In this fine age were not thought flattery, 
Such attribution should the Douglas have, 
As not a soldier of this season’s stamp 
Should go so general current through the world. 


| 


| 


By God, I cannot flatter; I do defy 

The tongues of soothers; but a braver place 

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself: 

Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. 
Doug. Thou art the king of honour: 

No man so potent breathes upon the ground 

But I will beard him. 


Hot. Do so, and ’t is well. 


331 


AGT iATY, 


Enter a Messenger with letters. 


What letters hast thou there? —I can but thank you. 
Mess. These letters come from your father. 
Hot. Letters from him! why comes he not himself? 
Mess. Hecannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick. 
Hot. ’Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick 
In such a justling time? Who leads his power ? 
Under whose government come they along ? 
Mess. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. 
Wor. I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed ? 
Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth; 
And at the time of my departure thence 
He was much fear’d by his physicians. 
Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole 
Ere he by sickness had been visited: 
His health was never better worth than now. [fect 
Hot. Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth in- 
The very life-blood of our enterprise ; 
’T is catching hither, even to our camp. 
He writes me here, that inward sickness — 
And that his friends by deputation could not 
So soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet 
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust 
On any soul removed but on his own. 
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, 
That with our small conjunction we should on, 
To see how fortune is disposed to us; 
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, 
Because the king is certainly possess’d 
Of all our purposes. What say you to it? 
Wor. Your father’s sickness is a maim to us. 
Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off: 
And yet, in faith, it is not; his present want 
Seems more than we shall find it: were it good 
To set the exact wealth of all our states 
All at one cast? tosetsorichamain _ 
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour ? 
It were not good; for therein should we read 
The very bottom and the soul of hope, 
The very list, the very utmost bound 
Of all our fortunes. 
Doug. Faith, and so we should; 
Where now remains a sweet reversion: 
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what 
Is to come in: 
A comfort of retirement lives in this. 
Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, 
If that the devil and mischance look big 
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. 
Wor. But yet I would your father had been here. 
The quality and hair of our attempt 
Brooks no division: it will be thought 
By some, that know not why he is away, 
That wisdom, loyalty and mere dislike 
Of our proceedings kept the earl from hence: 
And think how such an apprehension 
May turn the tide of fearful faction 
And breed a kind of question in our cause; 
For well you know we of the offering side 
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, 
And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence 
The eye of reason may pry in upon us: 


FIRST PART OF ) KING BEWNAY eV. 


This absence of your father’s draws a curtain, 
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear 
Before not dreamt of. 

Hot. You strain too far. 
I rather of his absence make this use; 
It lends a lustre and more great opinion, 
A larger dare to our great enterprise, 
Than if the earl were here; formen must think, | 
If we without his help can make a head 
Toa push against a kingdom, with his help 
We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down. 
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole. 

Doug. As heart can think: there is not such a word 
Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear. 


332 


SCENE II. 


Enter Sir Richard Vernon. 


Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul. 
Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. 

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong, 

Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John. 
Hot. No harm: what more ? 

Ver. And further, I have learn’d, 

The king himself in person is set forth, 

Or hitherwards intended speedily, 

With strong and mighty preparation. 

Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, 

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales, 

And his comrades, that daff’d the world aside, 

And bid it pass ? 

Ver. All furnish’d, all in arms; 

All plumed like estridges that with the wind 

Baited like eagles having lately bathed; 

Glittering in golden coats, like images; 

As full of spirit as the month of May, 

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; 

Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. 

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 

His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d, 

Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury, 

And vaulted with such ease into his seat, 

As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds, 

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus 

And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 
Hot. No more, no more: worse than the sun in 

March, 

This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come; 

They come like sacrifices in their trim, 

And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war 

All hot and bleeding will we offer them: 

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit 

Up to the ears in blood. Iam on fire 

To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh 

And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse, 

Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt 

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales: 

Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse, 

Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse. 

O that Glendower were come! 

Ver. There is more news: 

I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along, 

He cannot draw his power this fourteen days. 
Doug. That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet. 
Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. 
Hot. What may the king’s whole battle reach unto? 
Ver. To thirty thousand. 

Hot. Forty let it be: 

My father and Glendower being both away, 

The powers of us may serve so great a day. 

Come, let us take a muster speedily : 

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily. 

Doug. Talk not of dying: I am out of fear 

Of death or death’s hand for this one-half year. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— A public road near Ooventry. 


Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 


Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill 
mea bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through; 
we ’ll to Sutton Co’fil’ to-night. 

Bard. Will you give me money, captain ? 

Fal. Lay out, lay out. 

Bard. This bottle makes an angel. 

Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it 
make twenty, take them all; Ill answer the coin- 
age. Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at town’s 
end. 

Bard. I will, captain: farewell. [ Exit. 

Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, | am a 
soused gurnet. I have misused the king’s press 
damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred 


ACT I[V. 


and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. 
I press me none but good householders, yeoman’s 
sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as 
had been asked twice on the banns; such a com- 
modity of warm slaves, as had as lieve hear the 
devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver 
worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I 
pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with 
hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads, 
and they have bought out their services; and now 
my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, 
lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as 
ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the 
glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed 
were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving- 
men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted 
tapsters and ostlers trade-fallen, the cankers of a 
calm world and a long peace, ten times more dis- 
honourable ragged than an old faced ancient: and 
such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have 
bought out their services, that you would think 
that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals 
lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff 
and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and 
told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed 
the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. 
Ill not march through Coventry with them, that’s 
flat: nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the 
legs, as if they had gyves on; for indeed I had the 
most of them out of prison. There’s but ashirt and a 
half in all my company; and the half shirt istwo nap- 
kins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders 
likean herald’s coat without sleeves ; and the shirt,to 
say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban’s, 
or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s 
all one; they ‘ll find linen enough on every hedge. 


Enter the Prince and Westmoreland. 


Prince. How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt! 

Fal. What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a 
devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord 
of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy: I thought your 
honour had already been at Shrewsbury. 

West. Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that 
I were there, and you too; but my powers are there 
already. The king, I can tell you, looks for us all; 
we must away all night. 

Fal. Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a 
cat to steal cream. 

Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy 
theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, 
Jack, whose fellows are these that come after ? 

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. 

Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals. 

Fal. Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for 
powder, food for powder; they ll fill a pit as well 
as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. 

West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are ex- 
ceeding poor and bare, too beggarly. 

Fal. ’Faith, for their poverty, I know not where 
they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure 
they never learned that of me. 

Prince. No, 1711 be sworn; unless you call three 
fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste ; 
Percy is already in the field. 

Fal. What, is the king encamped ? 

West. He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too 

Fal. Well, [long. 
To the latter end of afray and the beginning of a feast 
Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. 


Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and 
Vernon. 


Hot. Well fight with him to-night. 
Wor. It may not be. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE III. 


Doug. You give him then advantage. 
Ver. Not a whit. 
fot. Why say you so? looks he not for supply ? 
Ver. So do we. 
Fot. His is certain, ours is doubtful. 
Wor. Good cousin, be advised; stir not to-night. 
Ver. Do not, my lord. 
Doug. You do not counsel well: 
You speak it out of fear and cold heart. 
Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life, 
And I dare well maintain it with my life, 
If well-respected honour bid me on, 
I hold as little counsel with weak fear 
As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives: 
Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle 
Which of us fears. 
Doug. 
Ver. 
Hot. To-night, say I. 
Ver. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, 
Being men of such great leading as you are, 
That you foresee not what impediments 
Drag back our expedition: certain horse 
Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up: 
Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but to-day ; 
And now their pride and mettle is asleep, 
Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, 
That not a horse is half the half of himself. 
Hot. So are the horses of the enemy 
In general, journey-bated and brought low: 
The better part of ours are full of rest. 
Wor. The number of the king exceedeth ours: 
For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in. 
[The trumpet sounds a parley. 


Enter Sir Walter Blunt. 


Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the king, 
If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. 

Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to 
You were of our determination ! [God 
Some of us love you well; and even those some 
Envy your great deservings and good name, 
Because you are not of our quality, 

But stand against us like an enemy. 

Blunt. And God defend but still I should stand so, 
So long as out of limit and true rule 
You stand against anointed majesty. 

But to my charge. The king hath sent to know 
The nature of your griefs, and whereupon 

You conjure from the breast of civil peace 
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land 
Audacious cruelty. If that the king 

Have any way your good deserts forgot, 

Which he confesseth to be manifold, 

He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed 
You shall have your desires with interest 

And pardon absolute for yourself and these 
Herein misled by your suggestion. 

Hot. The king is kind; and well we know the king 
Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. 

My father and my uncle and myself 
Did give him that same royalty he wears ; 
And when he was not six and twenty strong, 
Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low, 
A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home, 

My father gave him welcome to the shore; 
And when he heard him swear and vow to God 
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, 
To sue his livery and beg his peace, 
With tears of innocency and terms of zeal, 
My father, in kind heart and pity moved, 
Swore him assistance and perform’d it too. 
Now when the lords and barons of the realm 
Perceived Northumberland did lean to him, 
The more and less came in with cap and knee; 
Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, 
Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, 

333 


Yea, or to-night. 
Content. 


FIRST PART OF 


Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths, 
Gave him their heirs, as pages follow’d him 
Even at the heels in golden multitudes. 
He presently, as greatness knows itself, 
Steps me a little higher than his vow 
Made to my father, while his blood was poor, 
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh ; 
And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform 
Some certain edicts and some strait decrees 
That lie too heavy on the commonwealth, 
Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep 
Over his country’s wrongs; and by this face, 
This seeming brow of justice, did he win 
The hearts of all that he did angle for; 
Proceeded further; cut me off the heads 
Of all the favourites that the absent king 
In deputation left behind him here, 
When he was personal in the Irish war. 
Blunt. Tut, I came not to hear this. 
Hot. Then to the point. 
In short time after, he deposed the king ; 
Soon after that, deprived him of his life; 
And in the neck of that, task’d the whole state; 
To make that worse, sutfer’d his kinsman March, 
Who is, if every owner were well placed, 
Indeed his king, to be engaged in Wales, 
There without ransom to lie forfeited ; 
Disgraced me in my happy victories, 
Sought to entrap me by intelligence; 
Rated mine uncle from the council-board ; 
In rage dismiss’d my father from the court; 
Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong, 
And in conclusion drove us to seek out 
This head of safety; and withal to pry 
Into his title, the which we find 
Too indirect for long continuance. 
Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the king ? 
Hot. Not so, Sir Walter: we ’ll withdraw awhile. 
Go to the king; and let there be impawn’d 
Some surety for a safe return again, 
And in the morning early shall my uncle 
Bring him our purposes: and so farewell. 
een I would you would accept of grace and 
ove. 


ACT Wi 


KING GENEVA 


SCENE I. 


SCENE IV.— York. The Archbishop’s palace. 


Enter the Archbishop of York and Sir Michael. 


Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief 
With winged haste to the lord marshal ; 
This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest 
To whom they are directed. If youknew 
How much they do import, you would make haste. 
Sir M. My good lord, 
I guess their tenour. 
Arch. Like enough you do. 
To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day 
Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men | 
Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, 
As I am truly given to understand, 
The king with mighty and quick-raised power 
Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael, 
What with the sickness of Northumberland, 
Whose power was in the first proportion, 
And what with Owen Glendower’s absence thence, 
Who with them was a rated sinew too 
And comes not in, o’er-ruled by prophecies, 
I fear the power of Percy is too weak 
To wage an instant trial with the king. 
Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear; 
There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer. 
Arch. No, Mortimer is not there. 
Sir M. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord 
Harry Percy, 
And there is my Lord of Worcester and a head 
Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. [drawn 
Arch. And so there is: but yet the king hath 
The special head of all the land together : 
The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, 
The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt ; 
And many moe corrivals and dear men 
Of estimation and command in arms. [opposed. 
Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well 
Arch. I hope no less, yet needful ’t is to fear ; 
And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed: 
For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king 
Dismiss his power, he means to visit us, 
For he hath heard of our confederacy, 
And ’tis but wisdom to make strong against him: 


Hot. And may be so we shall. Therefore make haste. I must go write again 
Blunt. Pray God you do. | To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael. 
[ Exeunt. ) [ Haxeunt. 
eset C20 DS 


SCENE I.—The King’s camp near Shrewsbury. 


Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lan- 
caster, Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, 
and Falstaff. 


King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer 
Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale 
At his distemperature. 

Prince. The southern wind 
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, 
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves 
Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. 

King. Then with the losers let it sympathize, 
For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

[The trumpet sounds. 


Enter Worcester and Vernon. 


How now, my Lord of Worcester! ’t is not well 
That you and I should meet upon such terms 
As now we meet. You have deceived our trust, 
And made us doff our easy robes of peace, 
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel : 
This is not well, my lord, this is not well. 
What say you to it? will you again unknit 

334 


This churlish knot of all-abhorred war ? 

And move in that obedient orb again 

Where you did give a fair and natural light, 

And be no more an exhaled meteor, 

A prodigy of fear and a portent 

Of broached mischief to the unborn times ? 

Wor. Hear me, my liege: 

For mine own part, I could be well content 

To entertain the lag-end of my life 

With quiet hours; for I do protest, 

I have not sought the day of this dislike. [then ? 
King. You have not sought it? how comes it 
Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. 
Prince. Peace, chewet, peace! 

Wor. It pleased your majesty to turn your looks 

Of favour from myself and all our house; 

And yet I must remember you, my lord 

We were the first and dearest of your friends. 

For you my staff of office did I break 

In Richard’s time; and posted day and night 

To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, 

When yet you were in place and in account 

Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. 

It was myself, my brother and his son, 


AGT NV. 


That brought you home and boldly did outdare 
The dangers of the time. You swore to us, 
And you did swear that oath at Doncaster, 
That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state; 
Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right, 
The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster: 

To this we swore our aid. But in short space 
It rain’d down fortune showering on your head ; 
And such a flood of greatness fell on you, 

What with our help, what with the absent king, 
What with the injuries of a wanton time, 

The seeming sufferances that you had borne, 
And the contrarious winds that held the king 
So long in his unlucky Irish wars 

That all in England did repute him dead: 

And from this swarm of fair advantages 

You took occasion to be quickly woo’d 

To gripe the general sway into your hand; 
Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster; 

And being fed by us you used us so 

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, 

Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest ; 

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk 

That even our love durst not come near your sight 
For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing 
We were enforced, for safety sake, to fly 

Out of your sight and raise this present head; 
Whereby we stand opposed by such means 

As you yourself have forged against yourself 
By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, 

And violation of all faith and troth 

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise. 

King. These things indeed you have articulate, 
Proclaim’d at market-crosses, read in churches, 
To face the garment of rebellion 
With some fine colour that may please the eye 
Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, 
Which gape and rub the elbow at the news 
Of hurlyburly innovation: 

And never yet did insurrection want 
Such water-colours to impaint his cause 5; 
Nor moody beggars, starving for a time 
Of pellmell havoc and confusion. 

Prince. In both your armies there is many a soul 
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter, 

If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, 
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world 
In praise of Henry Percy: by my hopes, 

This present enterprise set off his head, 

I do not think a braver gentleman, 

More active-valiant or more valiant-young, 

More daring or more bold, is now alive 

To grace this latter age with noble deeds. 

For my part, I may speak it to my shame, 

I have a truant been to chivalry ; 

And so I hear he doth account me too; 

Yet this before my father’s majesty — 

lam content that he shall take the odds 

Of his great name and estimation, 

And will, to save the blood on either side, 

Try fortune with him in a single fight. [thee, 

King. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture 
Albeit considerations infinite 
Do make against it. No, good Worcester, no, 
We love our people well; even those we love 
That are misled upon your cousin’s part; 

And, will they take the offer of our grace, 
Both he and they and you, yea, every man 
Shall be my friend again and I ’ll be his: 
So tell your cousin, and bring me word 
What he will do: but if he will not yield, 
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us 
And they shall do their office. So, be gone; 
We will not now be troubled with reply: 
We offer fair; take it advisedly. 
[Hxeunt Worcester and Vernon. 
Prince. It will not be accepted, on my life: 


BLES DT OP ak TOL KOON GY dtiON BY LV. 


SCENE II. 

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together 

Are confident against the world in arms. 

King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge ; 

For, on their answer, will we set on them: 

And God befriend us, as our cause is just! 
_[Keveunt all but the Prince of Wales and Falstaff. 
Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and 

bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship. 

Prince. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that 
friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. 

Fal. 1 would ’t were bed-time, Hal, and all well. 

Prince. Why, thou owest God a death. [ Heit. 

Fal. ’Tis not due yet; I would be loath to pay 
him before his day. What need I be so forward 
with him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no mat- 
ter; honour pricksmeon. Yea, but how if honour 
prick me off when I come on? how then? Can 
honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take 
away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no 

skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a 

word. What isin that word honour? what is that 

honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? 
he that died 0’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. 

Doth he hear it? no. ‘I’is insensible, then. Yea, 

to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? 

no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. There- 
fore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: 
and so ends my catechism. [ Heit. 


SCENH II.— The rebel camp. 


Enter Worcester and Vernon. 


Wor. O, no, my nephew must not know, Sir 
Richard, 

The liberal and kind offer of the king. 

Ver. *T were best he did. 

Wor. Then are we all undone. 
It is not possible, it cannot be, 
The king should keep his word in loving us; 
He will suspect us still and tind a time 
To punish this offence in other faults: 
Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes; 
For treason is but trusted like the fox, 
Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up, 
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. 
Look how we can, or sad or merrily, 
Interpretation will misquote our looks, 
And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, 
The better cherish’d, still the nearer death. 
My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot ; 
It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood, 
And an adopted name of privilege, 
A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen: 
All his offences live upon my head 
And on his father’s; we did train him on, 
And, his corruption being ta’en from us, 
We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all. 
Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know, 
In any case, the offer of the king. 

Ver. Deliver what you will; I1’ll say ’tis so. 
Here comes your cousin. 


Enter Hotspur and Douglas. 


Hot. My uncle is return’d: 
Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland. 
Uncle, what news ? 
Wor. The king will bid you battle presently. 
Doug. Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland. 
Hot. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. 
Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly. [Hzit. 
Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the king. 
Hot. Did you beg any? God forbid! 
Wor. I told him gently of our grievances, 
Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus, 
By now forswearing that he is forsworn: 
He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge 
With haughty arms this hateful name in us. 


330 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


ACT V. 


Re-enter Douglas. 


Doug. Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have 
A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, [thrown 
And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it; 
Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on. 

Wor. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before 

the king, 
And, nephew, challenged you to single fight. 

Hot. O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads, 
And that no man might draw short breath to-day 
But I and Harry Monmouth! ‘Tell me, tell me, 
How show’d his tasking ? seem’d it in contempt ? 

Ver. No, by my soul; I never in my life 
Did hear a challenge urged more modestly, 

Unless a brother should a brother dare 

To gentle exercise and proof of arms. 

He gave you all the duties of a man: 
Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue, 
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, 
Making you ever better than his praise 

By still dispraising praise valued with you; 
And, which became him like a prince indeed, 
He made a blushing cital of himself; 

And chid his truant youth with such a grace 
As if he master’d there a double spirit 

Of teaching and of learning instantly. 

There did he pause: but let me tell the world, 
If he outlive the envy of this day, 

England did never owe so sweet a hope, 

So much misconstrued in his wantonness. 

Hot. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured 
On his follies: never did I hear 
Of any prince so wild a libertine. 

But be he as he will, yet once ere night 

I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm, 

That he shall shrink under my courtesy. 

Arm, arm with speed: and, fellows, soldiers, friends, 
Better consider what you have to do 

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue, 

Can lift your blood up with persuasion. 


Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My lord, here are letters for you. 

Hot. I cannot read them now. 
O gentlemen, the time of life is short! 
To spend that shortness basely were too long, 
If life did ride upon a dial’s point, 
Still ending at the arrival of an hour. 
An if we live, we live to tread on kings; 
If die, brave death, when princes die with us! 
Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair, 
When the intent of bearing them is just. 


Enter another Messenger. 


Mess. My lord, prepare; the king comes on apace. 
Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, 
For IL profess not talking; only this— 
Let each man do his best: and here draw I 
A. sword, whose temper I intend to stain 
With the best blood that I can meet withal 
In the adventure of this perilous day. 
Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on. 
Sound all the lofty instruments of war, 
And by that music let us all embrace; 
For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall 
A second time do such a courtesy. 
[The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt. 


SCENE ITI.— Plain between the camps. 


The King enters with his power. Alarum to the battle. 
Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt. 
Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus 
Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek 
Upon my head ? 
Doug. Know then, my name is Douglas; 


SCENE IV. 


And I do haunt thee in the battle thus 
Because some tell me that thou art a king. 
Blunt. They tell thee true. [bought 
Doug. The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath 
Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry, 
This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee, 
Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. 
Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; 
And thou shalt find a king that will revenge 
Lord Stafford’s death. [They fight. Douglas kills 


Blunt. 
Enter Hotspur. 


Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon 
I never had triumph’d upon a Scot. thus, 

Doug. All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies 

Hot. Where ? [the king. 

Doug. Here. 

Hot. This, Douglas ? no: I know this face full well: 
A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt; 
Semblably furnish’d like the king himself. 

Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes! 
A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear: 

Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king? 
Hot. The king hath many marching in his coats. 
Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; 

1 ’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece, 

Until I meet the king. 

Hot. Up, and away! 

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. [Hzeunt. 


Alarum. Enter Falstaff, solus. 


Fal. Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, 
I fear the shot here; here ’s 10 scoring but upon the 
pate. Soft! who are you ? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s 
honour for you! here’s no vanity! I am as hot as 
molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of 
me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. 
I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered : 
there ’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; 
and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. 
But who comes here? 


Enter the Prince. 


Prince. What, stand’st thou idle here ? lend me thy 
Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff [sword : 
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, 

Whose deaths are yet unrevenged: I prithee, lend me 
thy sword. 

Fal. O Hal, I prithee, give me leave to breathe 
awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms 
as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have 
made him sure. 

Prince. He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. I 
prithee, lend me thy sword. 

Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou 
get’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. 

Prince. Give it me: what, is it in the case ? 

Fal. Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ’tis hot; there’s that will 
sack acity. [The Prince draws it out, and finds it 

to be a bottle of sack. 

Prince. What, is it a time to jest and dally now ? 

[He throws the bottle at him. Exit. 

Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, Ill pierce him. If 
he do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come 
in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. 
I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: 
give me life: which if I can save, so; if not, honour 
comes unlooked for, and there ’s an end. [ Exit. 


SCENE IV.—Another part of the field. 


Alarum. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord 
John of Lancaster, and Earl of Westmoreland. 
King. I prithee, 

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed’st too much. 

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him. 

Lan. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. 


ACT V. 


Prince. I beseech your majesty, make up, 

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends. 
King. I will do so. 

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. 
West. Come, my lord, I ant lead you to your tent. 
Prince. Lead me, my lord? I donot need your help: 

And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive 

The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, 

Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on, 

And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres! 

Lan. We breathe too long: come, cousin West- 
moreland, 

Our duty this way lies; for God’s sake, come. 

[Heeunt Prince John and Westmoreland. 
Prince. By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster; 

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit: 

Before, I loved thee as a brother, John; 

But now, I do respect thee as my soul. 

King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point 

With lustier maintenance than I did look for 

Of such an ungrown warrior. 

Prince. O, this boy 

Lends mettle to us all! [ Hatt. 

Enter Douglas. 


Doug. Another king! they grow like Hydra’s 
1 am the Douglas, fatal to all those [heads : 
That wear those colours on them: what art thou, 
That counterfeit’st the person of a king ? 

King. The king himself; who, Douglas, grieves at 
So ‘many of his shadows thou hast met [heart 
And not the very king. I have two boys 
Seek Percy and thyself about the field : 

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily, 
J will assay thee: so, defend thyself. 

Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit ; 

And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king: 

But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, 

And thus I win thee. [They fight; the King 
being in danger, re-enter Prince of Wales. 

Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art 
Never to hold it up again! the spirits [like 
Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms: 
it is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee ; 
Who never promiseth but he means to pay. 

[ They fight: Douglas flies. 

Cheerly, my lord: how fares your grace ? 
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, 
And so hath Clifton: Ill to Clifton straight. 

King. Stay, and breathe awhile: 
Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion, 
And show’d thou makest some tender of my life, 
In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me. 

Prince. O God! they did me too much injury 

That ever said I hearken’d for your death. 

If it were so, I might have let alone 

The insulting hand of Douglas over you, 
Which would have been as speedy in your end 
As all the poisonous potions in the world 
And saved the treacherous labour of your son. 


~ King. Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas 


Gawsey. [ Kcit. 
Enter Hotspur. 
Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. 
Prince. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. 
Hot. My name is Harry Percy. 
Prince. Why, then I see 
A very valiant rebel of the name. 
I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy, 
To share with me in glory any more: 
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ; 
Nor can one England brook a double reign, 
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. 
Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come 
To end the one of us; and would to God 
Thy name in’ arms were now as great as mine! 
Prince. Ill make it greater ere I part from thee ; 


22 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE IV. 


And all the budding honours on thy crest 
Ill crop, to make a garland for my head. 
Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities. 

| They fight. 


Enter Falstaff. 


Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall 
find no boy’s play here, I can tell you. , 


e-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down 
as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is 
wounded, and falls. 


Hot. O, Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my youth! 
I better brook the loss of brittle life 
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; 
They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword 
my flesh: 
But thought ’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool; 
And time, that takes survey of all the world, 
Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy, 
But that the earthy and cold hand of death 
Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust, 
And food for — [ Dies. 
Prince. For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, 
great heart ! 
Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! 
When that this body did contain a spirit, 
A kingdom for it was too small a bound; 
But now two paces of the vilest earth 
Is room enough: this earth that bears thee dead 
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. 
If thou wert sensible of courtesy, 
I should not make so dear a show of zeal: 
But let my favours hide thy mangled face; 
And, even in thy behalf, I ’l] thank myself 
For doing these fair rites of tenderness. 
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven! 
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, 
But not remember’d in thy epitaph ! 
[He spieth Falstaff on the ground. 
What, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh 
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! 
I could have better spared a better man: 
O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, 
If I were much in love with vanity! 
Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, 
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. 
Embowell’d will I see thee by and by: 
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [ Hait. 
Fal. [Rising up] Embowelled! if thou embowel 
me to-day, I ll give you leave to powder me and eat 
me too to-morrow. ’Sblood, ’t was time to counter- 
feit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot 
and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, lam no counter- 
feit: to die, isto be a counterfeit ; for he is but the 
counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of aman : 
but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, 
is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect 
image of life indeed. The better part of valour is 
discretion ; in the which better part I have saved 
my life. ’Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder 
Percy, though he be dead: how, if he should coun- 
terfeit too and rise? by my faith, I am afraid he 
would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ 
make him sure; yea, and Ill swear I killed him. 
Why may not he rise as wellas I? Nothing con- 
futes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore. 
sirrah [stabbing him], with a new wound in your 
thigh, come you along with me. ! 
[Takes up Hotspur on his back. 


Re-enter the Prince of Wales and Lord John 
of Lancaster. 
Prince. Come, brother John; full bravely hast 
Thy maiden sword. [thou flesh’d 
Lan. But, soft! whom have we here? 
Did you not tell me this fat man was dead ? 


337 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE Y, 


ALT Vis 
Prince. I did; I saw him dead, [alive ? 
Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art thou 


Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight ? 
I prithee, speak ; we will not trust our eyes 
Without our ears: thou art not what thou seem’st. 
Fal. No, that’s certain; Iam nota double man: 
but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. 
There is Percy [throwing the body down]: if your 
father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him 
kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl 
or duke, I can assure you. [dead. 
Prince. Why, Percy I killed myself and saw thee 
Fal. Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is 
given to lying! I grant you I was down and out of 
breath; and so was he: but we rose both at an in- 
stant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. 
If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should 
reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. 
Ill take it upon my death, I gave him this wound 
inthe thigh: if the man were alive and would deny it, 
’zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword. 
Lan. This is the strangest tale that ever I heard. 
Prince. This is the strangest fellow, brother John. 
Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: 
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 
Ill gild it with the happiest terms I have. 
[A retreat is sounded. 
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours. 
Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field, 
To see what friends are living, who are dead. 
[Exeunt Prince of Wales and Lancaster. 
Fal. Ill follow, as they say,forreward. He that 
rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, 
Ill grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and 
live cleanly as a nobleman should do. [ Bvt. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the field. 


The trumpets sound. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, 
Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland, 
with Worcester and Vernon prisoners. 


King. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke. 
Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace, 
Pardon and terms of love to all of you? 


And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary ? 
Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust ? 
Three knights upon our party slain to-day, 
A noble earl and many a creature else 
Had been alive this hour, 
If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne 
Betwixt our armies true intelligence. 
Wor. What I have done my safety urged me to; 
And I embrace this fortune patiently, 
Since not to be avoided it falls on me. [too : 
King. Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon 
Other offenders we will pause upon. 
[Hxeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded. 
How goes the field ? [saw 
Prince. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he 
The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him, 
The noble Percy slain, and all his men 
Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest ; 
And falling from a hill, he was so bruised 
That the pursuers took him. At my tent 
The Douglas is; and I beseech your grace 
I may dispose of him. 
King. With all my heart. 
Prince. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you 
This honourable bounty shall belong: 
Go to the Douglas, and deliver him 
Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free: 
His valour shown upon our crests to-day 
Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds 
Even in the bosom of our adversaries. 
Lan. I thank your grace for this high courtesy, 
Which I shall give away immediately. [power. 
King. Then this remains, that we divide our 
You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland 
Towards Bie shall bend you with your dearest 
speed, 
To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop. 
Who, as we hear, are busily in arms: 
Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales, 
To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March. 
Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, 
Meeting the check of such another day: 
And since this business so fair is done, 


Let us not leave till all our own be won. [Exeunt. 


Falstaff—I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. 
T tell thee what, Hal, —if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.—ACcT II., Scene iv. 


THE SECOND PART OF 


KING HENRY THE FOURTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


Rumour, the Presenter. 

King Henry the Fourth. 

Henry, Prince of Wales, afterwards | 
King Henry V., 

Thomas, Duke of Clarence, | 

Prince John of Lancaster, 

Prince Humphrey of Gloucester, 

Earl of Warwick. 

Earl of Westmoreland. 

Earl of Surrey. 

Gower. 

Harcourt. 

Blunt. 

Lord Chief-Justice of the King’s Bench. 

A Servant of the Chief-J ustice. 

Earl of Northumberland. 

Scroop, Archbishop of York. 

Lord Mowbray. 

Lord Hastings. 

Lord Bardolph. 

Sir John Colevile. 

Travers and Morton, retainers of Northumberland. 


his sons. 


Sir John Falstaff. 

His Page. 

Bardolph. 

Pistol. 

Poins. 

Peto. 

Shallow, 

Silence, 

Davy, Servant to Shallow. 

Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bullcalf, 
recruits. 

Fang and Snare, Sheriff’s officers. 

Lady Northumberland. 

Lady Percy. 

Mistress Quickly, hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. 

Doll Tearsheet. 


\ country justices. 


Lords and Attendants; Porter, Drawers, Beadles, 
Grooms, «ec. 


A Dancer, speaker of the epilogue. 


SCENE — England. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Liv.] 


AEN TOE, CD BiG) cing 


Warkworth. Before the castle. 


Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues. 


ee Open your ears; for which of you will 

stop 
The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks ? 
I, from the orient to the drooping west, 
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold 

3 he acts commenced on this ball of earth: 

~ Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, 

The which in every language I pronounce, 
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 
I speak of peace, while covert enmity 
Under the smile of safety wounds the world: 
And who but Rumour, who but only I, 
Make fearful musters and prepared defence, 
Whiles the big year, swoln with some other grief, 
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, 
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe 
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, 
And of so easy and so plain a stop : 
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, 
The still-discordant wavering multitude, 


Can play upon it. But what need I thus 

My well-known body to anatomize 

Among my household ? Why is Rumour here ? 

I run before King Harry’s victory ; 

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury 

Hath beaten down voung Hotspur and his troops, 
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion 

Even with the rebel’s blood. But what mean I 
To speak so true at first ? my office is 

To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell 
Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword, 

And that the king before the Douglas’ rage 
Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death. 

This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns 
Between that royal field of Shrewsbury 

And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, 
Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland, 
Lies crafty-sick: the posts come tiring on, 

And not a man of them brings other news 

Than they have learn’d of me: from Rumour’s 


tongues 
They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true 
wrongs. [ Hcat. 


309 


ACT I. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scenet. 


aNd Cy fl BEE Os 


SCENE I.— The same. 


Enter Lord Bardolph. 
L. Bard. Who keeps the gate here, ho? 


The Porter opens the gate. 


Where is the earl ? 
Port. What shall I say you are? 
LL. Bard. Tell thou the earl 
That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here. 
Port. His lordship is walk’d forth into the 
orchard: 
Please it your honour, knock but at the gate, 
And he himself will answer.. 


Enter Northumberland. 


Here comes the earl. 
[Hait Porter. 
North. What news, Lord Bardolph ? every minute 
Should be the father of some stratagem: [now 
The times are wild; contention, like a horse 
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose 
And bears down all before him. 
L. Bard. Noble earl, 
I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. 
North. Good, an God will! 
LL. Bard. As good as heart can wish: 
The king is almost wounded to the death ; 
And, in the fortune of my lord your son, 
Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts 
Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John 
And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field ; 
And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the bulk Sir John, 
Is prisoner to your son: O, such a day, 
So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won, 
Came not till now to dignify the times, 
Since Ceesar’s fortunes! 
North. How is this derived ? 
Saw you the field ? came you from Shrewsbury ? 
LL. Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that came 
from thence, 
A gentleman well bred and of good name, 
That freely render’d me these news for true. 
North. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I 


L. Bard. 


sent 
On Tuesday last to listen after news. 


Enter Travers. 


L. Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the way; 
And he is furnished with no certainties 
More than he haply may retail from me. 

North. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes 

with you ? 

Tra. My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back 
With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed, 
Outrode me. After him came spurring hard 
A gentleman, almost forspent with speed, 

That stopped by me to breathe his bloodied horse. 
He ask’d the way to Chester; and of him 

I did demand what news from Shrewsbury : 
He told me that rebellion had bad luck 

And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold. 
With that, he gave his able horse the head, 
And bending forward struck his armed heels 
Against the panting sides of his poor jade 

Up to the rowel-head, and starting so 

He seem’d in running to devour the way, 
Staying no longer question. 

North. Ha! Again: 
Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold ? 
Of Hotspur Coldspur ? that rebellion 
Had met ill luck ? 

L. Bard. My lord, Ill tell you what; 
If my young lord your son have not the day. 


340 


Upon mine honour, for a silken point 

I’ll give my barony: never talk of it. [Travers 
North. Why should that gentleman that rode by 

Give then such instances of loss ? 
LL. Bard. Who, he? 

He was some hilding fellow that had stolen 

The horse he rode on, and, upon my life, 

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news. 


Enter Morton. 


North. Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf, 
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume: 

So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood 
Hath left a witness’d usurpation. 
Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury ? 

Mor. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord; 
Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask 
To fright our party. 

North. How doth my son and brother ? 
Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek 
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 

So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, 

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, . 

And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; 
But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue, ~ 

And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it. 

This thou wouldst say, ‘ Your son did thus and thus; 
Your brother thus: so fought the noble Douglas: ’” 
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds: 

But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, 

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, 

Ending with ‘ Brother, son, and all are dead.’ 

Mor. Douglas is living, and your brother, yet; 
But, for my lord your son,— 

North. Why, he is dead. 
See what a ready tongue suspicion hath! 

He that but fears the thing he would not know 
Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes 
That what hefear’dischanced. Yetspeak, Morton; 
Tell thou an earl his divination lies, 

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace 

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. 

Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid : 
Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. 

North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead. 
I see a strange confession in thine eye: 

Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin 
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so; 

The tongue offends not that reports his death: 
And he doth sin that doth belie the dead, 

Not he which says the dead is not alive. 

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news 

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue 

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, 

Remember’d tolling a departing friend. 

L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. 

Mor. Iam sorry I should force you to believe 
That which I would to God I had not seen; 

But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state, 

Rendering faint quittance, wearied and out. 
breathed, 

To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down 

The never-daunted Percy to the earth, 

From whence with life he never more sprung up. 

In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire 

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp, 

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away 

From the best-temper’d courage in his troops; 

For from his metal was his party steel’d; 

Which once in him abated, all the rest 

Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead: 

And as the thing that’s heavy in itself, 

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, 


ACT I. 


So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss, 

Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear 

That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim 

Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, 

F ly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester 

‘oo soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot, 

The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword 

Had three times slain the appearance of the king, 

*Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame 

Of those that turn’d their backs, and in his flight, 

Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all 

Js that the king hath won, and hath sent out 

A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, 

Under the conduct of young Lancaster 

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full. 
North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn. 

In poison there is physic; and these news, 

Having been well, that would have made me sick, 

Being sick, have in some measure made me well: 

And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints, 

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, 

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire 

Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs, 

Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief, 

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice 

A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel [crutch! 

Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly quoif! 

Thou art a guard too wanton for the head 

Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit. 

Now bind my brows with iron; and approach 

The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring 

To frown upon the enraged Northumberland! 

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature’s hand 

Keep the wild flood confined! let order die! 

And let this world no longer be a stage 

To feed contention in a lingering act; 

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain 

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set 

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end, 

And darkness be the burier of the dead! flord. 
Tra. This strained passion doth you wrong, my 
L. Bard. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from 

your honour. 

Mor. The lives of all your loving complices 
Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er 
To stormy passion, must perforce decay. 

You cast the event of war, my noble lord, 

And summ’d the account of chance, before you said 

‘Let us make head.’ It was your presurmise, 

That, in the dole of blows, your son might drop: 

You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge, 

More likely to fall in than to get o’er ; 

You were advised his flesh was capable 

Of wounds and scars and that his forward spirit 

Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged : 

Yet did you say ‘Go forth;’ and none of this, 

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain 

The stiff-borne action: what hath then befallen, 

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth, 

More than that being which was like to be ? 

L. Bard. We all that are engaged to this loss 
Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas 
That if we wrought our life ’t was ten to one; 
And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed 
Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d ; 

And since we are o’erset, venture again. 

Come, we will all put forth, body and goods. 

Mor. Tis more than time: and, my most noble 
I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, __ [lord, 
The gentle Archbishop of York is up 
With well-appointed powers: he is a man 
Who with a double surety binds his followers. 

My lord your son had only but the corpse, 

But shadows and the shows of men, to fight ; 

For that same word, rebellion, did divide 

The action of their bodies from their souls; 

And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d, 


SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE II, 


As men drink potions, that their weapons only 
Seem’d on our side; but, for their spirits and souls, 
This word, rebellion, it had froze them up, 
As fish are ina pond. But now the bishop 
Turns insurrection to religion : 
Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts, 
He’s followed both with body and with mind; 
And doth enlarge his rising with the blood 
Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones ; 
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause; 
Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land, 
Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; 
And more and less do flock to follow him. 

North. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth, 
This present grief had wiped it from my mind. 
Go in with me; and counsel every man 
The aptest way for safety and revenge: 
Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed: 
Never so few, and never yet more need. [Eeunt. 


SCENE II.— London. A street. 


Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword 
and buckler. 


Fal. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to 
my water ? 

Page. He said, sir, the water itself was a good 
healthy water; but, for the party that owed it, he 
might have more diseases than he knew for. 

fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: 
the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is 
not able to invent any thing that tends to laughter, 
more than I invent or is invented on me: I am not 
only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in 
other men. Ido here walk before thee like a sow 
that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If 
the prince put thee into my service for any other 
reason than to set me off, why then I have no judg- 
ment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter 
to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I 
was never manned with an agate till now: but I 
will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile 
apparel, and send you back again to your master, 
for a jewel,— the juvenal, the prince your master, 
whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner have 
a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall 
get one on his cheek; and yet he will not stick to 
say his face is a face-royal: God may finish it when 
he will, ’tis not a hair amiss yet: he may keep it 
still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn 
sixpence out of it; and yet he’ll be crowing as if 
he had writ man ever since his father was a bach- 
elor. He may keep his own grace, but he’s almost 
out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master 
Dombledon about the satin for my short cloak and 
my slops ? 

Page. He said, sir, you should procure him better 
assurance than Bardolph: he would not take his 
band and yours; he liked not the security. 

Fal. Let him be damned, like the glutton! pray 
God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! 
a rascally yea-forsooth knave! to bear a gentleman 
in hand, and then stand upon security! The whore- 
son smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high 
shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if 
a man is through with them in honest taking up, 
then they must stand upon security. I had as lief 
they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to 
stop it with security. I looked a’ should have sent 
me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true 
knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may 
sleep in security ; for he hath the horn of abundance, 
and the lightness of his wife shines through it: and 
yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn 
to light him. Where’s Bardolph ? 

Page. He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your wor- 
ship a horse. 


o41 


SECOND PART OF 


Fal. I bought him in Paul’s, and he ’ll buy me a 
horse in Smithfield: an I could get me but a wife in 
the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived. 


ACT I. 


Enter the Lord Chief-Justice and Servant. 


Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that com- 
mitted the prince for striking him about Bardolph. 

Fal. Wait close; I will not see him. 

Ch. Just. What’s he that goes there ? 

Serv. Falstaff, an ’t please your lordship. 

Ch. Just. He that was in question for the rob- 
bery ? 

Serv. He, my lord: but he hath since done good 
service at Shrewsbury ; and, as I hear, is now going 
with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster. 

Ch. Just. What, to York? Call him back again. 

Serv. Sir John Falstaff! 

Fal. Boy, tell him I am deaf. 

Page. You must speak louder; my master is deaf. 

Ch. Just. I am sure he is, to the hearing of any- 
thing good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must 
speak with him. 

Serv. Sir John! 

Fal. What! a young knave, and begging! Is 
there not wars? is there not employment ? doth 
not the king lack subjects? do not the rebels need 
soldiers? ‘Though it be a shame to be on any side 
but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the 


worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion | 


can tell how to make it. 

Serv. You mistake me, sir. 

Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man ? 
setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I 
had lied in my throat, if I had said so. 

Serv. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood 
and your soldiership aside; and give me leave to 
tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am any 
other than an honest man. 

fal. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside 
that which grows to me! If thou gettest any leave 
of me, hang me: if thou takest leave, thou wert 
better be hanged. You hunt counter: hence! 
avaunt ! 

Serv. Sir, my lord would speak with you. 

Ch. Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you. 

Fal. My good lord! God give your lordship good 
time of day. Iam glad tosee your lordship abroad: 
I heard say your lordship was sick: I hope your 
lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, 
though not clean past your youth, hath yet some 
smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of 
time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to 
have a reverent care of your health. 

Ch. Just. Sir John, I sent for you before your ex- 
pedition to Shrewsbury. 

Fal. An ’t please your lordship, I hear his majesty 
is returned with some discomfort from Wales. 

Oh. Just. L talk not of his majesty: you would not 
come when I sent for you. 

Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen 
into this same whoreson apoplexy. 

Ch. Just. Well, God mend him! 
me speak with you. 

Fal. This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of 
lethargy, an ’t please your lordship; a kind of sleep- 
ing in the blood, a whoreson tingling. 

Ch. Just. What tell you me of it? be it as it is. 

Fal. It hath its original from much grief, from 
study and perturbation of the brain: I have read 
the cause of his effects in Galen: it is a kind of 
deafness. 

Ch. Just. I think you are fallen into the disease ; 
for you hear not what I say to you. 

Fal. Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an *t 
please you, it is the disease of not listening, the 
malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal. 


I pray you, let 


Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would amend | 


342 


KING HENRY IV. scenx tt. 


the attention of your ears; and I care not if I do 
become your physician. 

Fal. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so 
patient: your lordship may minister the potion of 
imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how 
I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, 
the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or in- 
deed a scruple itself. 

Ch. Just. I sent for you, when there were matters 
against you for your life, to come speak with me. 

Fal. As I was then advised by my learned counsel 
in the laws of this land-service, I did not come. 

Ch. Just. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in 
great infamy. 

Fal. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live 
in less. 

Ch. Just. Your means are very slender, and your 
waste is great. , 

Fal. I would it were otherwise; I would my 
means were greater, and my waist slenderer. 

Ch. Just. You have misled the youthful prince. 

Fal. The young prince hath misled me: I am the 
fellow with the great belly, and he my dog. 

Ch. Just. Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed 
wound: your day’s service at Shrewsbury hath a 
little gilded over your night’s exploit on Gad’s-hill: 
you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o’er- 
posting that action. 

Fal. My lord ? 

Ch. Just. But since all is well, keep it so: wake 
not a sleeping wolf. 

Fal. To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox. 

Ch. Just. What! you are as a candle, the better 
part burnt out. 

Fal. A. wassail candle, my lord, all tallow: if I 
did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth. 

Ch. Just. There is not a white hair on your face 
but should have his effect of gravity. 

Fal. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy. 

Ch. Just. You follow the young prince up and 
down, like his ill angel. 

Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but 
I hope he that looks upon me will take me without 
weighing: and yet, in some respects, I grant, I can- 
not go: I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard 
in these costermonger times that true valour is 
turned bear-herd: pregnancy is made a tapster, and 
hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all 
the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of 
this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. 
You that are old consider not the capacities of us 
that are young; you do measure the heat of our 
livers with the bitterness of your galls: and we that 
are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are 
wags too. 

Ch. Just. Do you set down your name in the scroll 
of youth, that are written down old with all the 
characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a 
dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a de- 
creasing leg ? an increasing belly ? is not your voice 
broken ? your wind short ? your chin double ? your 
wit single? and every part about you blasted with 
antiquity ? and will you yet call yourself young ? 
Fie, fie, fie, Sir John! 

fal. My lord, I was born about three of the clock 
in the afternoon, with a white head and something 
around belly. For my voice, I have lost it with 
halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my 
youth further, I will not: the truth is, 1 am only 
old in judgment and understanding; and he that 
will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him 
lend me the money, and have at him! For the box 
of the ear that the prince gave you, he gave it like 
a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. 
I have checked him for it, and the young lion re- 
pents; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new 
silk and old sack. 


ACT I. 


SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scenetit. 


Ch. Just. Well, God send the prince a better com- 
panion ! 

Fal. God send the companion a better prince! I 
cannot rid my hands of him. 

Ch. Just. Well, the king hath severed you and 
Prince Harry: I hear you are going with Lord John 
of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Ear] 
of Northumberland. 

Fal. Yea; 1 thank your pretty sweet wit for it. 
But look you pray, all you that kiss my lady Peace 
at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, 
by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and 
I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: if it be a hot 
day, and I brandish any thing but a bottle, I would 
I might never spit white again. There is not a 
dangerous action can peep out his head but I am 
thrust upon it: well, I cannot last ever: but it was 
alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they 
have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye 
will needs say I am an old man, you should give me 
rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible 
to the enemy as it is: I were better to be eaten to 
death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing 
with perpetual motion. 

Ch. Just. Well, be honest, be honest; and God 
bless your expedition ! 

Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound 
to furnish me forth ? | 

Ch. Just. Not a penny, not a penny; you are too | 
impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend | 
me to my cousin Westmoreland. 

[Haueunt Chief-Justice and Servant. 

Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A 
man can no more separate age and covetousness 
than a’ can part young limbs and lechery: but the 
gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other ; 
and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy! 

Page. Sir? 

Fal. What money is in my purse ? 

Page. Seven groats and two pence. 

Fal. can get no remedy against this consump- 
tion of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers 
it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this 
letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the prince; 
this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old 
Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to 
marry since I perceived the first white hair on my 
chin. About it: you know where to find me. [Hxvé 
Page.| A pox of this gout! or, a gout of this pox! 
for the one or the other plays the rogue with my 
great toe. ’T is no matter if I do halt; I have the 
wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the 
more reasonable. A good wit will make use of any 
thing: I will turn diseases to commodity. [ Heit. 


SCENE III.— York. The Archbishop’s palace. 


Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, 
Mowbray, and Bardolph. 


Arch. Thus have you heard our cause and known 
our means; 
And, my most noble friends, I pray you all, 
Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes: 
And first, lord marshal, what say you to it ? 
Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our arms; 
But gladly would be better satisfied 
How in our means we should advance ourselves 
To look with forehead bold and big enough 
Upon the power and puissance of the king. 
Hast. Our present musters grow upon the file 
To five and twenty thousand men of choice; 
And our supplies live largely in the hope 
Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns 
With an incensed fire of injuries. [eth thus; 
L. Bard. The question then, Lord Hastings, stand- 


Whether our present five and twenty thousand 
May hold up head without Northumberland ? 


Hast. With him, we may. 
L. Bard. Yea, marry, there’s the point: 
But if without him we be thought too feeble, 
My judgment is, we should not step too far 
Till we had his assistance by the hand; 
For in a theme so bloody-faced as this 
Conjecture, expectation, and surmise 
Of aids incertain should not be admitted. 
Arch. ’T is very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed 
It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury. [hope, 
I. Bard. It was, my lord; who lined himself with 
Eating the air on promise of supply, 
Flattering himself in project of a power 
Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts: 
And so, with great imagination 
Proper to madmen, led his powers to death 
And winking leap’d into destruction. 
Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt 
To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope. 
L. Bard. Yes, if this present quality of war, 
Indeed the instant action: a cause on foot 
Lives so in hope as in an early spring 
We see the appearing buds; which to prove fruit, 
Hope gives not so much warrant as despair 
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, 
We first survey the plot, then draw the model; 
And when we see the figure of the house, 
Then must we rate the cost of the erection; 
Which if we find outweighs ability, 
What do we then but draw anew the model 


| In fewer offices, or at last desist 


To build at all? Much more, in this great work, 

Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down 

And set another up, should we survey 

The plot of situation and the model, 

Consent upon a sure foundation, 

Question surveyors, know our own estate, 

How able such a work to undergo, 

To weigh against his opposite; or else 

We fortify in paper and in figures, 

Using the names of men instead of men: 

Like one that draws the model of a house 

Beyond his power to build it; who, half through, 

Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost 

A naked subject to the weeping clouds 

And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny. 

Hast. Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth, 
Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d 
The utmost man of expectation, 

I think we are a body strong enough, 

Even as we are, to equal with the king. [thousand ? 
L. Bard. What, is the king but five and twenty 
Hast. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bar- 

For his divisions, as the times do brawl, [dolph. 


| Are in three heads: one power against the French, 


And one against Glendower; perforce a third 
Must take up us: so is the unfirm king 
In three divided; and his coffers sound 
With hollow poverty and emptiness. [together 
Arch. That he should draw his several strengths 
And come against us in full puissance, 
Need not be dreaded. 
Hast. If he should do so, 
He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh 
Baying him at the heels: never fear that. [hither 
L. Bard. Who is it like should lead his forces 
Hast. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland ; 
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth : 
But who is substituted ’gainst the French, 
I have no certain notice. 
Arch. Let us on, 
And publish the occasion of our arms. } 
The commonwealth is sick of their own ecnoice; 
Their over-greedy love hath surfeited : 
An habitation giddy and unsure 
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. 
O thou fond many, with what loud applause 


343 


ACT II. 


Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke, 
Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! 
And being now trimm’d in thine own desires, 
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, 

That thou provokest thyself to cast him up. 

So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge 

Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard ; 

And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, 
And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times ? 
They that, when Richard lived, would have him die, 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY ITV. 


SCENE I. 


Are now become enamour’d on his grave: 

Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head 

When through proud London he came sighing on 

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke, 

Criest now ‘ O earth, yield us that king again, 

And take thou this!’ O thoughts of men accursed! 

Past and to come seems best; things present worst. 
Mowb. Shall we go draw our numbers and set on ? 
Hast. We are time’s subjects, and time bids be 

gone. [EHaeunt. 


Bae i Dee We Be 


SCENE I.— London. A street. 


Enter Hostess, Fang and his Boy with her, and 
Snare following. 


Host. Master Fang, have you entered the action ? 

Fang. It is entered. 

Host. Where’s your yeoman? 
man? will a’ stand to’t? 

Fang. Sirrah, where ’s Snare ? 

Host. O Lord, ay! good Master Snare. 

Snare. Here, here. 

Fang. Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff. 

Host. Yea, good Master Snare; I have entered 
him and all. 

Snare. It may chance cost some of us our lives, 
for he will stab. 

Host. Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabbed 
me in mine own house, and that most beastly: in 
good faith, he cares not what mischief he does, if 
his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he 
will spare neither man, woman, nor child. 

Fang. If I can close with him, I care not for his 
thrust. 

Host. No, nor I neither: I ll be at your elbow. 

fang. An I but fist him once; an a’ come but 
within my vice,— 

Host. 1am undone by his going; I warrant you, 
he ’s an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Mas- 
ter Fang, hold him sure: good Master Snare, let 
him not ’scape. A’ comes continuantly to Pie- 
corner—saving your manhoods —to buy a saddle; 
and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber’s-head in 
Lumbert street, to Master Smooth’s the silkman: 
I pray ye, since my exion is entered and my case so 
openly known to the world, let htm be brought in 
to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a 
poor lone woman to bear: and I have borne, and 
borne, and borne, and have been fubbed off, and 
fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that 
day, that it is ashame to be thought on. There is 
no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should 
be made an ass and a beast, to bear every knave’s 
wrong. Yonderhecomes; and that arrant malmsey- 
nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do 
your offices: Master Fang and Master Snare, do me, 
do me, do me your oflices. 


Enter Falstaff, Page, and Bardolph. 


fal. How now! whose mare’s dead? what’s the 
matter ? 

Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mis- 
tress Quickly. 

fal. Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph: cut me off 
the villain’s head: throw the quean in the channel. 

Host. Throw me in the channel! Ill throw thee 
in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bas- 
tardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, thou honey- 
suckle villain! wilt thou kill God’s officers and the 
king’s? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a 
honey-seed, a man-queller, and a woman-queller. 

fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. 

344 


Is’t a lusty yeo- 


Fang. A rescue! a rescue! 

Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou 
wo’t, wo’t thou? thou wo’t, wo’t ta? do, do, thou 
rogue! do, thou hemp-seed! 

Fal. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you 
fustilarian! Ill tickle your catastrophe. 


Enter the Lord Chief-Justice, and his men. 


Ch. Just. What is the matter? keep the peace 
here, ho! 

Host. Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech 
you, stand to me. 

Ch. Just. How now, Sir John; what are you 

brawling here ? [ness ? 
Doth this become your place, your time and busi- 
You should have been well on your way to York. 
Stand Hee him, fellow: wherefore hang’st upon 
im? 

Host. O my most worshipful lord, an’t please 
your grace, 1am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and 
he is arrested at my suit. 

Oh. Just. For what sum ? 

Host. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for 
all, alll have. He hath eaten me out of house and 


‘home; he hath put all my substance into that fat 


belly of his: but I will have some of it out again, 
or I will ride thee o’ nights like the mare. 

Fal. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I 
have any vantage of ground to get up. 

Ch. Just. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! what 
man of good temper would endure this tempest of 
exclamation ? Are you not ashamed to enforce a 
poor Ooo to so rough a course to come by her 
own: 

Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? 

Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself 
and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon 
a parcel-gilt goblet; sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, 
at the round-table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednes- 
day in Wheeson week, when the prince broke thy 
head for liking his father to a singing-man of Wind- 
sor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing 
thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady 
thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife 
Keech, the butcher’s wife, come in then and call 
me gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of 
vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns; 
whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby 1 
told thee they were ill for a green wound? And 
didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, 
desire me to be no more so familiarity with such 
poor people; saying that ere long they should call 
me madam? And didst thou not kiss me and bid 
me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to 
thy book-oath: deny it, if thou canst. 

Fal. My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and she 
says up and down the town that her eldest son is 
like you: she hath been in good case, and the truth 
is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these fool- 
rtp officers, I beseech you I may have redress agains 
them. 


ACT II. 


Ch. Just. Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted 
with your manner of wrenching the true cause the 
false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the 
throng of words that come with such more than 
impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from 
a level consideration: you have, as it appears to 
me, practised upon the easy-yielding spirit of this 
woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse 
and in person. 

Host. Yea, in truth, my lord. 

Oh. Just. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you 
owe her, and unpay the villany you have done her: 
the one you may do with sterling money, and the 
other with current repentance. 

Fal. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap with- 
out reply. You call honourable boldness impudent 
sauciness; if a man will make courtesy and say 
nothing, he is virtuous: no, my lord, my humble 
duty remembered, I will not be your suitor. I say 
to you, I do desire deliverance from these officers, 
being upon hasty employment in the king’s affairs. 

Ch. Just. You speak as having power to do wrong: 
but answer in the effect of your reputation, and sat- 
isfy the poor woman. 

Fal. Come hither, hostess. 


Enter Gower. 


Ch. Just. Now, Master Gower, what news? 

Gow. The king, my lord, and Harry Prince of 
Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells. [Wales 

Fal. As lam a gentleman. 

Host. Faith, you said so before. [of it. 

Fal. Aslam agentleman. Come,no more words 

Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must 
be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of 
my dining-chambers. 

Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: and 
for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story 
of the Prodigal, or the German hunting in water- 
work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings 
and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, 
if thou canst. Come, an ’t were not for thy hu- 
mours, there’s not a better wench in England. 
Go, wash thy face, and draw the action. Come, 
thou must not be in this humour with me; dost 
not know me? come, come, I know thou wast set 
on to this. 

Host. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty 
nobles: i’ faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so 
God save me, la! 

Fal. Let it alone; L’ll make other shift: you ’ll 
be a fool still. 

Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my 
gown. I hope you ’ll come to supper. Youll pay 
me all together? — 

Fal. Will I live? [To Bardolph] Go, with her, 
with her; hook on, hook on. 

Host. Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at 

Fal. No more words; let’s have her. [supper ? 

[| Hxeunt Hostess, Bardolph, Officers and Boy. 

Ch. Just. I have heard better news. 

Fal. What ’s the news, my lord ? 

Ch. Just. Where lay the king last night ? 

Gow. At Basingstoke, my lord. 

Fal. [hope, my lord, all’s well: what is the news, 
my lord ? 

Oh. Just. Come all his forces back ? [horse, 

Gow. No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred 
Are mareh’d up to my lord of Lancaster, 

Against Northumberland and the Archbishop. 
fal. Comes the king back from Wales, my noble 
lord ? [ently : 

Ch. Just. You shall have the letters of me pres- 
Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. 

Fal. My lord! 

Ch. Just. What ’s the matter ? [to dinner ? 

Fal. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE II. 


Gow. I must wait upon my good lord here; I 
thank you, good Sir John. 

Ch. Just. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being 
you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go. 

Fal. Will you sup with me, Master Gower ? 

Ch. Just. What foolish master taught you these 
manners, Sir John ? ‘ 

Fal. Master Gower, if they become me not, he 
was a fool that taught them me. This is the right 
as grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair. 

Ch. Just. Now the Lord lighten thee! thou art a 
great fool. 


SCENE II.—London. 


Enter Prince Henry and Poins. 


Prince. Before God, I am exceeding weary. 

Poins. Is’t come to that? I had thought weari- 
ness durst not have attached one of so high blood. 

Prince. Faith, it does me; though it discolours 
the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. 
Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer ? 

Poins. Why, a prince should not be so loosely 
studied as to remember so weak a composition. 

Prince. Belike then my appetite was not princely 
got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor 
creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble 
considerations make me out of love with my great- 
ness. What a disgrace is it tome to remember thy 
name! or to know thy face to-morrow! or to take 
note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast, 
viz. these, and those that were thy peach-coloured 
ones! or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as, one 
for superfluity, and another for use! But that the 
tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is 
a low ebb of linen with thee when thou keepest not 
racket there; as thou hast not done a great while, 
because the rest of thy low countries have made 
a shift to eat up thy holland: and God knows, 
whether those that baw] out the ruins of thy linen 
shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say 
the children are not in the fault; whereupon the 
world increases, and kindreds are mightily strength- 
ened. 

Poins. How ill it follows, after you have laboured 
so hard, you should talk so idly! Tell me, how many 
good young princes would do so, their fathers being 
so sick as yours at this time is? 

Prince. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins? 

Poins. Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good 
thing. 

Prince. It shall serve among wits of no higher 
breeding than thine. 

Poins. Go to; I stand the push of your one thing 
that you will tell. 

Prince. Marry, I tell thee, it is not meet that I 
should be sad, now my father is sick: albeit I could 
tell to thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a 
better, to call my friend, I could be sad, and sad 
indeed too. 

Poins. Very hardly upon such a subject. 

Prince. By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in 
the devil’s book as thou and Falstaff for obduracy 
and persistency: let the end try the man. But If 
tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father 
is so sick: and keeping such vile company as thou 
art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of 

Poins. The reason ? [sorrow. 

Prince. What wouldst thou think of me, if lL 
should weep ? |crite. 

Poins. I would think thee a most princely hypo- 

Prince. It would be every man’s thought; and 
thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man 
thinks: never aman’s thought in the world keeps 
the road-way better than thine: every man would 
think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites 
your most worshipful thought to think so ? 


345 


[ Exeunt. 


Another street. 


ACT II. 


Poins. Why, because you have been so lewd and 
so much engraffed to Falstaff. 

Prince. And to thee. 

Poins. By this light, I am well spoke on; I can 
hear it with mine own ears: the worst that they 
can say of me is that I am a second brother and 
that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those 
two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, 
here comes Bardolph. 


Enter Bardolph and Page. 


Prince. And the boy that I gave Falstaff: a’ 
had him from me Christian; and look, if the fat 
villain have not transformed him ape. 

Bard. God save your grace! 

Prince. And yours, most noble Bardolph! 

Bard. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, 
must you be blushing ? wherefore blush you now ? 
What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become! 
Is’t such a matter to get a pottle-pot’s maidenhead ? 

Page. A’ calls me e’en now, my lord, through 
a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face 
from the window: at last I spied his eyes, and me- 
thought he had made two holes in the ale-wife’s 
new petticoat and so peeped through. 

Prince. Has not the boy profited ? 

Bard. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away! 

Page. Away, you rascally Althea’s dream, away! 

Prince. Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy ? 

Page. Marry, my lord, Althea dreamed she was 
delivered of a fire-brand; and therefore I call him 
her dream. 

Prince. A crown’s worth of good interpretation : 
there ’tis, boy. 

Poins. O, that this good blossom could be kept 
pon cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve 

1ee. 

Bard. An youdo not make him hanged among 
you, the gallows shall have wrong. 

Prince. And how doth thy master, Bardolph ? 

Bard. Well, my lord. He heard of your grace’s 
coming to town: there’s a letter for you. 

Poins. Delivered with good respect. And how 
doth the martlemas, your master ? 

Bard. In bodily health, sir. 

Poins. Marry, the immortal part needs a physi- 
cian; but that moves not him: though that be sick, 
it dies not. 

Prince. I do allow this wen to be as familiar 
with me as my dog; and he holds his place; for 
look you how he writes. 

Poins. [Reads] ‘ John Falstaff, knight,’— every 
man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to 
name himself: even like those that are kin to the 
king; for they never prick their finger but they 
say, ‘There’s some of the king’s blood spilt.’ 
‘How comes that?’ says he, that takes upon him 
not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a bor- 
rower’s cap, ‘I am the king’s poor cousin, sir.’ 

Prince. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will 
fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter: 

Poins. [Reads] ‘ Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the 
son of the king, nearest his father, Harry Prince 
of Wales, greeting.’ Why, this is a certificate. 

Prince. Peace! 

Poins. [Reads] ‘I will imitate the honourable Ro- 
mans in brevity:’ he sure means brevity in breath, 
short-winded. ‘I commend me to thee, I commend 
thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with 
Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much, that he 
swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent 
at idle times as thou mayest; and so, farewell. 

‘ Thine, by yea and no, which is as much 
as to say, as thou usest him, JACK FAL- 
STAFF with my familiars, Joun with my 
brothers and sisters, and Sir JoHN with 
all Europe.’ 


346 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY TV. scene 111. 


My lord, Ill steep this letter in sack and make 
him eat it. 

Prince. That ’s to make him eat twenty of his 
words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I 
marry your sister ? . 

Poins. God send the wench no worse fortune! 
But I never said so. 

Prince. Well, thus we play the fools with the 
time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds 
and mock us. Is your master here in London ? 

Bard. Yea, my lord. 

Prince. Where sups he? doth the old boar feed 
in the old frank ? . 

Bard. At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap. 

Prince. What company ? 

Page. Ephesians, my lord, of the old church. 

Prince. Sup any women with him ? 

Page. None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly 
and Mistress Doll Tearsheet. 

Prince. What pagan may that be? 

Page. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kins- 
woman of my master’s. 

Prince. Even such kin as the parish heifers are 
to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, 
at supper ? you. 

Poins. I am your shadow, my lord; 17] follow 

Prince. Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word 
to your master that Iam yet come to town: there ’s 
for your silence. 

Bard. I have no tongue, sir. 

Page. And for mine, sir, I will govern it. 

Prince. Fare you well; go. [Hxeunt Bardolph 
gn te This Doll Tearsheet should be some 
road. 

Poins. I warrant you, as common as the way be- 
tween Saint Alban’s and London. 

Prince. How might we see Falstaff bestow him- 
self to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves 
be seen ? 

Poins. Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, 


and wait upon him at his table as drawers. 

Prince. From a God to a bull ? a heavy descension ! 
it was Jove’s case. From a prince to a prentice? a 
low transformation! that shall be mine; for in every 
thing the purpose must weigh with the folly. Fol- 
low me, Ned. Exeunt. 


SCENE III. — Warkworth. Before the castle. 


Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumber- 
land, and Lady Percy. 

Yorth. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daugh- 
Give even way unto my rough affairs: {ter, 
Put not you on the visage of the times 
And be like them to Percy troublesome. 

Lady N. I have given over, I will speak no more: 
Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide. 
North. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn; 
And, but my going, nothing can redeem it. [wars! 
Lady P. O yet, for God’s sake, go not to tiiese 
The time was, father, that you broke your word, 
When you were more endear’d to it than now; 
When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry, 
Threw many a northward look to see his father 
Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain. 
Who then persuaded you to stay at home? 
There were two honours lost, yours and your son’s. 
For yours, the God of heaven brighten it! 
For his, it stuck upon him as the sun 
In the grey vault of heaven, and by his light 


Did all the chivalry of England move 

To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass 
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves: 

He had no legs that practised not his gait; 

And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, 
Became the accents of the valiant ; 

| For those that could speak low and tardily 


KING HENRY THE FOURTH. PART II.—Act II., Scene iv. 


ACT II. 


SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY TV. scene trv. 


Would turn their own perfection to abuse, 

To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait, 

In diet, in affections of delight, 

In military rules, humours of blood, 

He was the mark and glass, copy and book, 

That fashion’d others. And him, O wondrous him! 
O miracle of men! him did you leave, 

Second to none, unseconded by you, 

To look upon the hideous god of war 

In disadvantage; to abide a field 

Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s name 
Did seem defensible: so you left him. 

Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong 

To hold your honour more precise and nice 

With others than with him! let them alone: 

The marshal and the archbishop are strong: 

Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, 
To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur’s neck, 
Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave. 

North. Beshrew your heart, 
Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me 
With new lamenting ancient oversights. 

But I mast go and meet with danger there, 
Or it wili seek me in another place 
And find me worse provided. 

Lady N. O, fly to Scotland, 
Till that the nobles and the armed commons 
Have of their puissance made a little taste. [king, 

Lady P. If they get ground and vantage of the 
Then join you with them, like a rib of steel, 

To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves, 
First let them try themselves. So did your son; 
He was so suffer’d: so came I a widow; 

And never shall have length of life enough 

To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes, 

That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven, 
For recordation to my noble husband. [mind 

North. Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis with my 
As with the tide swell’d up unto his height, 

That makes a still-stand, running neither way: 
Fain would I go to meet the archbishop, 

But many thousand reasons hold me back. 

I will resolve for Scotland: there am I, 

Till time and vantage crave my company. [Evxzeunt. 


SCENE IV.— London. The Boar’s-Head Tavern 
in Hastcheap. 


Enter two Drawers. 


First Draw. What the devil hast thou brought 
there? apple-johns ? thou knowest Sir John cannot 
endure an apple-john. 

Sec. Draw. Mass, thou sayest true. The prince 
once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and told 
him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off 
his hat, said ‘ I will now take my leave of these six 
dry, round, old, withered knights.’ It angered him 
to the heart: but he hath forgot that. 

First Draw. Why, then, cover, and set them down: 
and see if thou canst find out Sneak’s noise; Mis- 
tress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Dis- 
patch: the room where they supped is too hot: 
they ll come in straight. 

Sec. Draw. Sirrah, here will be the prince and 
Master Poins anon; and they will put on two of 
our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not 
know of it: Bardolph hath brought word. 

First Draw. By the mass, here will be old Utis: 
it will be an excellent stratagem. 

Sec. Draw. Ill see if I can find out Sneak. [Evzit. 


Enter Hostess and Doll Tearsheet. 


_ Host. V faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are 
mm an excellent good temperality: your pulsidge 
beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and 
your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in 
good truth, la! But, i’ faith, you have drunk too 


- Empty the jordan. 


| firmities. 


much canaries; and that’s a marvellous searching 
wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say 
‘What’s this?’ How do you now? 

Dol. Better than I was: hem! 

Host. Why, that’s well said; a good heart ’s worth 
gold. Lo, here comes Sir John. 


Enter Falstaff. 


Fal. [Singing] ‘When Arthur first in court’— 
[Heit First Drawer)|.— [Singing] 
‘ And was a worthy king.’ Hownow, Mistress Doll ! 

Host. Sick of a calm; yea, good faith. 

Fal. So is all her sect; an they be once in a calm, 
they are sick. 

Dol. You muddy rascal, is that all the comfort 
you give me? 

Fal. You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. 

Dol. Imake them! gluttony and diseases make 
them; I make them not. 

Fal. If the cook help to make the gluttony, you 
help to make the diseases, Doll: we catch of you, 
Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue, 
grant that. 

Dol. Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels. 

Fal. ‘Your brooches, pearls, and ouches:’ for to 
serve bravely is to come halting off, you know: to 
come off the beach with his pike bent bravely, and 
to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged 
chambers bravely,— 

Dol. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang 
yourself ! 

Host. By my troth, this is the old fashion; you 
two never meet but you fall to some discord: you 
are both, i’ good truth, as rheumatic as two dry 
toasts; you cannot one bear with another’s con- 
What the good-year! one must bear, 
and that must be you: you are the weaker vessel, 
as they say, the emptier vessel. 

Dol. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge 
full hogshead ? there ’s a whole merchant’s venture 
of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a 
hulk better stuffed in the hold. Come, I’ll be 
friends with thee, Jack: thou art going to the 
wars; and whether I shall ever see thee again or 
no, there is nobody cares. 


Re-enter First Drawer. 


First Draw. Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and 
would speak with you. 

Dol. Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him not 
come hither: it is the foul-mouthed’st rogue in Eng- 
land. 

Host. If he swagger, let him not come here: no, 
by my faith; I must live among my neighbours; 
I ’ll no swaggerers: Iam in good name and fame 
with the very best: shut the door; there comes no 
swaggerers here: I have not lived all this while, to 
have swaggering now: shut the door, I pray you. 

Fal. Dost thou hear, hostess ? 

Host. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John: there 
comes no swaggerers here. 

Fal. Dost thou hear ? it is mine ancient. 

Host. Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne’er tell me: your 
ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was 
before Master Tisick, the deputy, t’ other day; and, 
as he said to me, ’t was no longer ago than Wed- 
nesday last, ‘I’ good faith, neighbour Quickly,’ 
says he; Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then; 
‘neighbour Quickly,’ says he, ‘receive those that 
are civil; for,’ said he,‘ you are in an ill name:’ 
now a’ said so, I can tell whereupon; ‘for,’ says 
he, ‘you are an honest woman, and well thought 
on; therefore take heed what guests you receive: 
receive,’ says he, ‘no swaggering companions.’ 
There comes none here: you would bless you to 
hear what he said: no, Ill no swaggerers. 

Fal. He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, 


847 


AC Tress 


SECOND PART OF KING HENREY IV. scene tv. 


i’ faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy | Host. By my troth, captain, these are very bitter 


greyhound: he ’ll not swagger with a Barbary hen, 
if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. 
Call him up, drawer. [Heit First Drawer. 

Host. Cheater, call you him? I will bar no hon- 
est man my house, nor no cheater: but I do not love 
swaggering, by my troth; I am the worse, when 
one says swagger: feel, masters, how I shake; look 
you, I warrant you. 

Dol. So you do, hostess. 

Host. Do I? yea, in very truth, do I, an ’t were 
an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers. 


Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page. 


Pist. God save you, Sir John! 

Fal. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I 
charge you with a cup of sack: do you discharge 
upon mine hostess. 

Pist. I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with 
two bullets. 

Fal. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly 
offend her. 

Host. Come, Ill drink no proofs nor no bullets: 


I?ll drink no more than will do me good, for no | 


man’s pleasure, I. 

Pist. Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will 
charge you. 

Dol. Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. 
What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen 
mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am 
meat for your master. 

Pist. I know you, Mistress Dorothy. 

Dol. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, 
away! by this wine, Ill thrust my knife in your 
mouldy chaps, and you play the saucy cuttle with 
me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt 
stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? 
God’s light, with two points on your shoulder ? 
much! 

Pist. God let me not live, but I will murder your 
ruff for this. 

Fal. No more, Pistol; I would not have you go 
off here: discharge yourself of our company, Pistol. 

Host. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet 
captain. 5 

Dol. Captain! thou abominable damned cheater, 
art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An 
captains were of my mind, they would truncheon 
you out, for taking their names upon you before 
you have earned them. Youa captain! you slave, 
for what? for tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a 
bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! 
he lives upon mouldy stewed prunes and dried 
cakes. A captain! God’s light, these villains will 
make the word as odious as the word ‘ occupy;’ 
which was an excellent good word before it was ill 
sorted: therefore captains had need look to ’t. 

Bard. Pray thee, go down, good ancient. 

Fal. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll. 

Pist. Not I: I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, 
1 could tear her: Ill be revenged of her. 

Page. Pray thee, go down. 

Pist. 1’ll see her damned first ; to Pluto’s damned 
lake, by this hand, to the infernal deep, with Erebus 
and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. 
Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not 
Hiren here ? 

Host. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; ’tis very 
Sits i’? faith: I beseek you now, aggravate your 
choler. 

Pist. These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack- 
And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia, [horses 
Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day, 

Compare with Ceesars, and with Cannibals, 

And Trojan Greeks ? nay, rather damn them with 
King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar. 

Shall we fall foul for toys ? 

348 


words. 

Bard. Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to a 
brawl anon. 

Pist. Die men like dogs! give crowns like pins! 
Have we not Hiren here ? 

Host. O’ my word, captain, there’s none such 
here. What the good-year! do you think I would 
deny her? For God’s sake, be quiet. 

Pist. Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis. 
Come, give’s some sack. 

‘Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.’ 
Fear we broadsides? no, let the fiend give fire: 
Give me some sack: and, sweetheart, lie thou there. 
[Laying down his sword. 
Come we to full points here; and are etceteras 
‘al. Pistol, I would be quiet. {nothing ? 

Pist. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif: what! we 
have seen the seven stars. 

Dol. For God’s sake, thrust him down stairs: 
I cannot endure such a fustian rascal. 

Pist. Thrust him down stairs! know we not 
Galloway nags ? 

Fal. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove- 
groat shilling: nay, an a’ do nothing but speak 
nothing, a’ shall be nothing here. 

Bard. Come, get you down stairs. 

Pist. What! shall we have incision? shall we 

imbrue ? [Snatching up his sword. 
Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days ! 
Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds 
Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say! 

Host. Here’s goodly stuff toward! 

Fal. Give me my rapier, boy. 

Dol. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. 

Fal. Get you down stairs. 

[Drawing, and driving Pistol out. 

Host. Here’s a goodly tumult! I7ll forswear 
keeping house, afore I’ll be in these tirrits and 
frights. So; murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas! 
put up your naked weapons, put up your naked 
weapons. [Exeunt Pistol and Bardolph. 

Dol. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet ; the rascal’s gone. 
Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you! 

Host. Are you not hurt i’ the groin ? methought 
a’ made a shrewd thrust at your belly. 


Re-enter Bardolph. 


Fal. Have you turned him out 0’ doors? 

Bard. Yea, sir. The rascal’s drunk: you have 
hurt him, sir, i’ the shoulder. 

Fal. A rascal! to brave me! 

Dol. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor 
ape, how thou sweatest! come, let me wipe thy face; 
come on, you whoreson chops: ah, rogue! i’ faith, 
I love thee: thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, 
worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better 
than the Nine Worthies: ah, villain! 

Fal. A raseally slave! I will toss the rogue in a © 
blanket. 

Dol. Do, an thou darest for thy heart: an thou 
dost, I ll canvass thee between a pair of sheets. 


Enter Music. 


Page. The music is come, sir. 

Fal. Let them play. Play,sirs. Sit on my knee, 
Doll. A rascal bragging slave! the rogue fled from 
me like quicksilver. 

Dol. V’ faith, and thou followedst him like a 
church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew 
boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o’ days and 
foining 0’ nights, and begin to patch up thine old 
body for heaven ? 


Enter, behind, Prince Henry and Poins, disguised. 


Fal. Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a death’s- 
head; do not bid me remember mine end. 


ACT II. 


— 


Dol. Sirrah, what humour ’s the prince of ? 

Fal. A good shallow young fellow: a’ would have 
made a good pantler, a’ would ha’ chipped bread 

Dol. They say Poins has a good wit. [well. 

Fal. He a good wit ? hang him, baboon! his wit ’s 
as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there’s no more 
conceit in him than is in a mallet. 

Dol. Why does the prince love him so, then ? 

Fal. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and 
a’ plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, 
and drinks off candles’ ends for flap-dragons, and 
rides the wild-mare with the boys, and jumps upon 
joined-stools, and swears with a good grace, and 
wears his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of 
the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet 
stories ; and such other gambol faculties a’ has, that 
show a weak mind and an able body, for the which 
the prince admits him: for the prince himself is 
such another; the weight of a hair will turn the 
scales between their avoirdupois. 

Prince. Would not this nave of a wheel have his 
ears cut off ? 

Poins. Let’s beat him before his whore. 

Prince. Look, whether the withered elder hath 
not his poll clawed like a parrot. 

Poins. Is it not strange that desire should so 
mmany years outlive performance ? 

Fal. Kiss me, Doll. 

Prince. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunc- 
tion! what says the almanac to that ? 

Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his 
man, be not lisping to his master’s old tables, his 
note-book, his counsel-keeper. 

Fal. Thou dost give me flattering busses. 

Dol. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most con- 
stant heart. 

Fal. Iam old, I am old. 

Dol. I love thee better than I love e’er a scurvy 
young boy of them all. 

Fal. What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall 
receive money o’ Thursday: shalt have a cap to- 
morrow. A merry song, come: it grows late; we ’ll 
to bed. Thou ’lt forget me when I am gone. 

Dol. By my troth, thou’lt set me a-weeping, an 
thou sayest so: prove that ever I dress myself hand- 
some till thy return: well, hearken at the end. 

fal. Some sack, Francis. 

Ape Anon, anon, sir. [Coming forward. 

Fal. Ha! a bastard son of the king’s? And art 
not thou Poins his brother ? 

Prince. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, 
what a life dost thou lead! 

Fal. A better than thou: Iam a gentleman; thou 
art a drawer. : 

Prince. Very true, sir; and I come to draw you 
out by the ears. 

Host. O, the Lord preserve thy good grace! by 
my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless 
that sweet face of thine! O Jesu, are you come 
from Wales ? 

fal. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, 
by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art wel- 

Dol. How, you fat fool! I scorn you. [come. 

Poins. My lord, he will drive you out of your re- 
venge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not 
the heat. 

Prince. You whoreson candle-mine, you, how 
vilely did you speak of me even now before this 
honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman! 

Host. God’s blessing of your good heart! and so 
she is, by my troth. 

Fal. Didst thou hear me? 

_ Prince. Yea, and you knew me, as you did when 
you ran away by Gad’s-hill: you knew I was at 
Bas back, and spoke it on purpose to try my pa- 
ience. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. scene tv. 


Fal. No, no, no; not so; [didnot think thou wast 
within hearing. 

Prince. I shall drive you then to confess the wil- 
ful abuse; and then I know how to handle you. 

fal. No abuse, Hal, 0’ my honour; no abuse. 

Prince. Not to dispraise me, and call me pantler 
and bread-chipper and I know not what ? 

Fal. No abuse, Hal. ; 

Poins. No abuse ? 

Fal. No abuse, Ned, i’ the world; honest Ned, 
none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the 
wicked might not fall in love with him; in which 
doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and 
a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks 
tor it. No abuse, Hal: none, Ned, none: no, faith, 
boys, none. 

Prince. See now, whether pure fear and entire 
cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous 
gentlewoman to close with us ? is she of the wicked ? 
is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is thy boy 
of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal 
burns in his nose, of the wicked ? 

Poins. Answer, thou dead elm, answer. 

Fal. The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irre- 
coverable; and his face is Lucifer’s privy-kitchen, 
where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For 
the boy, there is a good angel about him; but the 
devil outbids him too. 

Prince. For the women ? 

Fal. For one of them, she is in hell already, and 
burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money ; 
and whether she be damned for that, I know not. 

Host. No, I warrant you. 

Fal. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art 
quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment 
upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy 


- house, contrary to the law; for the which I think 


thou wilt howl. 

Host. All victuallers do so; what’s a joint of mut- 
ton or two in a whole Lent ? 

Prince. You, gentlewoman,— 

Dol. What says your grace ? 

Fal. His grace says that which his flesh rebels 
against. [Knocking within. 

Host. Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the 
door there, Francis. 


Enter Peto. 


Prince. Peto, how now! what news? 

Peto. The king your father is at Westminster ; 
And there are twenty weak and wearied posts 
Come from the north: and, as I came along, 

IT met and overtook a dozen captains, 
Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns, 
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. 
Prince. By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame, 
So idly to profane the precious time, 
When tempest of commotion, like the south 
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt 
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads. 
Give me my swordand cloak. Falstaff, good night. 
[Exeunt Prince Henry, Poins, Peto, 
and Bardolph. 

Fal. Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the 
night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked. 
[Knocking within.] More knocking at the door! 


Re-enter Bardolph. 


How now! what ’s the matter? 

Bard. You must away to court, sir, presently ; 
A dozen captains stay at door for you. 

Fal. [To the Page| Pay the musicians, sirrah. 
Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my 
good wenches, how men of merit are sought after: 
the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action 
is called on. Farewell, good wenches: if I be not 
sent away post, I will see you again ere I go. 


349 


SECOND PART OF 


Dol. I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to 
burst ,— well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. 
Fal. Farewell, farewell. [Hxeunt Falstaff and 
Bardolph. 
Host. Well, fare thee well: [have known thee these 
twenty nine years, come peascod-time ; but an hon- 
ester and truer-hearted man,— well, fare thee well. | 


ADT OTT. 


KING CHENEX LY. 


Bard. [ Within] Mistress Tearsheet! 
Host. Whats the matter ? 
Bard. {| Within] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to 
my master. 
Host. O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll: come. 
[She comes blubbered.] Yea, will you come, Doll? 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. 


Po 


SCENE I.— Westminster. The palace. 


Enter the King in his nightgown, with a Page. 
King. Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick ; 
But, ere they come, bid them o’er-read these letters, 
And well consider of them: make good speed. 
[kat Page. 
How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, 
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee 
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 
And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody ? 
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch 
A watch-case or a common ’larum-bell ? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them 
With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, 
And in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it toa king? Then happy low, lie down! 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 


Enter Warwick and Surrey. 


War. Many good morrows to your majesty ! 

King. Is it good morrow, lords ? 

War. ’T is one o’clock, and past. lords. 

King. Why, then, good morrow to you all, my 
Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you ? 

War. We have, my liege. 

iting. Then you perceive the body of our kingdom 
How foul it is; what rank diseases grow, 

And with what danger, near the heart of it. 

War. It is but as a body yet distemper’d; 
Which to his former strength may be restored 
With good advice and little medicine: 

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d. 

King. O God! that one might read the book of fate 
And see the revolution of the times 
Make mountains level, and the continent, 

Weary of solid firmness, melt itself 

Into the sea! and, other times, to see 

The beachy girdle of the ocean ; 
Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances mock, 
And changes fill the cup of alteration 

With divers liquors! O, if this were seen, 

The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, 
What perils past, what crosses to ensue, 

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die. 
*T is not ten years gone 

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, 


Bi 


300 


WEB hae 8 


| Did feast together, and in two years after | 
| Were they at wars: it is but eight years since 
| This Perey was the man nearest my soul, 


Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs 
And laid his love and life under my foot, 
Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard 
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by— 
You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember— 

[To Warwick. 
When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears, 
Then check’d and rated by Northumberland, 
Did speak these words, now proved a prophecy ? 
‘Northumberland, thou ladder by the which 


| My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne ;’ 


Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, 


| But that necessity so bow’d the state 
That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss: 


‘ The time shall come,’ thus did he follow it, 
‘The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head, 
Shall break into corruption: ’ so went on, 
Foretelling this same time’s condition 
And the division of our amity. 
War. There is a history in all men’s lives, 
Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; 
The which observed, a man may prophesy, 
With a near aim, of the main chance of things 
As yet not come to life, which in their seeds 
And weak beginnings lie intreasured. 
Such things become the hatch and brood of time; 
And by the necessary form of this 4 
King Richard might create a perfect guess 
That great Northumberland, then false to him, 
Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness ; 
Which should not find a ground to root upon, 
Unless on you. 
King. Are these things then necessities ? 
Then let us meet them like necessities : 
And that same word even now cries out on us: 
They say the bishop and Northumberland 
Are fifty thousand strong. ‘ 
War. It cannot be, my lord; 
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, 
The numbers of the fear’d. Please it your grace 
To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, 
The powers that you already have sent forth 
Shall bring this prize in very easily. 


' To comfort you the more, I have received 


A certain instance that Glendower is dead. 


| Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill, 
_ And these unseason’d hours perforce must add 


Unto your sickness. 


Ising. I will take your counsel: 


| And were these inward wars once out of hand, 


We would, dear lords, untothe Holy Land. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE II.— Gloucestershire. 


Before Justice 
Shallow’s house. 


Enter Shallow and Silence, meeting ; Mouldy, Shadow, 
Wart, Feeble, Bullcalf, a Servant or two with them. 


Shal. Come on, come on, come on, sir; give me 
your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir: an early 
stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin 
Silence ? 


a 
Z 
Q) 
T 
es 
Zz 
7 
x. 
a 
7 
es 
| 
O 
‘eo 
y 
4 
= 
a 
> 
a8) 
yj 
| 

> 
ct 
i) 
Q 
(0) 
a 
0) 


Sy 


S 


\AN\ 


MLL) 
eet, 
hi f ey 

UN og, Mill 


’ 


Mam =. 


i i SS 
TH { \ p a 
M4 NaN N 


‘Atlus Sas 


Tuan tz Au ve) 


Nie 8 F yp 

i “ We 

| \ a é 7 EZ 
| Ut 


L 


pecs 
a oe 


| 


MAA 
ny 


r ae 4 , 
=e 
Ly On FT) af Fe OEE, 


i 


| 


i 


} 
WN 


! 


1 
\ 


| 


iw uf}) 
rh HH} 


fs ey, \ 


Aa 
A) Mh 
Gi Hi 


ACT Ill. 


Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. 

Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow ? 
and your fairest daughter and mine, my god- 
daughter Ellen ? 

Sil. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow! 

Shal. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin 
William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford 
still, is he not? 

Sil. Indeed, sir, to my cost. 

Shal. A’ must, then, to the inns o’ court shortly. 
I was once of Clement’s Inn, where I think they 
will talk of mad Shallow yet. 

Sil. You were called ‘ lusty Shallow’ then, cousin. 

Shal. By the mass, I was called any thing; and 
I would have done any thing indeed too, and round- 
ly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staf- 
fordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis 
Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you 
had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns 
0’ court again: and I may say to you, we knew 
where the bona-robas were and had the best of them 
all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now 
Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, 
Duke of Norfolk. 

Sil. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither 
anon about soldiers ? 

Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. I see 
him break Skogan’s head at the court-gate, when 
a’ was a crack not thus high: and the very same 
day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruit- 
erer, behind Gray’s Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days 
that I have spent! and to see how many of my old 
acquaintance are dead! 

Sil. We shall all follow, cousin. 

Shal. Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very sure: 
death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all: all 
shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stam- 
ford fair ? 

Sil. By my troth, I was not there. 

Shal. Death is certain. Is old Double of your 
town living yet ? 

Sil. Dead, sir. 

Shal. Jesu, Jesu, dead! a’ drew a good bow; and 
dead! a’ shot a fine shoot: Johna Gaunt loved him 
well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! 
a’ would have clapped i’ the clout at twelve score; 
and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and 
fourteen and a half, that it would have done a 
man’s heart good to see. Howascore of ewes now ? 

Sil. Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes 
may be worth ten pounds. 

Shal. And is old Double dead ? [I think. 

Sil. Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as 


Enter Bardolph and one with him. 


Bard. Good morrow, honest gentlemen ; I beseech 
you, which is Justice Shallow ? 

Shal. I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire 
of this county, and one of the king’s justices of the 
peace: what is your good pleasure with me ? 

Bard. My captain, sir, commends him to you; 
my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by 
heaven, and a most gallant leader. 

Shal. He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good 
backsword man. How doth the good knight ? may 
I ask how my lady his wife doth ? 

Bard. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommo- 
dated than with a wife. 

Shal. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well 
said indeed too. Better accommodated ! it is good: 
yea, indeed, is it: good phrases are surely, and ever 
were, very commendable. Accommodated! it comes 
of ‘accommodo:’ very good; a good phrase. 

Bard. Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. 
Phrase call you it? by this good day, I know not 
the phrase; but I will maintain the word with my 
sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of ex- 


SMOGNDSPARL OF RING: HENRY, LV. 


SCENE II. 


ceeding good command, by heaven. Accommo- 
dated; that is, when a man is, as they say, accom- 
modated; or when a man is, being, whereby a’ may 
be thought to be accommodated; which is an ex- 
cellent thing. 

Shal. It is very just. 


Enter Falstafe. 


Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your 
good hand, give me your worship’s good hand: by 
my troth, you like well and bear your years very 
well: welcome, good Sir John. 

Fal. 1 am glad to see you well, good Master 
Robert Shallow: Master Surecard, as I think ? 

Shal. No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in 
commission with me. 

Fal. Good Master Silence, it well befits you 
should be of the peace. 

Sil. Your good worship is welcome. 

Fal. Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have 
you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men ? 

Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit ? 

Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you. 

Shal. Where’s the roll ? where’s the roll ? where’s 
the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So 
80, S0,S0,S0,80,80: yea, Marry,sir; Ralph Mouldy ! 
Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them 
do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy ? 

Moul. Here, an ’t please you. 

Shal. What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed 
fellow; young, strong, and of good friends. 

Fal. Is thy name Mouldy ? 

Moul. Yea, an ’t please you. 

Fal. "Tis the more time thou wert used. 

Shal. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i’ faith! things 
that are mouldy lack use: very singular good! in 
faith, well said, Sir John, very well said. 

Fal. Prick him. 

Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you 
could have let me alone: my old dame will be un- 
done now for one to do her husbandry and her 
drudgery: you need not to have pricked me; there 
are other men fitter to go out than I. 

Fal. Goto: peace, Mouldy ; youshallgo. Mouldy, 
it is time you were spent. 

Moul. Spent! 

Shal. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know 
you where youare? For the other, Sir John: let 
me see: Simon Shadow! 

Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: 
he ’s like to be a cold soldier. 

Shal. Where ’s Shadow ? 

Shad. Here, sir. 

Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou? 

Shad. My mother’s son, sir. 

Fal. Thy mother’s son! like enough, and thy 
father’s shadow: so the son of the female is the 
shadow of the male: it is often so, indeed; but 
much of the father’s substance! 

Shal. Do you like him, Sir John? 

Fal. Shadow will serve for summer; prick him, 
for we have a number of shadows to fill up the mus- 

Shal. Thomas Wart! {ter-book. 

Fal. Where ’s he? 

Wart. Here, sir. 

Fal. Is thy name Wart ? 

Wart. Yea, sir. 

Fal. Thou art avery ragged wart. 

Shal. Shall I prick him down, Sir John ? ' 

Fal. It were superfluous; for his apparel is built 
upon his back and the whole frame stands upon 
pins: prick him no more. 

Shal. Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do 
it: I commend you well. Francis Feeble! 

Fee. Here, sir. 

Fal. What trade art thou, Feeble ? 

fee. A woman’s tailor, sir. 


dol 


ACT III. SECOND PART OF 


=. : = 
+ 
i 


KING HENRY IV. scene It. 


Shal. Shall I prick him, sir? 

Fal. You may: but if he had been a man’s tailor, 
he’ld ha’ pricked you. Wilt thou make as many 
holes in an enemy’s battle as thou hast done ina 
woman’s petticoat ? [more. 

Fee. I will do my good will, sir: you can have no 

Fal. Well said, good woman’s tailor! well said, 
courageous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the 
wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick 
the woman’s tailor: well, Master Shallow; deep, 
Master Shallow. 

Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir. 

Fal. I would thou wert a man’s tailor, that thou 
mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I can- 
not put him to a private soldier that is the leader of 
so many thousands: let that suttice, most forcible 

Fee. It shall suffice, sir. [Feeble. 

Fal. Lam bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who 

Shal. Peter Bullealf o’ the green ! fis next ? 

Fal. Yea, marry, let’s see Bullcalf. 

Bull. Here, sir. 

Fal. ’Fore God, a likely fellow! 
Bullealf till he roar again. 

Bull. O Lord! good my lord captain, — 

Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked ? 

Bull. O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man. 

Fal. What disease hast thou ? 

Bull. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I 
caught with ringing in the king’s affairs upon his 
coronation-day, sir. 

Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; 
we will have away thy cold; and I will take such 
order that thy friends shall ring for thee. Ishereall? 

Shal. Here is two more called than your number ; 
you must have but four here, sir: and so, I pray 
you, go in with me to dinner. 

Fal. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot 
tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, 
Master Shallow. 

Shal. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay 
all night in the windmill in Saint George’s field ? 

Fal. No more of that, good Master Shallow, no 
more of that. 

Shal. Ha! *twas a merry night. 
Nightwork alive ? 

al. She lives, Master Shallow. 

Shal. She never could away with me. 

Fal. Never, never; she would always say she 
could not abide Master Shallow. 

Shal. By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. 
She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own 

Fal. Old, old, Master Shallow. [well ? 

Shal. Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose 
but be old; certain she’s old; and had Robin Night- 
work by old Nightwork before I came to Clement’s 

Sil. That’s fifty-five year ago. [Inn. 

Shal. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen 
that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir 
John, said I well? 

Fal. We have heard the chimes at midnight, Mas- 
ter Shallow. 

Shal. That we have, that we have, that we have; 
in faith, Sir John, we have: our watchword was 
‘Hem boys!’ Come, let ’s to dinner; come, let ’s 
to dinner: Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, 
come. [Hxeunt Falstaff and the Justices. 

Bull. Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my 
friend; and here’s four Harry ten shillings in French 
crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be 
hanged, sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir, 
I do not care; but rather, because Iam unwilling, 
and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with 
my friends; else, sir, 1 did not care, for mine own 
part, so much. 

Bard. Go to; stand aside. 

Moul. And, good master corporal captain, for my 
old dame’s sake, stand my friend: she has nobody 


oo2 


Come, prick me 


And is Jane 


to do any thing about her when Iam gone; and she 

is old, and cannot help herself: you shall have forty, 
Bard. Go to; stand aside. [sir. 
Fee. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but 

once: we owe God a death: Ill ne’er bear a base 

mind: an’t be my destiny, so; an ’t be not, so: no 

man is too good to serve ’s prince; and let it go which 

way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next. 
Bard. Well said; thou ’rt a good fellow. 
Fee. Faith, Ill bear no base mind. 


Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices. 


Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have ? 

Shal. Four of which you please. 

Bard. Sir, a word with you: I have three pound 
to free Mouldy and Bullealf. 

Fal. Go to; well. 

Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you have? 

Fal. Do you choose for me. [Shadow. 

Shal. Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullealf, Feeble and 

Fal. Mouldy and Bullealf: for you, Mouldy, stay 
at home till you are past service : and for your part, 
Bullealf, grow till you come unto it: I will none 
of you. 

Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong : 
they are your likeliest men, and I would have you 
served with the best. 

Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to 
choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thewes 
the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man ! 
Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here’s Wart; 
you see what a ragged appearance it is: a’ shall 
charge you and discharge you with the motion of 
a pewterer’s hammer, come off and on swifter than 
he that gibbets on the brewer’s bucket. And this 
same half-faced fellow, Shadow; give me this man: 
he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may 
with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. 
And for a retreat; how swiftly will this Feeble the 
woman’s tailor run off! O,give me the spare men, 
and spare me the great ones. Put mea caliver into 
Wart’s hand, Bardolph. 

Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus. 

Fal. Come, manage me your caliver. “So: very 
well: go to: very good, exceeding good. O, give 
me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot. ell 
said, i’ faith, Wart; thou ’rt a good scab: hold, 
there ’s a tester for thee. 

Shal. He is not his craft’s master; he doth not 
do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when 
I lay at Clement’s Inn,—I was then Sir Dagonet in 
Arthur’s show,—there was a little quiver fellow, 
and a’ would manage you his piece thus; and a’ 
would about and about, and come you in and come 
you in: ‘rah, tah, tah,’ would a’ say; ‘bounce’ 
would a’ say; and away again would a’ go, and 
again would a’ come: I shall ne’er see such a fellow. 

Fal. These fellows will do well, Master Shallow. 
God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many 
words with you. Fare you well, gentlemen both: 
I thank you: I must a dozen mile to-night. Bar- 
dolph, give the soldiers coats. 

Shal. Sir John, the Lord bless you! God prosper 
your affairs! God send us peace! At your return 
visit our house; let our old acquaintance be re- 
newed: peradventure I will with ye to the court. 
Fal. Fore God, I would you would, Master Shal- 

Ow. 

Shal. Goto; [have spokeata word. God keep you. 

Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Hzxeunt 
Justices.| On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [H2- 
eunt Bardolph, Recruits, &c.} As I return, I will 
fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of Jus- 
tice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men 
are to this vice of lying! This same starved justice 
hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness 
of his youth, and the feats he hath done about 


ACT IV. 


Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie, duer 
paid to the hearer than the Turk’s tribute. I do 
remember him at Clement’s Inn like a man made 
after supper of a cheese-paring : when a’ was naked, 
he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with 
a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: a’ 
was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick 
sight were invincible: a’ was the very genius of 
famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores 
called him mandrake: a’ came ever in the rearward 
of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the over- 
seutched huswives that he heard the carmen whis- 
tle, and sware they were his fancies or his good- 
nights. And now is this Vice’s dagger become a 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE I. 


squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as 
if he had been sworn brother to him; and I’ll be 
sworn a’ ne’er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard ; 
and then he burst his head for crowding among the 
marshal’s men. I sawit,and told John aGaunt he 
beat hisown name; for you might have thrust him 
and all his apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a 
treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a’court: and 
now hashe land and beefs. Well, I ll beacquainted 
with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I 
will make him a philosopher’s two stones to me: if 
the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no 
reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. 
Let time shape, and there an end. Exit. 


ee TV: 


SCENE I.— Yorkshire. Gaultree Forest. 


Enter the Archbishop of York, Mowbray, Hast- 
ings, and others. 
Arch. What is this forest call’d ? [grace. 
Hast. ’T is Gaultree Forest, an ’t shall please your 
Arch. Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers 
To know the numbers of our enemies. {forth 
Hast. We have sent forth already. 
Arch. °T is well done. 
My friends and brethren in these great affairs, 
I must acquaint you that I have received 
New-dated letters from Northumberland ; 
Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus: 
Here doth he wish his person, with such powers 
As might hold sortance with his quality, 
The which he could not levy; whereupon 
He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes, 
To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers 
That your attempts may overlive the hazard 
And fearful meeting of their opposite. [ground 
Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch 
And dash themselves to pieces. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Hast. Now, what news ? 
Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, 
In goodly form comes on the enemy ; 
And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number 
Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand. 
Mowb. The just proportion that we gave them out. 
Let us sway on and face them in the field. 
Arch. What well-appointed leader fronts us here ? 


Enter Westmoreland. 


Mowb. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland. 
West. Health and fair greeting from our general, 
The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. 
_ Arch. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in 
What doth concern your coming ? [peace : 
West. Then, my lord, 
Unto your grace do I in chief address 
The substance of my speech. If that rebellion 
Came like itself, in base and abject routs, 
Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags, 
And countenanced by boys and beggary, 
I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, 
In his true, native and most proper shape, 
You, reverend father, and these noble lords 
Had not been here, to dress the ugly form 
Of base and bloody insurrection 
With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop, 
Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d, 
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d, 
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, 
Whose white investments figure innocence, 
The dove and very blessed spirit of peace, 
23 


' But, my most noble Lord of 
_I take not on me here as a physician, 


| Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself 


Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace, 
Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war; 
Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, 
Your pens to lances and your tongue divine 
To a loud trumpet and a point of war ? 

Arch. Wherefore do I this ? so the question stands. 
Briefly to this end: we are all diseased, 
And with our surfeiting and wanton hours 
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, 
And we must bleed for it; of which disease 
Our late king, Richard, being infected, died. 
estmoreland, 


Nor do I as an enemy to peace 

Troop in the throngs of military men ; 

But rather show awhile like fearful war, 

To diet rank minds sick of happiness 

And purge the obstructions which begin to stop 
Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly. 

J have in equal balance justly weigh’d [suffer, 
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we 
And find our griefs heavier than our offences. 

We see which way the stream of time doth run, 
And are enforced from our most quiet there 

By the rough torrent of occasion ; 

And have the summary of all our griefs, 

When time shall serve, to show in articles; 

Which long ere this we offer’d to the king, 

And might by no suit gain our audience: 

When we are wrong’d and would unfold our griefs, 
We are denied access unto his person 

Even by those men that most have done us wrong. 
The dangers of the days but newly gone, 

Whose memory is written on the earth 

With yet appearing blood, and the examples 

Of every minute’s instance, present now, 

Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms, 

Not to break peace or any branch of it, 

But to establish here a peace indeed, 

Concurring both in name and quality. 

West. When ever yet was your appeal denied ? 
Wherein have you been galled by the king? 
What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you, 
That you should seal this lawless bloody book 
Of forged rebellion with a seal divine 
And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge ? 

Arch. My brother general, the commonwealth, 
To brother born an household cruelty, 

I make my quarrel in particular. 

West. There is no need of any such redress ; 
Or if there were, it not belongs to you. 

Mowb. Why not to him in part, and to us all 
That feel the bruises of the days before, 

And suffer the condition of these times 
To lay a heavy and unequal hand 
Upon our honours ? 


303 


SECOND PART OF 


West. O, my good Lord Mowbray, 
Construe the times to their necessities, 
And you shall say indeed, it is the time, 
And not the king, that doth you injuries. 
Yet for your part, it not appears to me 
Either from the king or in the present time 
That you should have an inch of any ground 
To build a grief on: were you not restored 
To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories, 
Your noble and right well remember’d father’s ? 
Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father lost, 
That need to be revived and breathed in me? 
The king that loved him, as the state stood then, 
Was force perforce compell’d to banish him : 
And then that Henry Bolingbroke and he, 
Being mounted and both roused in their seats, 
Their neighing coursers daring of the spur, 
Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down, 
Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel 
And the loud trumpet blowing them together. 
Then, then, when there was nothing could have 
My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, [stay’d 
O, when the king did throw his warder down, 
His own life hung upon the staff he threw; 
Then threw he down himself and all their lives 
That by indictment and by dint of sword 
Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. 
West. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know 
not what. . 
The Earl of Hereford was reputed then 
In England the most valiant gentleman: 
Who knows on whom fortune would then have 
But if your father had been victor there, [smiled ? 
He ne’er had borne it out of Coventry: 
For all the country in a general voice 
Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love 
Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on 
And bless’d and graced indeed, more than the king. 
But this is mere digression from my purpose. 
Here come I from our princely general 
To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace 
That he will give you audience; and wherein 
It shall appear that your demands are just, 
You shall enjoy them, every thing set off 
That might so much as think you enemies. 
Mowb. But he hath forced us to compel this offer ; 
And it proceeds from policy, not love. 
West. Mowbray, you overween to take it so; 
This offer comes from mercy, not from fear: 
For, lo! within a ken our army lies, 
Upon mine honour, all too confident 
To give admittance to a thought of fear. 
Our battle is more full of names than yours, 
Our men more perfect in the use of arms, 
Our armour all as strong, our cause the best ; 
Then reason will our hearts should be as good: 
Say you not then our offer is compell’d. 
Mowb. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley. 
West. That argues but the shame of your offence: 
A rotten case abides no handling. 
Hast. Hath the Prince John a full commission, 
In very ample virtue of his father, 
To hear and absolutely to determine 
Of what conditions we shall stand upon ? 
West. That is intended in the general’s name: 
I muse you make so slight a question. [schedule, 
Arch. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this 
For this contains our general grievances: 
Each several article herein redress’d, 
All members of our cause, both here and hence, 
That are insinew’d to this action, 
Acquitted by a true substantial form 
And present execution of our wills 
To us and to our purposes confined, 
We come within our awful banks again 
And knit our powers to the arm of peace. __ [lords, 
West. This will I show the general. Please you, 


304 


ACTER, 


KING HENEY ITY. 


In sight of both our battles we may meet; 
And either end in peace, which God so frame! 
Or to the place of difference call the swords 
Which must decide it. 

Arch. My lord, we will do so. [Hawt West. 

Mowb. There is a thing within my bosom tells me 
That no conditions of our peace can stand. 

Hast. Fear you not that: if we can make our 
Upon such large terms and so absolute [peace 
As our conditions shall consist upon, 

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains. 

Mowb. Yea, but our valuation shall be such 
That every slight and false-derived cause, 

Yea, every idle, nice and wanton reason 

Shall to the king taste of this action 5 

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love, 

We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind 

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff 
And good from bad find no partition. [weary 

Arch. No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is 
Of dainty and such picking grievances: 

For he hath found to end one doubt by death 
Revives two greater in the heirs of life, 

And therefore will he wipe his tables clean 
And keep no tell-tale to his memory 

That may repeat and history his loss 

To new remembrance; for full well he knows 
He cannot so precisely weed this land 

As his misdoubts present occasion ; 

His foes are so enrooted with his friends 
That, plucking to unfix an enemy, 

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend: 

So that this land, like an offensive wife 

That hath enraged him on to offer strokes, 
As he is striking, holds his infant up 

And hangs resolved correction in the arm 
That was uprear’d to execution. 

Hast. Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods 
On late offenders, that he now doth lack 
| The very instruments of chastisement: 

So that his power, like to a fangless lion, 
_ May offer, but not hold. 

Arch. *T is very true: 

And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal, 
_If we do now make our atonement well, 

| Our peace will, like a broken limb united, 

| Grow stronger for the breaking. 

|  Mowb. 


SCENE II. 


Be it so, 


| Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland. 


Re-enter Westmoreland. 


West. The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your 
lordship 
To meet his grace just distance ’tween our armies. 
Mowb. Your grace of York, in God’s name, then, 
set forward. 
Arch. Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we 
come. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.—Another part of the forest. 


Enter, from one side, Mowbray, attended; afterwards the 
Archbishop, Hastings, and others; from the other side, 
Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland ; 
Officers, and others with them. 


Lan. You are well encounter’d here, my cousin 
Mowbray: 

Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop; 
And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. 
My Lord of York, it better show’d with you 
When that your flock, assembled by the bell, 
Encircled you to hear with reverence 
Your exposition on the holy text 
Than now to see you here an iron man, 
Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum, 
Turning the word to sword and life to death. 
That man that sits within a monarch’s heart, 


ACT IV. 


And ripens in the sunshine of his favour, 

Would he abuse the countenance of the king, 

Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach 

In shadow of such greatness! With you, lord 
bishop, 

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken 

How deep you were within the books of God ? 

To us the speaker in his parliament ; 

To us the imagined voice of God himself; 

The very opener and intelligencer 

Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven 

And our dull workings. O, who shall believe 

But you misuse the reverence of your place, 

Employ the countenance and grace of heaven, 

As a false favourite doth his prince’s name, 

In deeds dishonourable? You have ta’en up, 

Under the counterfeited zeal of God, 

The subjects of his substitute, my father, 

And both against the peace of heaven and him 

Have here up-swarm’d them. 

Arch. Good my Lord of Lancaster, 

I am not here against your father’s peace; 

But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, 

The time misorder’d doth, in common sense, 
Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form, 
To hold our safety up. I sent your grace 

The parcels and particulars of our grief, [court, 
The which hath been with scorn shoved from the 
Whereon this Hydra son of war is born; 

Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d asleep 
With grant of our most just and right desires, 
And true obedience, of this madness cured, 

Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. 

Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes 
To the last man. 

Hast. And though we here fall down, 
We have supplies to second our attempt: 

If they miscarry, theirs shall second them ; 

And so success of mischief shall be born 

And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up 
Whiles England shall have generation. [shallow, 

Lan. You are too shallow, Hastings, much too 
To sound the bottom of the after-times. 

West. Pleaseth your grace to answer them di- 
How far forth you do like their articles. [rectly 

Lan. I like them all, and do allow them well, 
And swear here, by the honour of my blood, 
My father’s purposes have been mistook, 

And some about him have too lavishly 
Wrested his meaning and authority. 

My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress’d ; 
Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, 
Discharge your powers unto their several counties, 
As we will ours: and here between the armies 
Let ’s drink together friendly and embrace, 
That all their eyes may bear those tokens home 
Of our restored love and amity. 

Arch. [take your princely word for these redresses. 

Lan. I give it you, and will maintain my word: 
And thereupon I drink unto your grace. 

Hast. Go, captain, and deliver to the army 
This news of peace: let them have pay, and part: 
1 know it will well please them. Hie thee, captain. 

[Exit Officer. 
Arch. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. 
West. I pledge your grace; and, if you knew 
what pains 
I have bestowed to breed this present peace, 
You would drink freely: but my love to ye 
Shall show itself more openly hereafter. 

Arch. I do not doubt you. 

West. I am glad of it. 
Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray. 

Mowb. You wish me health in very happy season ; 
For I am, on the sudden, something ill. 

Arch. Against ill chances men are ever merry ; 
But heaviness foreruns the good event. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE III. 


_ 


West. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden 
sorrow morrow.” 
Serves to say thus, ‘some good thing comes to- 
Arch. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit. 
Mowb. So much the worse, if your own rule be 
true. [Shouts within 
Lan. The word of peace is render’d: hark, how 
they shout! ; 
Mowb. This had been cheerful after victory. 
Arch. A peace is of the nature of a conquest ; 
For then both parties nobly are subdued, 
And neither party loser. 
Lan. Go, my lord, 
And let our army be discharged too. 
[Hxuit Westmoreland. 
And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains 
March by us, that we may peruse the men 
We should have coped withal. 
Arch. Go, good Lord Hastings, 
And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march by. 
‘ [Exit Hastings. 
Lan. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together. 


Re-enter Westmoreland. 


Now cousin, wherefore stands our army still ? 
West. The leaders, having charge from you to 

Will not go off until they hear you speak. [stand, 
Lan. They know their duties. 


Re-enter Hastings. 


Hast. My lord, our army is dispersed already : 
Like youthful steers unyoked, they take their 
courses [up, 
East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke 
Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place. 
West. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the 
I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason: [which | 
And you, lord archbishop, and you, lord Mowbray, 
Of capital treason I attach you both. 
Mowb. Is this proceeding just and honourable ? 
West. Is your assembly so ? 
Arch. Will you thus break your faith ? 
Lan. I pawn’d thee none: 
I promised you redress of these same grievances 
Whereof you did complain; which, by mine hon- 
I will perform with a most Christian care. [our, 
But for you, rebels, look to taste the due 
Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours. 
Most shallowly did you these arms commence, 
Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence. 
Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter’d stray: 
God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day. 
Some guard these traitors to the block of death, 
Treason’s true bed and yielder up of breath. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Another part of the forest. 


Alarum. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Cole- 
vile, meeting. 

Fal. What’s your name, sir? of what condition 
are you, and of what place, I pray ? 

Cole. Lam a knight, sir; and my name is Cole- 
vile of the dale. 

Fal. Well, then, Colevile is your name, a knight 
is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile 
shall be still your name, a traitor your degree, and 
the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so 
shall you be still Colevile of the dale. 

Cole. Are not you Sir John Falstaff ? 

Fal. As good a manas he, sir, whoe’er Iam. Do 
ye yield, sir? or shall I sweat for you? If I do 
sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they 
weep for thy death: therefore rouse up fear and 
trembling, and do observance to my mercy. : 

Cole. 1 think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in 
that thought yield me. 

805 


ACT LY". 


Fal. I have a whole school of tongues in this 
belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks 
any other word but my name. An I had but a 
belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most 
active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my 
womb, undoes me. Here comes our general. 


Enter Prince John of Lancaster, Westmore- 
land, Blunt, and others. 


Lan. The heat is past; follow no further now: 

Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. 
[Hait Westmoreland. 

Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while ? 

When every thing is ended, then you come: 

These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, 

One time or other break some gallows’ back. 

Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be 
thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and check was 
the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, 
an arrow, or a bullet? have I, in my poor and old 
motion, the expedition of thought? Ihave speeded 
hither with the very extremest inch of possibility; 
I have foundered nine score and odd posts: and 
here, travel-tainted as I am, have, in my pure and 
immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the 
dale, a most furious knight and valorous enemy. 
But what of that ? he saw me, and yielded; that I 
may justly say, with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, 
‘I came, saw, and overcame.’ [serving. 

Lan. It was more of his courtesy than your de- 

Fal. I know not: here he is, and here I yield 
him: and I beseech your grace, let it be booked 
with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the Lord, L 
will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine 
own picture on the top on’t, Colevile kissing my 
foot: to the which course if I be enforced, if you 
do not all show like gilt two-pences to me, and I in 
the clear sky of fame o’ershine you as much as the 
full moon doth the cinders of the element, which 
show like pins’ heads to her, believe not the word 
of the noble: therefore let me have right, and let 
desert mount. 

Lan. Thine ’s too heavy to mount. 

Fal. Let it shine, then. 

Lan. Thine’s too thick to shine. 

Fal. Let it do something, my good lord, that 
may do me good, and call it what you will. 

Lan. Is thy name Colevile ? 

Cole. It is, my lord. 

Lan. A famous rebel art thou, Colevile. 

Fal. And a famous true subject took him. 

Cole. Iam, my lord, but as my betters are 
That led me hither: had they been ruled by me, 
You should have won them dearer than you have. 

Fal. I know not how they sold themselves: but 
thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; 
and I thank thee for thee. 


Re-enter Westmoreland. 


Lan. Now, have you left pursuit ? 
West. Retreat is made and execution stay’d. 
Lan. Send Colevile with his confederates 
To York, to present execution: 
Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure. 
[ Hxeunt Blunt and others with Colevile. 
And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords: 
I hear the king my father is sore sick: 
Our news shall go before us to his majesty, 
Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him, 
And we with sober speed will follow you. 
Fal, My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go 
Through POE eta eee and, when you come to 
court, 
Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report. 
Lan. Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition, 
Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 
[Exeunt all bui Falstaff. 
356 


SECOND’ PARIS OF DING? ALICIA hee 


SCENE IV. 


Fal. I would you had but the wit: ’t were better 
than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young 
sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man 
cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he 
drinks no wine. There’s never none of these de- 
mure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth 
so over-cool their blood, and making many fish- 
meals, that they fall into a kind of male green- 
sickness; and then, when they marry, they get 
wenches: they are generally fools and cowards; 
which some of us should be too, but for inflamma- 
tion. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold opera- 
tion in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me 
there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours 
which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, 
forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes; 
which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which 
is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second 
property of your excellent sherris is, the warming 
of the blood; which, before cold and settled, left 
the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pu- 
sillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms 
it and makes it course from the inwards to the 
parts extreme: it illumineth the face, which as a 
beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little 
kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital com- 
moners and inland petty spirits muster me all to 
their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up 
with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and 
this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the 
weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a- 
work; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a 
devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and 
use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; 
for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his 
father he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, 
manured, husbanded and tilled with excellent en- 
deavour of drinking good and good store of fertile 
sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If 
I had a thousand sons, the first humane principle L 
would teach them should be, to forswear thin pota- 
tions and to addict themselves to sack. 


Enter Bardolph. 


How now, Bardolph ? 

Bard. The army is discharged all and gone. 

Fal. Let them go. Ill through Gloucestershire ; 
and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, es- 
quire: I have him already tempering between my 
finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with 
him. Come away. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE IV. — Westmunster. 
Chanvber. 


The Jerusalem 


Enter the King, the Princes Thomas of Clarence 
and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, «ud 
others. 


King. Now, lords, if God doth give successful end 
To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, 
We will our youth lead on to higher fields 
And draw no swords but what are sanctified. 
Our navy is address’d, our power collected, 
Our substitutes in absence well invested, 
And every thing lies level to our wish: 
Only, we want a little personal strength ; 
And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot, 
Come underneath the yoke of government. 
War. Both which we doubt not but your majesty 
Shall soon enjoy. 
King. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, 
Where is the prince your brother ? [ Windsor. 
Glow. I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at 
King. And how accompanied ? 
Glou. I do not know, my lord. 
King. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, 
with him ? 


ACT IV. SHCOND PART OF 


KINGUUMENEY TV sonny, 


Glou. No, my good lord; he is in presence here. 
Olav. What would my lord and father ? [ence. 
King. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clar- 

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother? 

He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas; 

Thou hast a better place in his affection 

Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy, 

And noble offices thou mayst effect 

Of mediation, after I am dead, 

Between his greatness and thy other brethren: 

Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love, 

Nor lose the good advantage of his grace 

By seeming cold or careless of his will; 

For he is gracious, if he be observed: 

He hath a tear for pity and a hand 

Open as day for melting charity: 

Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he’s flint, 

As humorous as winter and as sudden 

As flaws congealed in the spring of day. 

His temper, therefore, must be well observed: 

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently, 

When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth ; 

But, being moody, give him line and scope, 

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, 

Confound themselves with working. Learn this, 

Thomas, 

And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends, 

A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, 

That the united vessel of their blood, 

Mingled with venom of suggestion — 

As, torce perforce, the age will pour it in— 

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong 

As aconitum or rash gunpowder. 
Clar. I shall observe him with all care and love. 
nei Why art thou not at Windsor with him, 

homas ? 


Clar. He is not there to-day; he dines in London. 
King. And how accompanied? canst thou tell | 
that ? [lowers. | 

Clar. With Poins, and other his continual fol- 
King. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ; 

And he, the noble image of my youth, 

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief 

Stretches itself beyond the hour of death: 

The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape 

In forms imaginary the unguided days 

And rotten times that you shall look upon 

When I am sleeping with my ancestors. 

For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, 

When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, 

When means and lavish manners meet together, 

O, with what wings shall his affections fly 

Towards fronting peril and opposed decay! [quite: 
War. My gracious lord, you look beyond him 

The prince but studies his companions [guage, 

Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the lan- 

’"T is needful that the most immodest word 

Be look’d upon and learn’d; which once attain’d, 

Your highness knows, comes to no further use 

But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, 

The prince will in the perfectness of time 

Cast off his followers; and their memory 

Shall as a pattern or a measure live, 

By which his grace must mete the lives of others, 

Turning past evils to advantages. comb 
King. ’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her 

In the dead carrion. 


| 


Enter Westmoreland. 


Who’s here? Westmoreland ? 

West. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness 
Added to that that I am to deliver! 
Prince John your son doth kiss your grace’s hand: 
Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all 
Are brought to the correction of your law; 
There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d, 
But Peace puts forth her olive every where. 


The manner how this action hath been borne 
Here at more leisure may your highness read, 
With every course in his particular. 

king. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird, 
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings 
The lifting up of day. 


Enter Harcourt. 


Look, here’s more news. 
Har. From enemies heaven keep your majesty; 
And, when they stand against you, may they fall 
As those that I am come to tell you of ! 
The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, 
With a great power of English and of Scots, 
Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown: 
The manner and true order of the fight 
This packet, please it you, contains at large. 
King. And wherefore should these good news 
make me sick ? 
Will Fortune never come with both hands full, 
But write her fair words still in foulest letters ? 
She either gives a stomach and no food; 
Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast 
And takes away the stomach; such are the rich, 
That have abundance and enjoy it not. 
I should rejoice now at this happy news; 
And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy: 
O me! come near me; now I am much ill. 
Glou. Comfort, your majesty ! 
Clar. O my royal father! 
West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look 


up. 
War. Be patient, princes; you do know, these fits 

Are with his highness very ordinary. 

Stand from him, give him air; he ’ll straight be well. 
Clar. No, no, he cannot long hold out these pangs: 

The incessant care and labour of his mind 

Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in 

So thin that life looks through and will break out. 
Glou. The people fear me; for they do observe 

Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature: 

The seasons change their manners, as the year 

Had found some months asleep and leap’d them over. 
Clar. The river hath thrice flow’d,no ebb between ; 

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles, 

Say it did so a little time before 

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died. 
War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. 
Glou. This apoplexy will certain be his end. 
King. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence 

Into some other chamber: softly, pray. 


SCENE V.—Another chamber. 


The King lying on a bed: Clarence, Gloucester, 
Warwick, and others in attendance. 


King. Let there be no noise made, my gentle 
Unless some dull and favourable hand [friends ; 
Will whisper music to my weary spirit. 

War. Call for the music in the other room. 

King. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. 

Olar. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. 

War. Less noise, less noise! 


Enter Prince Henry. 


Prince. Who saw the Duke of Clarence ? 

Clar. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. 

Prince. How now! rain within doors, and none 
How doth the king ? [abroad ! 

Glou. Exceeding ill. 

Prince. Heard he the good news yet ? 
Tell it him. pase 

Glou. He alter’d much upon the hearing it. | 

Prince. If he be sick with joy, he ’ll recover with- 
out physic. [speak low; 

War. Not so much noise, my lords; sweet prince, 
The king your father is disposed to sleep. 


307 


WM ad Sigh i" 


OClar. Let us withdraw into the other room. 
War. Wiil’t please your grace to go along with us? 
Prince. No; I will sit and watch here by the 
king. [Hxeunt all but the Prince. 

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, 

Being so troublesome a bedfellow ? 

O polish’d perturbation! golden care! 

That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide 

To many a watchful night! sleep with it now! 

Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet 

As he whose brow with homely biggen bound 

Snores out the watch of night. O majesty! 

When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit 

Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, 

That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath 

There lies a downy feather which stirs not: 

Did he suspire, that light and weightless down 

Perforcemust move. My gracious lord! my father! 

This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep 

That from this golden rigol hath divorced 

So many English kings. Thy due from me 

Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, 

Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, 

Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously : 

My due from thee is this imperial crown, 

Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, 

Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, 

Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole 

Into one giant arm, it shall not force [strength 

This lineal honour from me: this from thee 

Will I to mine leave, as tis left to me. [Hxit. 
King. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! 


Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and 
the rest. 


Clar. Doth the king call ? [grace ? 
War. What would your majesty ? How fares your 
King. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords ? 
Clar. We left the prince my brother here, my 
Who undertook to sit and watch by you. [liege, 
King. The Prince of Wales! Where is he ? let me 
He is not here. [see him: 
War. This door is open; he is gone this way. 
Glou. He came not through the chamber where 
we stay’d. [pillow ? 
King. Where is the crown? who took it from my 
War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it 
here. [him out. 
King. The prince hath ta’en it hence: go, seek 
Is he so hasty that he doth suppose 
My sleep my death ? 
Find him, my Lord of Warwick; chide him hither. 
[Haxit Warwick. 
This part of his conjoins with my disease, 
And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you 
How quickly nature falls into revolt [are ! 
When gold becomes her object! 
For this the foolish over-careful fathers é 
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains 
with care, 
Their bones with industry ; 
For this they have engrossed and piled up 
The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold; 
For this they have been thoughtful to invest 
Their sons with arts and martial exercises: 
When, like the bee, culling from every flower 
The virtuous sweets, [honey, 
Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with 
We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, 
Are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste 
Yield his engrossments to the ending father. 


Re-enter Warwick. 
Now, where is he that will not stay so long 
Till his friend sickness hath determined me ? 
War. My lord, I found the prince in the next 
room, 


358 


SECOND “PART OF KING 'WENEY WVyt 


SCENE V. 


Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, 

With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow 

That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, 

Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife 

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. 
King. But wherefore did he take away the crown ? 


Re-enter Prince Henry. 


Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry. 
Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. 
[EHxeunt Warwick and the rest. 
Prince. I never thought to hear you speak again. 
King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that 
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. [thought : 
Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair 
That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours 
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! 
Thouseek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. 
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity 
Is held from falling with so weak a wind 
That it will quickly drop: my day is dim. 
Thou hast stolen that which after some few hours 
Were thine without offence; and at my death 
Thou hast seal’d up my expectation: 
Thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not, 
And thou wilt have me die assured of it. 
Thou hidest a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, 
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, 
To stab at half an hour of my life. 
What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? 
Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, 
And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear 
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. 
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse 
Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head: 
Only compound me with forgotten dust; 
Give that which gave thee life unto the worms. 
Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; 
For now a time is come to mock at form: 
Harry the Fifth is crown’d: up, vanity! 
Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence! 
And to the English court assemble now, 
From every region, apes of idleness! 
Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum: 
Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, 
Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit 
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? 
Be happy, he will trouble you no more; 
England shall double gild his treble guilt, 
England shall give him office, honour, might ; 
For the fifth Harry from curb’d license plucks 
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog 
Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. 
O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! 
When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants! 
Prince. O. pardon me, my liege! but for my tears, 
The moist impediments unto my speech, 
I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke 
Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard 
The course of it so far. There is your crown; 
And He that wears the crown immortally 
Long guard it yours! If I affect it more 
Than as your honour and as your renown, 
Let me no more from this obedience rise, 
Which my mest inward true and duteous spirit 
Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending. 
God witness with me, when I here came in, 
And found no course of breath within your majesty. 
How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign, 
O, let me in my present wildness die 
And never live to show the incredulous world 


.| The noble change that I have purposed ! 


Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, 
And dead almost, my liege, to think you were, 


SECOND PART OF 


JT spake unto this crown as having sense, 
And thus upbraided it: ‘ The care on thee depending 
Hath fed upen the body of my father ; 
Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold: 
Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, 
Preserving life in medicine potable; 
But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d, 
Hast eat thy bearer up.’ Thus, my most royal liege, 
Accusing it, I put it on my head, 
To try with it, as with an enemy 
That had before my face murder’d my father, 
The quarrel of a true inheritor. 
But if it did infect my blood with joy, 
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride; 
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine 
Did with the least affection of a welcome 
Give entertainment to the might of it, 
Let God for ever keep it from my head 
And make me as the poorest vassal is 
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it! 
King. O my son, 
God put it in thy mind to take it hence, 
That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love, 
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it! 
Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed; 
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel 
That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, 
By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways 
I met this crown; and I myself know well 
How troublesome it sat upon my head. 
To thee it shall descend with better quiet, 
Better opinion, better confirmation ; 
For all the soil of the achievement goes 
With me into the earth. It seem’d in me 
But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand, 
And I had many living to upbraid 
My gain of it by their assistances; 
Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, 
Wounding supposed peace: all these bold fears 
Thou see’st with peril I have answered ; 
For all my reign hath been but as a scene 
Acting that argument: and now my death 
Changes the mode; for what in me was purchased, 
Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort; 
So thou the garland wear’st successively. [do, 
Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I could 


ACT V. 


KING HENRY IP. SCENE I. 


Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green ; 
And all my friends, which thou must make thy 
friends, 

Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out ; 

By whose fell working I was first advanced 

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear 

To be again displaced: which to avoid, 

I cut them off; and had a purpose now 

To lead out many to the Holy Land, 

Lest rest and lying still might make them look 

Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, 

Be it thy course to busy giddy minds 

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out, 

May waste the memory of the former days. 

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so 

That strength of speech is utterly denied me. 

How I came by the crown, O God forgive ; 

And grant it may with thee in true peace live! 
Prince. My gracious liege, 

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; 

Then plain and right must my possession be: 

Which I with more than with a common pain 

’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. 


Enter Lord John of Lancaster. 


King. Look, look, here comes my John of Lan- 
caster. [father ! 
Lan. Health, peace, and happiness to my royal 
oaks ee bring’st me happiness and peace, son 
ohn; 
But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown 
From this bare wither’d trunk: upon thy sight 
My worldly business makes a period. 
Where is my Lord of Warwick ? 
Prince. My Lord of Warwick! 


Enter Warwick, and others. 


King. Doth any name particular belong 
Unto the lodging where I first did swoon ? 
War. ’T is call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord. 
King. Laud be to God! even there my life must 
It hath been prophesied to me many years, __[end. 
I should not die but in Jerusalem ; 
Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land: 
But bear me to that chamber; there I ’ll lie; 
In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [ Hxeunt. 


OM BONG 


SCENE I. — Gloucestershire. 


Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page. 


Shal. By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to- 
night. What, Davy, I say! . [low. 
al. You must excuse me, Master Robert Shal- 
Shal. I will not excuse you; you shall not be 
excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is 
no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. 
Why, Davy! 


Shallow’s house. 


_ Enter Davy. 

Davy. Here, sir. 

Shal. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy ; 
let me see, Davy; let me see: yea, marry, William 
cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not 
be excused. 

Davy. Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be 
served: and, again, sir, shall we sow the headland 
with wheat ? 

Shal. With red wheat, Davy. But for William 
cook: are there no young pigeons ? 

Davy. Yes,sir. Here is now the smith’s note for 
shoeing and plough-irons. 

Shal. Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall 
not be excused. 


| have some countenance at his friend’s request. 


Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must 
needs be had: and, sir, do you mean to stop any of 
William’s wages, about the sack he lost the other 
day at Hinckley fair ? 

Shal. A’ shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a 
couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. 

Davy. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir ? 

Shal. Yea, Davy. I will use him well: a friend 
i’ the court is better than a penny in purse. Use 
his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves, 
and will backbite. 

Davy. No worse than they are backbitten, sir; 
for they have marvellous foul linen. 

Shal. Well conceited, Davy: about thy business, 
Davy. os 

Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William 
Visor of Woncot against Clement Perkes of the 
hill. 

Shal. There is many complaints, Davy, against 
that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my 
knowledge. } 

Davy. I grant your worship that he is a knave, 
sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave show 

n 


359 


ACT V. 


honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a 
knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, 
this eight years; and if I cannot once or twice in a 
quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I 
have but a very little credit with your worship. 
The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I 
beseech your worship, let him be countenanced. 

Shal. Go to: Isay he shall have no wrong. Look 
about, Davy. [Hit Davy.] Where are you, Sir 
John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. 
Give me your hand, Master Bardolph. 

Bard. I am glad to see your worship. 

Shal. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Mas- 
ter Bardolph: and welcome, my tall fellow [to the 
Page|. Come, Sir John. 

Fal. Ill follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. 
[Exit Shallow.] Bardolph, look to our horses. [Hz- 
eunt Bardolph and Page.| If I were sawed into quan- 
tities, I should make four dozen of such bearded 
hermits’ staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonder- 
ful thing to see the sembable coherence of his men’s 
spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do bear 
themselves like foolish justices; he, by conversing 
with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man: 
their spirits are so married in conjunction with the 
participation of society that they flock together in 
consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit 
to Master Shallow, | would humour his men with 
the imputation of being near their master: if to his 
men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no 
man could better command his servants. It is cer- 
tain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is 
caught, as men take diseases, one of another: there- 
fore let men take heed of their company. I will de- 
vise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep 
Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out 
of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions, 
and a’ shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is 
much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a 
sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the 
ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till 
his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up! 

Shal. [Within] Sir John! 

Fal. 1 come, Master Shallow; I come, Master 
Shallow. [ Hxit. 


SCENE II.— Westminster. The palace. 


Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief-Justice, 
meeting. 
War. How now, my lord chief-justice! whither 
Ch. Just. How doth the king ? [away ? 
War. Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended. 
Ch. Just. I hope, not dead. 
War. He’s walk’d the way of nature; 
And to our purposes he lives no more. {him : 
Ch. Just. I would his majesty had call’d me with 
The service that I truly did his life 
Hath left me open to all injuries. 
War. Indeed [ think the young king loves you not. 
Oh. Just. I know he doth not, and do arm myself 
To welcome the condition of the time, 
Which cannot look more hideously upon me 
Than I have drawn it in my fantasy. 


Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, 
Westmoreland, and others. 


War. Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry: 
O that the living Harry had the temper 
Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen ! 
How many nobles then should hold their places, 
That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort! 
Ch. Just. O God, I fear all will be overturn’d! 
Lan. Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good mor- 


Glou. . [row. 
Pilcn Good morrow, cousin. 


Lan. We meet like men that had forgot to speak. 
300 


SECOND PART. OF KING HENRY EY heen 


War. We do remember; but our argument 
Is all too heavy to admit much talk. [heavy ! 
Lan. Well, peace be with him that hath made us 
Ch. Just. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier! 
Glou. O, good my lord, you have lost a friend in- 
And I dare swear you borrow not thatface [deed; 


| Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own. 


Lan. Though no man be assured what grace to find, 
You stand in coldest expectation : 

I am the sorrier; would ’t were otherwise. _ [fair; 

Clar. Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff 
Which swims against your stream of quality. 

Oh. Just. Sweet princes, what I did, I did in hon- 

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul; four, 
And never shall you see that I will beg 
A ragged and forestall’d remission. 
If truth and upright innocency fail me, 
Ill to the king my master that is dead, 
And tell him who hath sent me after him. 

War. Here comes the prince. 


Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended. 


Ch. Just. Good morrow; and God save your 
majesty! 
King. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, 
Sits not so easy on me as you think. 
Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear: 
This is the English, not the Turkish court; 
Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, 
But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers, 
For, by my faith, it very well becomes you: 
Sorrow so royally in you appears 
That I will deeply put the fashion on 
And wear it in my heart: why then, be sad; 
But entertain no more of it, good brothers, 
Than a joint burden laid upon us all. 
For me, by Heaven, I bid you be assured, 
I°ll be your father and your brother too; 
Let me but bear your love, I ’ll bear your cares: 
Yet weep that Harry ’s dead; and so will I; 
But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears 
By number into hours of happiness. 
Princes. We hope no other from your majesty. 
King. You all look strangely on me: and you most ; 
You are, I think, assured I love you not. 
Ch. Just. Iam assured, if I be measured rightly, 
Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me. 
King. No! 
How might a prince of my great hopes forget 
So great indignities you laid upon me ? 
What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison 
The immediate heir of England! Was this easy ? 
May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten ? 
Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your father ; 
The image of his power lay then in me: 
And, in the administration of his law, 
Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, 
Your highness pleased to forget my place, 
The majesty and power of law and justice, 
The image of the king whom I presented, 
And struck me in my very seat of judgment; 
Whereon, as an offender to your father, 
I gave bold way to my authority 
And did commit you. If the deed were ill, 
Be you contented, wearing now the garland, 
To have a son set your decrees at nought, 
To pluck down justice from your awful bench, 
To trip the course of law and blunt the sword - 
That guards the peace and safety of your person ; 
Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image 
And mock your workings in a second body. 
Question your royal thoughts, make the ease yours 
Be now the father and propose a son, 
Hear your own dignity so much profaned, 
See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, 
Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d; 
And then imagine me taking your part 


ACT V. 


SECON pale OR OCRING: HENEY LV. 


SCENE III. 


And in your power soft silencing your son: 

After this cold considerance, sentence me; 

And, as you are a king, speak in your state 

What I have done that misbecame my place, 

My person, or my liege’s sovereignty. [well ; 
King. You are right, justice, and you weigh this 

aretors still bear the balance and the sword: 

And I do wish your honours may increase, 

Till you do live to see a son of mine 

Offend you and obey you, as I did. 

So shall I live to speak my father’s words: 

‘Happy am I, that have a man so bold, 

That dares do justice on my proper son; 

And not less happy, having such a son, 

That would deliver up his greatness so 

Into the hands of justice.’ You did commit me: 

For which, I do commit into your hand 

The unstained sword that you have used to bear ; 

With this remembrance, that you use the same 

With the like bold, just and impartial spirit 

As you have done ’gainst me. There is my hand. 

You shall be as a father to my youth: 

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear, 

And I will stoop and humble my intents 

To your well-practised wise directions. 

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you; 

My father is gone wild into his grave, 

For in his tomb lie my affections; 

And with his spirit sadly I survive, 

To mock the expectation of the world, 

To frustrate prophecies and to raze out 

Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down 

After my seeming. The tide of blood in me 

Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now: 

Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea, 

Where it shall mingle with the state of floods 

And flow henceforth in formal majesty. 

Now call we our high court of parliament: 

And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, 

That the great body of our state may go 

In equal rank with the best govern’d nation ; 

That war, or peace, or both at once, may be 

As things acquainted and familiar to us; 

In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. 

Our coronation done. we will accite, 

As I before remember’d, all our state: 

And, God consigning to my good intents, 

No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say, 

God shorten Harry’s happy life one day! [Hveunt. 


SCENE III.— Gloucestershire. 


Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, Bar- 
dolph, and the Page. 


Shal. Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in 
an arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of my 
own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so 
forth: come, cousin Silence: and then to bed. 

-« Fal. ’Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling 
and a rich. 

Shal. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beg- 
gars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, Davy; 
spread, Davy; well said, Davy. 

Fal. This Davy serves you for good uses; he is 
your serving-man and your husband. 

Shal. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good 
varlet, Sir John: by the mass, I have drunk too 
much sack at supper: a good varlet. Now sit 
down, now sit down: come cousin. 

Si. Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall 

Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer, 

[ Singing. 


Shallow’s orchard. 


And praise God for the merry year; 

When flesh is cheap and females dear, 

And lusty lads roam here and there 
So merrily, 

And ever among so merrily. 


Fal. There ’samerry heart! Good Master Silence, 
Ill give you a health for that anon. 
Shal. Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy. 
Davy. Sweet sir, sit; Ill be with you anon; most 
sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master page, sit. 
Proface! What you want in meat, we’ll have in 
drink: but you must bear; the heart’s all. [Evit. 
Shal. Be merry, Master Bardolph; and’, my little 
soldier there, be merry. 
Sil. Be merry, be merry, my wife has all; 
[Singing. 
For women are shrews, both short and tall : 
*T is merry in hall when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry: Shrove-tide. 
Be merry, be merry. 
Fal. I did not think Master Silence had been a 
man of this mettle. 
Sil. Who, 1? I have been merry twice and once 
ere now. 
Re-enter Davy. 
Davy. There’s a dish of leather-coats for you. 


Shal. Davy! [To Bardolph. 


Davy. Your worship! Ill be with you straight 
[to Bardolph]. A cup of wine, sir? 

Sil. A cup of wine that’s brisk and fine, 

[| Singing. 
And drink unto the leman mine; 
And a merry heart lives long-a. 

Fal. Well said, Master Silence. 

Sil. An we shall be merry, now comes in the 
sweet 0’ the night. 

fal. Health and long life to you, Master Silence. 

Sil. Fill the cup, and let it come; [Singing. 

I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom. 

Shal. Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest 
any thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. 
Welcome, my little tiny thief [to the Page], and wel- 
come indeed too. I’ll drink to Master Bardolph, 
and to all the cavaleros about London. 

Davy. I hope to see London once ere I die. 

Bard. An I might see you there, Davy,— 

Shal. By the mass, you ’ll crack a quart together, 
ha! will you not, Master Bardolph ? 

Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. 

Shal. By God’s liggens, I thank thee: the knave 
will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. A’ will 
not out; he is true bred. 

Bard. And J’ll stick by hin, sir. 

Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: 
be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who’s at door 
there, ho! who knocks ? [Exit Davy. 

Fal. Why, now you have done me right. 

[To Silence, seeing him take off a bumper. 


Sil. Do me right [Singing. 
And dub me knight: 
Samingo. 
Is ’t not so? 
Fal. ’T is so. [somewhat. 


Sil. Is’t so? Why then, say an old man can do 


Re-enter Davy. 


Davy. An’t please your worship, there’s one 
Pistol come from the court with news. 
Fal. From the court! let him come in. 


Enter Pistol. 
How now, Pistol! 

Pist. Sir John, God save you! 

Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pistol ? 

Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to 
good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the great- 
est men in this realm. 

Sil. By’r lady, I think a’ be, but goodman Puff 
of Barson. 

Pist. Puff! 

Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base! 


361 


ACT AVG 


Sir John, lL am thy Pistol and thy friend, 
And helter-skelter have I rode to thee, 
And tidings do I bring and lucky joys 
Anda golden times and happy news of price. 

Fal. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of 
this world. 

Pist. A foutre for the world and worldlings base! 
I speak of Africa and golden joys. 

Fal. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news ? 
Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof. 

Sil. And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. 

[ Singing. 

Pist. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons ? 
And shall good news be baffled ? 

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap. 

Sil. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding. 

Pist. Why then, lament, therefore. 

Shal. Give me pardon, sir: if, sir, you come with 
news from the court, I take it there ’s but two ways, 
either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, 
under the king, in some authority. 

Pist. Under which king, Besonian ? speak, or die. 

Shal. Under King Harry. 

Pist. Harry the Fourth? or Fifth ? 

Shal. Harry the Fourth. 

Bak A foutre for thine office! 
Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king; 

Harry the Fifth ’s the man. I speak the truth: 
When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like 
The bragging Spaniard. 

Fal. What, is the old king dead ? 

Pist. As nail in door: the things I speak are just. 

Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master 
Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the 
land, ’tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee 

Bard. O joyful day! [with dignities. 
I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. 

Pist. What! I do bring good news. 

Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shal- 
low, my Lord Shallow,—be what thou wilt; I am 
fortune’s steward — get on thy boots: we ’ll ride all 
night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [wit 
Bard.| Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal 
devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, 
Master Shallow: I know the young king is sick for 
me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of 
England are at my commandment. Blessed are 
they that have been my friends; and woe to my lord 
chief-justice ! 

Pist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also! 
‘Where is the life that late I led?’ say they: 

Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant days! 
[| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—London. A street. 


Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and 
Doll Tearsheet. 


Host. No, thou arrant knave; I would to God 
that I might die, that I might have thee hanged: 
thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint. 

First Bead. The constables have delivered her 
over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer 
enough, I warrant her: there hath been a man or 
two lately killed about her. 

Dol. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; 
I’ tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged ras- 
cal, an the child I now go with do miscearry, thou 
wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou 
paper-faced villain. 

Host. O the Lord, that Sir John were come! he 
would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I 
pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry! 

Kirst Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of 
cushions again; you have but eleven now. Come, 
I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead 
that you and Pistol beat amongst you. 


362 


SECOND PART OF “RING HENRY Viv. eenn Be 


Dol. I’) tell you what, you thin man in a cen- 
ser, I will have you as soundly swinged for this,— 
you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correc- 
tioner, if you be not swinged, Ill forswear half- 
kirtles. [come. 

First Bead. Come, come, you she knight-errant, 

Host. O God, that right should thus overcome 
might! Well, of sufferance comes ease. [tice. 

Dol. Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a jus- 

Host. Ay, come, you starved blood-hound. 

Dol. Goodman death, goodman bones! 

Host. Thou atomy, thou! 

Dol. Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal. 

First Bead. Very well. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—A public place near Westminster 
Abbey. | 


Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes. 


First Groom. More rushes, more rushes. 

Sec. Groom. The trumpets have sounded twice. 

First Groom. ’T will be two o’clock ere they come 
from the coronation: dispatch, dispatch. [Hweunt. 


Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and 
Page. 

Fal. Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow ; 
IT will make the king do you grace: I will leer upon 
him as a’ comes by; and do but mark the coun- 
tenance that he will give me. 

Pist. God bless thy lungs, good knight. 

Fal. Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. O, if 
I had had time to have made new liveries, I would 
have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of 
you. But ’tis no matter; this poor show doth bet- 
ter: this doth infer the zeal I had to see him. 

Shal. It doth so. 

Fal. It shows my earnestness of affection,— 

Shal. It doth so. 

Fal. My devotion,— 

Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth. 

Fal. As it were, to ride day and night; and not 
to deliberate, not to remember, not to have pa- 
tience to shift me,— 

Shal. It is best, certain. 

Fal. But to stand stained with travel, and sweat- 
ing with desire to see him; thinking of nothing 
else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there 
were nothing else to be done but to see him. 

Pist. "Tis ‘semper idem,’ for ‘ obsque hoc nihil 
est:’ ‘tis all in every part. 

Shal. ’Tis so, indeed. 

Pist. My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver, 
And make thee rage. 

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, 

Is in base durance and contagious prison 3 

Haled thither 

By most mechanical and dirty hand: [snake, 

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto’s 

For Doll isin. Pistol speaks nought but truth. 
Fal, I will deliver her. ; 

[Shouts within, and the trumpets sound. 

Pist. There roar’d the sea, and trumpet-clangor 

sounds. 


Enter the King and his train, the Lord Chief-Jus- 
tice among them. 
je God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal 
al: 
Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, most 
royal imp of fame! 
Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy! [man. 
King. My lord chief-justice, speak to that vain 
Oh. Just. Have you your wits? know you what 
tis you speak ? 
Fal. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my 
heart! 


ACT V. 


King. I know thee not, old man: fall to thy 


prayers ; 

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! 

I have long dream’d of such a kind of man, 

So surfeit-swell’d, so old and so profane ; 

But, being awaked, I do despise my dream. 

Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; 

Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape 

For thee thrice wider than for other men. 

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest: 

Presume not that I am the thing I was; 

For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, 

That I have turned away my former self; 

So will I those that kept me company. 

When thou dost hear I am as I have been, 

Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, 

The tutor and the feeder of my riots: 

Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death, 

As I have done the rest of my misleaders, 

Not to come near our person by ten mile. 

For competence of life I will allow you, 

That lack of means enforce you not to evil: 

And, as we hear you do reform yourselves, 

We will, according to your strengths and qualities, 

Give youadvancement. Be it your charge, my lord, 

To see perform’d the tenour of our word. 

Set on. [Hxeunt King, &c. 
Fal. Master Shallow, Iowe youa thousand pound. 
Shal. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you 

to let me have home with me. 

Fal. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do 
not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in pri- 
vate to him: look you, he must seem thus to the 
world: fear not your advancements; I will be the 
man yet that shall make you great. 

Shal. I cannot well perceive how, unless you 
should give me your doublet and stuff me out with 
straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have 
five hundred of my thousand. 

Fal. Sir, 1 will be as good as my word: this that 
you heard was but a colour. [John. 

Shal. A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir 

Fal. Fear no colours: go with me to dinner: 
come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph: I shall 
be sent for soon at night. 


fe-enter Prince John, the Lord Chief-Justice ; 
Officers with them. 
Oh. Just. Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet : 
Take all his company along with‘him. 
Fal. My lord, my lord, — [soon. 
Ch. Just. I cannot now speak: I will hear you 
Take them away. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. 


SCENE V. 


Pist. Si fortuna me tormenta, spero contenta. 
[Exeunt all but Prince John and the Chief-Justice, 
Lan. I like this fair proceeding of the king’s: 
He hath intent his wonted followers 
Shall all be very well provided for ; 
But all are banish’d till their conversations 
Appear more wise and modest to the world. 
Ch. Just. And so they are. 
Lan. The king hath call’d his parliament, my lord. 
Ch. Just. He hath. 
Lan. I will lay odds that, ere this year expire, 
We bear our civil swords and native fire 
As far as France: I heard a bird so sing, 
Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king. 
Come, will you hence ? [ Hxeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 
Spoken by a Dancer, 


First my fear; then my courtesy ; last my speech. 
My fear is, your displeasure; my courtesy, my duty; 
and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you look 
for a good speech how, you undo me: for what I 
have to say is of mine own making; and what in- 
deed J. should say will, I doubt, prove mine own 
marring. But to the purpose, and so to the ven- 
ture. Be it known to you, as it is very well, I was 
lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray 
your patience for it and to promise you a better. I 
meant indeed to pay you with this; which, if like 
an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and 
you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promised you 
I would be and here I commit my body to your 
mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some 
and, aS most debtors do, promise you infinitely. 

If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, 
will you command me to use my legs? and yet that 
were but light payment, to dance out of your debt. 
But a good conscience will make any possible satis- 
faction, andso would I. All the gentlewomen here 
have forgiven me: if the gentlemen will not, then 
the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, 
which was never seen before in such an assembly. 

One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too 
much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will 
continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you 
merry with fair Katharine of France: where, for 
any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, 
unless already a’ be killed with your hard opinions; 


Falstaff—Yea, marry, let’s see Bullealf. 


Bulicalf.—Here, sir. 


Falstaf—’Fore God, @ likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he 


roar again. 


Act IITI., Scene ii. 


THE LIFE OF 
HENRY THE FIFTH. 


KING 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


King Henry the Fifth. 

Duke of Gloucester, 

Duke of Bedford, 

Duke of Exeter, uncle to the King. 

Duke of York, cousin to the King. 

Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and War- 
wick. 

Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Bishop of Ely. 

Earl of Cambridge. 

Lord Scroop. 

Sir Thomas Grey. 

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Gower, Fluellen, Mac- 
morris, Jamy, officers in King Henry’s army. 

Bates, Court, Williams, soldiers in the same. 

Pistol, Nym, Bardolph. 

Boy. 

A Herald. 


brothers to the King. 


Charles the Sixth, King of France. 

Lewis the Dauphin. 

Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and Bourbon. 

The Constable of France. 

Rambures and Grandpré, French Lords, 

Governor of Harfleur. 

Montjoy, a French Herald. 

Ambassadors to the King of England. 

Isabel, Queen of France. 

Katharine, daughter to Charles and Isabel. 

Alice, a lady attending on her. 

Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress 
Quickly, and now married to Pistol. 


Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and 
Attendants. 
Chorus. 


SCENE — “ngland ; afterwards France. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lv.] 


PR O88, ©, GC. ee 


Enter Chorus. 


Chor. O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend 
The brightest heaven of invention, 
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act 
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! 
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, 
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, __ [fire 
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword and 
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles ail, 
The flat unraised spirits that have dared 
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 
So great an object: can this cockpit hold 
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram 
Within this wooden O the very casques 
That did affright the air at Agincourt ? 
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may 
Attest in little place a million; 


And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, 

On your imaginary forces work. 

Suppose within the girdle of these walls 

Are now confined two mighty monarchies, 

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts 

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: 

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; 
Into a thousand parts divide one man, 

And make imaginary puissance ; 

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them 
Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth ; 
For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings. 
Carry them here and there; jumping o’er times, 
Turning the accomplishment of many years 

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, 

Admit me Chorus to this history ; 

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, 
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [ Hot. 


NC) IT 


SCENE I.— London. An ante-chamber in the 
King’s palace. 


inter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the 
Bishop of Ely. 

Cant. My lord, I'll tell you; that self bill is urged, 
Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s reign 
Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d, 

But that the scambling and unquiet time 

Did push it out of farther question. 
Ely. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now ? 
Cant. \t must be thought on. If it pass against us, 


364 


We lose the better half of our possession: 

For all the temporal lands which men devout 

By testament have given to the church 

Would they strip from us; being valued thus: 

As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour, 
Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, 

Six thousand and two hundred good esquires; 
And, to relief of lazars and weak age, 

Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, 

A hundred almshouses right well supplied; 

And to the coffers of the king beside, 

A thousand pounds by the year: thus runs the bill 


ACT I. 


OLIV. EEN BY? V; 


SCENE II, 


Ely. This would drink deep. 

Cant. °T would drink the cup and all. 

Ely. But what prevention ? 

Cant. The king is full of grace and fair regard. 

Ely. And a true lover of the holy church. 

Cant. The courses of his youth promised it not. 
The breath no sooner left his father’s body, 

But that his wildness, mortified in him, 

Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment 

Consideration, like an angel, came 

And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him, 

Leaving his body as a paradise, 

To envelope and contain celestial spirits. 

Never was such a sudden scholar made; 

Never came reformation in a flood, 

With such a heady currance, scouring faults; 

Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness 

So soon did lose his seat and all at once 

As in this king. 
Ely. We are blessed in the change. 
Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity, 

And all-admiring with an inward wish 

You would desire the king were made a prelate: 

Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, 

You would say it hath been all in all his study: 

List his discourse of war, and you shall hear 

A fearful battle render’d you in music: 

Turn him to any cause of policy, 

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, 

Familiar as his garter: that, when he speaks, 

The air, a charter’d libertine, is still, 

And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears, 

To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences ; 

So that the art and practic part of life 

Must be the mistress to this theoric: 

Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it, 

Since his addiction was to courses vain, 

His companies unletter’d, rude and shallow, 

His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports, 

And never noted in him any study, 

Any retirement, any sequestration 

From open haunts and popularity. 

Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle 

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best 
Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality: 
And so the prince obscured his contemplation 
Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, 
Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night, 
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. 

Cant. It must be so; for miracles are ceased ; 
And therefore we must needs admit the means 
How things are perfected. 

Ely. But, my good lord, 
How now for mitigation of this bill 
Urged by the commons? Doth his majesty 
Incline to it, or no? 

Cant. He seems indifferent, 

Or rather swaying more upon our part 
Than cherishing the exhibiters against us; 
For I have made an offer to his majesty, 
Upon our spiritual convocation 

And in regard of causes now in hand, 
Which I have open’d to his grace at large, 
As touching France, to give a greater sum 
Than ever at one time the clergy yet 

Did to his predecessors part withal. 

Ely. How did this offer seem received, my lord ? 

Cant. With good acceptance of his majesty ; 
Save that there was not time enough to hear, 

As I perceived his grace would fain have done, 
The severals and unhidden passages 

Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms 
And generally to the crown and seat of France 
Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather. 

Ely. eat was the impediment that broke this 

off : 

Cant. The French ambassador upon that instant 


Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come 
To give him hearing: is it four o’clock ? 

Ely. It is. 

Cant. Then go we in, to know his embassy ; 
Which I could with a ready guess declare, 
Before the Frenchman speak a word of it. 

fly. 1711 wait upon you, and I long to hear it. 

’ [Exeunt. 


SCENE II. — The same. The Presence chamber. 


Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, 
Warwick, Westmoreland, and Attendants. 


Kk. Hen. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury? 

Exe. Not here in presence. 

K. Hen. Send for him, good uncle. 

West. Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege ? 

K. Hen. Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolved, 
Before we hear him, of some things of weight 
That task our thoughts, concerning us and France. 


Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the 
Bishop of Ely. 


Cant. God and his angels guard your sacred throne 
And make you long become it! 

K. Hen. Sure, we thank you. 
My learned lord, we pray you to proceed : 
And justly and religiously unfold 
Why the law Salique that they have in France 
Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim: 

And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, _ [ing, 
That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your read- 
Or nicely charge your understanding soul 

With opening titles miscreate, whose right 

Suits not in native colours with the truth; 

For God doth know how many now in health 

Shall drop their blood in approbation 

Of what your reverence shall incite us to. 
Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, 
How you awake our sleeping sword of war: 

We charge you, in the name of God, take heed ; 
For never two such kingdoms did contend 
Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops 
Are every one a woe, a sore complaint 

’Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords 
That make such waste in brief mortality. 

Under this conjuration speak, my lord; 

For we will hear, note and believe in heart 

That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d 
As pure as sin with baptism. [peers, 

Cant. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you 
That owe yourselves, your lives and services 
To this imperial throne. There is no bar 
To make against your highness’ claim to France 
But this, which they produce from Pharamond, 
‘In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant ;’ 

‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’ 
Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze 
To be the realm of France, and Pharamond 
The founder of this law and female bar. 

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm 

That the land Salique is in Germany, 

Between the floods of Sala and.of Elbe; {ons, 
Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Sax- 
There left behind and settled certain French ; 
Who, holding in disdain the German women 
For some dishonest manners of their life, 
Establish’d then this law; to wit, no female 
Should be inheritrix in Salique land: 

Which Salique, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala, 
Is at this day in Germany call’d Meisen. 

Then doth it well appear the Salique law 

Was not devised for the realm of France; 

Nor did the French possess the Salique land 
Until four hundred one and twenty years 
After defunction of King Pharamond, 

Idly supposed the founder of this law; 


365 


ACT I. 


Who died within the year of our redemption 

Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great 
Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the French 
Beyond the river Sala, in the year 

Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, 
King Pepin, which deposed Childeric, 

Did, as heir general, being descended 

Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair, 
Make claim and title to the crown of France. 
Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown 

Of Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male 

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, 
To find his title with some shows of truth, 
Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught, 
Conveyed himself as heir to the Lady Lingare, 
Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son 

To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son 

Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth, 
Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, 

Could not keep quiet in his conscience, 

Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied 

That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother, 

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, 

Daughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine: 
By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great 
Was re-united to the crown of France. 

So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun, 

King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim, 

King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear 

To hold in right and title of the female: 

So do the kings of France unto this day; 

Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law 

To bar your highness claiming from the female, 
And rather choose to hide them in a net 

Than amply to imbar their crooked titles 

Usurp’d from you and your progenitors. [claim ? 

i, Hen. May I withright and conscience make this 

Cant. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! 
For in the book of Numbers is it writ, 

When the man dies, let the inheritance 

Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord, 

Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag; 
Look back into your mighty ancestors ; 

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb, 
From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, 
And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince, 
Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy, 
Making defeat on the full power of France, 
Whiles his most mighty father on a hill 

Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp 

Forage in blood of French nobility. 

O noble English, that could entertain 

With half their forces the full pride of France 
And let another half stand laughing by, 

All out of work and cold for action! 

Ely. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead 
And with your puissant arm renew their feats: 
You are their heir; you sit upon their throne; 
The blood and courage that renowned them 
Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege 
Is in the very May-morn of his youth, 
Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. [earth 

Hxe. Your brother kings and monarchs of the 
Do all expect that you should rouse yourself, 

As did the former lions of your blood. 

West. They know your grace hath cause and 
means and might; 

So hath your highness; never king of England 
Had nobles richer and more loyal subjects, 

Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England 
And lie pavilioned in the fields of France. 

Cant. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, 
With blood and sword and fire to win your right; 
In aid whereof we of the spiritualty 
Will raise your highness such a mighty sum 
As never did the clergy at one time 
Bring in to any of your ancestors. 


366 


KING EE BAN TOY ee 


SCENE II, 


| kK. Hen. We must not only arm to invade the 


But lay down our proportions to defend [French, 
Against the Scot, who will make road upon us 
| With all advantages. 
Cant. They of those marches, gracious sovereign, 
Shall be a wall sufficient to defend 
Our inland from the pilfering borderers. [only, 
Kk. Hen. We do not mean the coursing snatchers 
But fear the main intendment of the Scot, 
Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us; 
For you shall read that my great-grandfather 
Never went with his forces into France 
But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom 
Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, 
With ample and brim fulness of his force, 
Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, 
Girding with grievous siege castles and towns; 


That England, being empty of defence, 

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood. 
Cant. She hath been then more fear’d than 

harm’d, my liege; 

For hear her but exampled by herself: 

When all her chivalry hath been in France 

And she a mourning widow of her nobles, 

She hath herself not only well defended 

But taken and impounded as a stray 

The King of Scots; whom she did send to France, 

To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings 

And make her chronicle as rich with praise 

As is the ooze and bottom of the sea 

With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries. 
West. But there’s a saying very old and true, 


‘If that you will France win 
Then with Scotland first begin :’ 
For once the eagle England being in prey, 
To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot 
Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs, 
Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, 
To tear and havoc more than she can eat. 
Exe. It follows then the cat must stay at home: 
Yet that is but a crush’d necessity, 
Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries, 
And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves. 
While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, 
The advised head defends itself at home; 
For government, though high and low and lower, 
Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, 
Congreeing in a full and natural close, 
Like music. 
Cant. Therefore doth heaven divide 
The state of man in divers functions, 
Setting endeavour in continual motion ; 
To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, 
Obedience: for so work the honey-bees, 
Creatures that by a rule in nature teach 
The act of order to a peopled kingdom. 
They have a king and officers of sorts; 
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, 
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, 
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 
Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, 
Which pillage they with merry march bring home 
To the tent-royal of their emperor ; 
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys 
The singing masons building roofs of gold, 
The civil citizens kneading up the honey, 
The poor mechanic porters crowding in 
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, 
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, 
Delivering o’er to executors pale 
The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, 
That many things, having full reference 
To one consent, may work contrariously : 


As many arrows, loosed several ways, _ 
Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one town; 


| As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ; 


As many lines close in the dial’s centre; 


Yeu hel ge 


So may a thousand actions, once afoot, 
End in one purpose, and be all well borne _ 
Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege. 
Divide your happy England into four; 
Whereof take you one quarter into France, 
And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. 
If we, with thrice such powers left at home, 
Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, 
Let us be worried and our nation lose 
The name of hardiness and policy. 

Kk. Hen. Call in the messengers sent from the 

Dauphin. [Hxeunt some Attendants. 

Now are we well resolved; and, by God’s help, 
And yours, the noble sinews of our power, 
France being ours, we ’ll bend it to our awe, 
Or break it all to pieces: or there we ’ll sit, 
Ruling in large and ample empery 
O’er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms, 
Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, 
Tombless, with no remembrance over them: 
Either our history shall with full mouth 
Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, 
Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, 
Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph. 


Enter Ambassadors of France. 


Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure 
Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear 
Your greeting is from him, not from the king. 
First Amb. May ’t please your majesty to give us 
Freely to render what we have in charge; _ [leave 
Or shall we sparingly show you far off 
The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy ? 
K. Hen. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king; 
Unto whose grace our passion is as subject 
As are our wretches fetter’d in our prisons: 
Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness 
Tell us the Dauphin’s mind. 
First Amb. Thus, then, in few. 
Your highness, lately sending into France, 
Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right 


Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. | 


In answer of which claim, the prince our master 
Says that you savour too much of your youth, 
And bids you be advised there ’s nought in France 
That can be with a nimble galliard won; 
You cannot revel into dukedoms there. 
He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, 
This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this, 
Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim 
Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks. 
dx. Hen. What treasure, uncle ? 
ve. Tennis-balls, my liege. 
ix. Hen. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant 
with us; 


Pals GALEN BY, 


PROLOGUE, 


His present and your pains we thank you for: 
When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, 
We will, in France, by God’s grace, play a set 
Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard. 
Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler 
That all the courts of France will be disturb’d 
With chaces. And we understand him well, 
How he comes o’er us with our wilder days, 
Not measuring what use we made of them. 
We never valued this poor seat of England; 
And therefore, living hence, did give ourself 
To barbarous license; as ’t is ever common 
That men are merriest when they are from home. 
But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state, 
Be like a king and show my sail of greatness 
When I do rouse me in my throne of France: 
For that I have laid by my majesty 
And plodded like a man for working-days, 
But I will rise there with so full a glory 
That I will dazzle all the eyes of France, 
Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. 
And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his 
Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones; and his soul 
Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance 
That shall fly with them: for many a thousand 
widows 
Shall this his mock mock out of their dear hus- 
bands ; 
Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down ; 
And some are yet ungotten and unborn 
That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. 
But this lies all within the will of God, 
To whom I do appeal; and in whose name 
Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on, 
To venge me as I may and to put forth 
My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause. 
So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin 
His jest will savour but of shallow wit, 
When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. 
Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well. 
[Hxeunt Ambassadors. 
Exe. This was a merry message. 
Kk. Hen. We hope to make the sender blush at it. 
Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour 
That may give furtherance to our expedition ; 
For we have now no thought in us but France, 
Save those to God, that run before our business. 
Therefore let our proportions for these wars 
Be soon collected and all things thought upon 
That may with reasonable swiftness add 
More feathers to our wings; for, God before, 
Well chide this Dauphin at his father’s door. 
Therefore let every man now task his thought, 
That this fair action may on foot be brought. 
[Hxeunt.—Flourish. 


PN OEELY LT: 


PROLOGUE. 


Enter Chorus. 


Chor. Now all the youth of England are on fire, 
And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: 
Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought 
Reigns solely in the breast of every man: 
They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, 
Following the mirror of all Christian kings, 
With winged heels, as English Mercuries. 
For now sits Expectation in the air, 
And hides a sword from hilts unto the point 
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, 
Promised to Harry and his followers. 
The French, advised by good intelligence 
Of this most dreadful preparation, 


Shake in their fear and with pale policy 

Seek to divert the English purposes. 

O England! model to thy inward greatness, 

Like little body with a mighty heart, 

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, 
Were ail thy children kind and natural! 

But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out 
A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills 

With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men, 
One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second, 
Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, 

Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, 
Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt indeed !— 
Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France; __ 
And by their hands this grace of kings must die, 
If hell and treason hold their promises, 


367 


ACT II. 


Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. 
Linger your patience on; and well digest 

The abuse of distance; force a play: 

The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed ; 

The king is set from London; and the scene 

Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton; 
There is the playhouse now, there must you sit: 
And thence to France shall we convey you safe, 
And bring you back, charming the narrow seas 
To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, 

We’ll not offend one stomach with our play. 

But, till the king come forth, and not till then, 
Unto Southampton do we shift our scene. [vit. 


SCENE I.— London. A street. 


Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph. 


Bard. Well met, Corporal Nym. 

Nym. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. 

Bard. What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends 
yet? 

Nym. For my part, I care not: I say little; but 
when time shall serve, there shall be smiles, but 
that shall be as it may. I dare not fight; but I will 
wink and hold out mine iron: it is asimple one; 
but what though ? it will toast cheese, and it will 
endure cold as another man’s sword will: and there’s 
an end. 

Bard. I will bestow a breakfast to make you 
friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to 
France: let it be so, good Corporal Nym. 

Nym. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s 
the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, 
I will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the 
rendezvous of it. 

Bard. It is certain, corporal, that he is married 
to Nell Quickly: and certainly she did you wrong; 
for you were troth-plight to her. 

Nym. I cannot tell: things must be as they may: 
men may sleep, and they may have their throats 
about them at that time; and some say knives have 
edges. It must be as it may: though patience be 
a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be con- 
clusions. Well, I cannot tell. 


Enter Pistol and Hostess. 


Bard. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: 
good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host 

Pist. Base tike, call’st thou me host? — [Pistol! 
Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term; 
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers. 

Host. No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot 
lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen 
that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but 
it will be thought we keep a bawdy house straight. 
{Nym and Pistol draw.] O wella day, Lady, if he 
be not drawn now! we shall see wilful adultery and 
murder committed. 

Bard. Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer 
nothing here. 

Nym. Pish! 

Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d 

cur of Iceland! 

Host. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and 
put up your sword. 

Nym. Will you shog off ? I would have you solus. 

Pist. ‘Solus,’ egregious dog? O viper vile! 

The ‘ solus’ in thy most mervailous face; 

The ‘ solus’ in thy teeth, and in thy throat, 

And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy, 
And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! 

I do retort the ‘ solus’ in thy bowels: 

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up, 

And flashing fire will follow. 

Nym. Iam not Barbason ; you cannot conjure me. 
I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. 
If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you 


368 


KING HENRY V. 


SCENE I. 


with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would 
walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good 
terms, as I may: and that’s the humour of it. 

Pist. O braggart vile and damned furious wight ! 
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near; 
Therefore exhale. 

Bard. Hear me, hear me what I say: he that 
strikes the first stroke, Il] run him up to the hilts, 
as I am a soldier. [ Draws. 

Pist. An oath of mickle might; and fury shall 
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give: [abate. 
Thy spirits are most tall. 

Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in 
fair terms: that is the humour of it. 

Pist. ‘Couple a gorge! ’ 

That is the word. I thee defy again. ; 
O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get ? 
No; to the spital go, . 
And from the powdering-tub of infamy 
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, 
Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse: 
I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly 
For the only she; and— pauca, there ’s enough. 
Go to. 
Enter the Boy. 

Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my mas- 
ter, and you, hostess: he is very sick, and would to 
bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, 
and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very 

Bard. Away, you rogue! fill. 

Host. By my troth, he ’I] yield the crow a pudding 
one of these days. The king has killed his heart. 
Good husband, come home presently. 

[Hxeunt Hostess and Boy. 

Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends? We 
must to France together: why the devil should we 
keep knives to cut one another’s throats ? fon! 

Pist. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl 

Nym. Youll pay me the eight shillings I won of 
you at betting ? 

Pist. Base is the slave that pays. [of it. 

Nym. That now I will have: that’s the humour 

Pist. As manhood shall compound: push home. 

[They draw. 

Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first 
thrust, Ill kill him; by this sword, I will. 

Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have 

their course. 

Bard. Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be 
friends: an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies 
with me too. Prithee, put up. 

Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won of 
you at betting ? 

Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay ; 
And liquor likewise will I give to thee, 

And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood : 
I’ live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me; 

Is not this just ? for I shall sutler be 

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue. 

Give me thy hand. 

Nym. I shall have my noble ? 

Pist. In cash most justly paid. 

Nym. Well, then, that’s the humour of ’t. 


Re-enter Hostess. 


Host. Asever youcame of women, come in quickly 
to’Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a 
burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lament- 
able to behold. Sweet men, come to him. 

Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the 


| knight; that’s the even of it. 


Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right ; 


| His heart is fracted and corroborate. 


Nym. The king isa good king: but it must be as 
it may; he passes some humours and careers. 
Pist. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins 
we will live. 


Ds pe - 
% 9 ee 


é 
Z 
Q 
iL 
ft 
Z 
wy 
re 
4 
or 
ny 
7" 
ny 
4 
x 
| 
> 
= 
o 
Q 
) 
5 
0 


== — 
== — 
— 
= = 
= eS = 
———— 
= 


Wee t an 


ee 
‘aap 


i iN ‘ 


Wi 


= a 


ar 
Y 
4 
. 
fe 
ER 
4 


* 


. Iie Mii nda J 


ACT II. 


KING HENRY VJ. 


SCENE II, 


SCENE II.— Southampton. A council-chamber. 


Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland. 


Bed. °Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these 

traitors. 

Exe. They shall be apprehended by and by.. 

West. How smooth and even they do bear them- 
As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, [selves ! 
Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. - 

Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend, 
By interception which they dream not of. 

Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow, 
Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious fa- 
That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell [vours, 
His sovereign’s life to death and treachery. 


Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, 
Cambridge, Grey, and Attendants. 


k. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will 
aboard. Masham, 
My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of 
And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts: 
Think you not that the powers we bear with us 
Wiil cut their passage through the force of France, 
Doing the execution and the act 
For which we have in headassembled them ?  [best. 

Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his 

i. Hen. I doubt not that; since we are well per- 
We carry not a heart with us from hence [suaded 
That grows not in a fair consent with ours, 

Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish 
Success and conquest to attend on us. 

Cam. Never was monarch better fear’d and loved 
Than is your majesty: there ’s not, I think, a subject 
That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness 
Under the sweet shade of your government. 

Grey. True: those that were your father’s enemies 
Have steep’d their galls in honey and do serve you 
With hearts create of duty and of zeal. _—[fulness; 

K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thank- 
And shall forget the office of our hand, 

Sooner than quittance of desert and merit 
According to the weight and worthiness. 

Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, 
And labour shall refresh itself with hope, 

To do your grace incessant services. 

KK. Hen. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, 

Enlarge the man committed yesterday, 
That rail’d against our person: we consider 
It was excess of wine that set him on; 

And on his more advice we pardon him. 

Scroop. That ’s mercy, but too much security: 
Let him be punish’d, sovereign, lest example 
Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. 

K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful. 

Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too. 

Grey. Sir, 

You show great mercy, if you give him life, 
After the taste of much correction. 

K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care of me 

Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch! 

If little faults, proceeding on distemper, 

Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye 

When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d and di- 

gested, 

Appear before us? Well yet enlarge that man, 

Though Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, in their dear 

And tender preservation of our person, [care 

Would have him punish’d. And now to our French 

Who are the late commissioners ? [causes: 
Cam. I one, my lord: 

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day. 

Scroop. So did you me, my liege. 

ge And I, my royal sovereign. [is yours ; 

K. Hen. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there 
There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir 

knight, 
24 


Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: 
Read them; and know, I know your worthiness. 
My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, 
We will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentle- 
What see you in those papers that you lose [men! 
So much complexion ? Look ye, how they change! 
Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there, 
That hath so cowarded and chased your blood 
Out of appearance ? 
Cam. I do confess my fault ; 
And do submit me to your highness’ mercy. 
Grey. 
Scroop 
KK. Hen. The mercy that was quick in us but late, 
By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d: 
You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy ; 
For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, 
As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. 
See you, my princes and my noble peers, [here, 
These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge 
You know how apt our love was to accord 
To furnish him with all appertinents 
Belonging to his honour; and this man 
Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired, 
And sworn unto the practices of France, 
To kill us here in Hampton: to the which 
This knight, no less for bounty bound to us 
Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O, 
What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel, 
Ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature! 
Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels, 
That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, 
That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, 
Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use, 
May it be possible, that foreign hire 
Could out of thee extract one spark of evil 
That might annoy my finger ? tis so strange, 
That, though the truth of it stands off as gross 
As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. 
Treason and murder ever kept together, 
As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose, 
Working so grossly in a natural cause, 
That admiration did not whoop at them: 
But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in 
Wonder to wait on treason and on murder: 
And whatsoever cunning fiend it was 
That wrought upon thee so preposterously 
Hath got the voice in hell for excellence: 
All other devils that suggest by treasons 
Do botch and bungle up damnation 
With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch’d 
From glistering semblances of piety; 
But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up, 
Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason, 
Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. 
If that same demon that hath gull’d thee thus 
Should with his lion gait walk the whole world, 
He might return to vasty Tartar back, 
And tell the legions ‘ I can never win 
A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.’ 
O, how hast thou with jealousy infected 
The sweetness of aftiance! Show men dutiful ? 
Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned ? 
Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family ? 
Why, so didst thou: seem they religious ? 
Why, so didst thou: or are they spare in diet, 
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, 
Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood, 
Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement, 
Not working with the eye without the ear, 
And but in purged judgment trusting neither ? 
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem: 
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot, 
To mark the full-fraught man and best indued 
With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; 
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like 
Another fall of man. Their faults are open: 


369 


} To which we all appeal. 


ACT ff. 


Arrest them to the answer of the law; 
And God acquit them of their practices! 
Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of 
Richard Earl of Cambridge. 
I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of 
Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. 
I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of 
Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. 
Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath discover’d ; 
And I repent my fault more than my death; 
Which I beseech your highness to forgive, 
Although my body pay the price of it. 
Cam. For me, the gold of France did not seduce; 
Although I did admit it as a motive 
The sooner to effect what I intended: 
But God be thanked for prevention ; 
Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, 
Beseeching God and you to pardon me. 
Grey. Never did faithful subject more rejoice 
At the discovery of most dangerous treason 
Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself, 
Prevented from a damned enterprise: 
My fault,but not my body,pardon, sovereign. [tence. | 
AK. Hen. God quit you in his mercy! Hear yoursen- | 
You have conspired against our royal person, 
Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d and from his coffers 
Received the golden earnest of our death; 
Wherein you would have sold your king toslaughter, 
His princes and his peers to servitude, 
His subjects to oppression and contempt 
And his whole kingdom into desolation. 
Touching our person seek we no revenge; 
But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender, 
Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws 
We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, 
Poor miserable wretches, to your death: 
The taste whereof, God of his mercy give 
You patience to endure, and true repentance 
Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence. 

[| Hxeunt Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, guarded. 
Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof 
Shall be to you, as us, like glorious. 

We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, 

Since God so graciously hath brought to light 
This dangerous treason lurking in our way 

To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now 
But every rub is smoothed on our way. 

Then forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver 

Our puissance into the hand of God, 

Putting it straight in expedition. 

Cheerly to sea; the signs of war advance: 

No king of England, if not king of France. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE III. — London. 


Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy. 


Host. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring | 
thee to Staines. 

Pist. No; for my manly heart doth yearn. 
Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins: 
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead, 
And we must yearn therefore. 

Bard. Would I were with him, wheresome’er he 
is, either in heaven or in hell! 

Host. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell: he’s in Arthur’s | 
bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. A’ 
made a finer end and went away an it had been any 
christom child; a’ parted even just between twelve 
and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after 
I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with 
flowers and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew 
there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp 
as a pen, and a’ babbled of green fields. ‘ How 
now, Sir John!’ quoth I: ‘ what, man! be 0’ good 
cheer.’ Soa’ cried out ‘God, God, God!’ three or | 
four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a’ 
should not think of God; I hoped there was no need | 


370 


Before a tavern. 


KING HENRY VF. 


SCENE IV. 


to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 
a’ bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my 
hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as 
cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and they 
were as cold as any stone, and so upward and up- 
ward, and all was as cold as any stone. 
-Nyn. They say he cried out of sack. 
Host. Ay, that a’ did. 
Bard. And of women. 
Host. Nay, that a’ did not. [incarnate. 
Boy. Yes, that a’ did; and said they were devils 
Host. A’ could never abide carnation; ’t was a 
colour he never liked. [women. 
Boy. A’ said once, the devil would have him about 
Host. A’ did in some sort, indeed, handle women ; 
but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore 
of Babylon. 
Boy. Do you not remember, a’ saw a flea stick 
upon Bardolph’s nose, and a’ said it was a black 


| soul burning in hell-fire ? 


Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that 


| fire: that’s all the riches I got in his service. 


_ Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from 
Southampton. [lips. 
Pist. Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy 
Look to my chattels and my movables: 
Let senses rule; the word is ‘ Pitch and Pay:’ 
Trust none; 
For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes, 
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck: 
Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. 
Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, 
Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys, 
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck! 
Boy. And tiat’s but unwholesome food, they say. 
Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march. 
Bard. Farewell, hostess. [Kissing her. 
Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; 
but, adieu. [command. 
Pist. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee 
Host. Farewell; adieu. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— France. The King’s palace. 


Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the 
Dukes of Berri and Bretagne, the Constable, and 
others. 


Fr. King. Thus comes the English with full power 
And more than carefully it us concerns [upon us; 
To answer royally in our defences. 
Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne, 
Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth, 
And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, 
To line and new repair our towns of war 
With men of courage and with means defendant ; 
For England his approaches makes as fierce 
As waters to the sucking of a gulf. 
It fits us then to be as provident 
As fear may teach us out of late examples 
Left by the fatal and neglected English 
Upon our fields. 

Dau. My most redoubted father, 
It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe; 
For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom, 
Though war nor no known quarrel were in question, 
But that defences, musters, preparations, 
Should be maintain’d, assembled and collected, 
AS were a war in expectation. 
Therefore, I say ’t is meet we all go forth 
To view the sick and feeble parts of France: 
And let us do it with no show of fear; 
No, with no more than if we heard that England 
Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance: 
For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d, 
Her sceptre so fantastically borne 
By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, 
That fear attends her not. 


ACT III. 


KING JHEN RY VV. 


PROLOGUE, 


Con. O peace, Prince Dauphin! 

You are too much mistaken in this king: 
Question your grace the late ambassadors, 
With what great state he heard their embassy, 
How well supplied with noble counsellors, 
How modest in exception, and withal 

How terrible in constant resolution, 

And you shall find his vanities forespent 
Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus, 
Covering discretion with a coat of folly; 

As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots 
That shall first spring and be most delicate. 

Dau. Well, ’tis not so, my lord high constable ; 

But though we think it so, it is no matter: 

In cases of defence ’t is best to weigh 

The enemy more mighty than he seems: 

So the proportions of defence are fill’d; 

Which of a weak and niggardly projection 
Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting 
A little cloth. 

Fr. King. Think we King Harry strong ; 
And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him. 
The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us; 
And he is bred out of that bloody strain 
That haunted us in our familiar paths: 

Witness our too much memorable shame 

When Cressy battle fatally was struck, 

And all our princes captived by the hand 

Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales; 
Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain stand- 
Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun, __[ing, 
Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him, 
Mangle the work of nature and deface 

The patterns that by God and by French fathers 
Had twenty years been made. This is a stem 

Of that victorious stock; and let us fear 

_ The native mightiness and fate of him. 


Enter a Messenger. 
Mess. Ambassadors from Harry King of England 
Do crave admittance to your majesty. 
Fy. King. We’ll give them present audience. 
Go, and bring them. 
[Hxeunt Messenger and certain Lords. 
You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. [dogs 
Dau. Turn head, and stop pursuit; for coward 
Most spend their mouths when what they seem to 
threaten 
Runs far before them. Good my sovereign, 
Take up the English short, and let them know 
Of what a monarchy you are the head: 
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin 
As self-neglecting. 


Re-enter Lords, with Exeter and train. 
Er. King. From our brother England ? 
Hxe. From him; and thus he greets your majesty. 
He wills you, in the name of God Almighty, 
That you divest yourself, and lay apart 
The borrow’d glories that by gift of heaven, 
By law of nature and of nations, long 
To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown 
And all wide-stretched honours that pertain 
By custom and the ordinance of times 
Unto the crown of France. That you may know 


*T is no sinister nor no awkward claim, 
Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days, 
Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked, 
He sends you this most memorable line, 
In every branch truly demonstrative; 
Willing you overlook this pedigree: 

And when you find him evenly derived 
From his most famed of famous ancestors, 
Edward the Third, he bids you then resign 
Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held 
From him the native and true challenger. 

Ir. King. Or else what follows ? 

xe. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown 
Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it: 
Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, 

In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, 

That, if requiring fail, he will compel; 

And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, 

Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy 

On the poor souls for whom this hungry war 
Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head 

Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, 
The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans, 
For husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers, 

That shall be swallow’d in this controversy. 

This is his claim, his threatening and my message; 
Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, 

To whom expressly I bring greeting too. 

fr, King. For us, we will consider of this further : 
To-morrow shall you bear our full intent 
Back to our brother England. 

Dau. For the Dauphin, 
I stand here for him: what to him from England ? 

Exe. Scorn and defiance; slight regard, contempt, 
And any thing that may not misbecome 
The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. 
Thus says my king; an if your father’s highness 
Do not, in grant of all demands at large, 
Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty, 
He’ll call you to so hot an answer of it, 
That caves and womby vaultages of France 
Shall chide your trespass and return your mock 
In second accent of his ordnance. 

Dau. Say, if my father render fair return, 
It is against my will; for I desire 
Nothing but odds with England: to that end, 
As matching to his youth and vanity, 
I did present him with the Paris balls. 

Exe. He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, 
Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe: 
And, be assured, you ’ll find a difference, 

As we his subjects have in wonder found, 
Between the promise of his greener days 

And these he masters now: now he weighs time 
Even to the utmost grain: that you shall read 

In your own losses, if he stay in France. [at full. 

I’y, King. To-morrow shall you know our mind 

xe. Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our 
Come here himself to question our delay ; [king 
For he is footed in this land already. 

Fr. King. You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair 

conditions: 
A night is but small breath and little pause 
To auswer matters of this consequence. 
[flourtsh.—Hxeunt. 


WOT TTT. 


PROLOGUE. 


Enter Chorus. 


Chor. Thus with imagined wing our swift scene 
In motion of no less celerity [flies 
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen 


The well-appointed king at Hampton pier 
Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet 
With silken streamers the young Phcebus fanning. 


Play with your fancies, and in them behold 


Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing ; 
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 


ov 1 


ACT III. 


To sounds eonfused; behold the threaden sails, 

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, 

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, 

Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think 

You stand upon the rivage and behold 

A city on the inconstant billows dancing ; 

For so appears this fleet majestical, 

Holding due course to Harilear. Follow, follow: 

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, 

And leave your England, as dead midnight still, 

Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, 

Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance; 

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d 

With one appearing hair, that will not follow 

These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ? 

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege ; 

Behold the ordnance on their carriages, 

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. 

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes 

Tells Harry that the king doth offer him _ [back,; 

Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry, 

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. 

The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner 

With linstock now the devilish cannon touches. 
[Alarum, and chambers go off. 

And down goes all before them. Still be kind, 

And eke out our performance with your mind. 


[ Hxit. 
SCENE I.—France. Before Harfleur. 


Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, 
Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders. 
AK. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, 

once more; 

Or close the wall up with our English dead. 

In peace there ’s nothing so becomes a man 

As modest stillness and humility: 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage ; 

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head 

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm if 

As fearfully as doth a galled rock 

O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, 

Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit 

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, 

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ! 

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn till even fought 

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: 

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 

That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeo- 

men 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear [not ; 

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

‘That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: 

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 

Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’ 

[Hxeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy. 


‘Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the 
breach ! 

Nym. Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are 
too hot; and, for mine own part, I have not a case 


QBno 


014 


KING HENRY V. 


SCENE Il. 


of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very 
plain-song of it. 
Pist. The plain-song is most just; for humours 
do abound: 
Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die; 
And sword and shield, 
In bloody field, 
Doth win immortal fame. 
Boy. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I 
would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety. 
Pist. And I: 
If wishes would prevail with me, 
My purpose should not fail with me, 
But thither would LI hie. 
Boy. As duly, but not as truly, 
As. bird doth sing on bough. 


Enter Fluellen. 


Flu. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you 
cullions! Driving them forward. 
Pist. Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould. 
Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage, 
Abate thy rage, great duke! [chuck ! 
Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet 
Nym. These be good humours! your honour wins 
bad humours. | Hxeunt all but Boy. 
Boy. AS young as I am, I have observed these 
three swashers. I am boy to them all three: but 
ali they three, though they would serve me, could 
not be man to me; for indeed three such antics 
do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is 
white-livered and red-faced; by the means where- 
of a’ faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he 
hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the 
means whereof a’ breaks words, and keeps whole 
weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of 
few words are the best men; and therefore he 
scorns to say his prayers, lest a’ should be thought 
a coward: but his few bad words are matched 
with as few good deeds; for a’ never broke any 
man’s head but his own, and that was against a 
post when he was drunk. They will steal any 
thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute- 
case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three 
half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers 
in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel: I 
knew by that piece of service the men would carry 
coals. They would have me as familiar with men’s 
pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers : which 
makes much against my manhood, if I should take 
from another’s pocket to put into mine; for it is 
plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, 
and seek some better service: their villany goes 
against my weak stomach, and therefore I must 
cast it up. [ Havit. 


Re-enter Fluellen, Gower following. 


Gow. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently — 
to the mines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak 
with you. 

Flu. To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so 
good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines 
is not according to the disciplines of the war: the 
concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, th’ 
athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look 
you, is digt himself four yard under the counter- 
mines: by Cheshu, I think a’ will plow up all, if 
there is not better directions. . 

Gow. The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order 
of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an 
Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith. 

Flu. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not ? 

Gow. I think it be. 

Flu. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I 
will verify as much in his beard: he has no more 
directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look 
you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. 


ACT IIl. 


Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy. 


Gow. Here a’ comes; and the Scots captain, Cap- 
tain Jamy, with him. 

Flu. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gen- 
tleman, that iscertain; and of great expedition and 
knowledge in th’ aunchient wars, upon my particu- 
lar knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will 
maintain his argument as well as any military man 
in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars 
ot the Romans. 

Jamy. I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen. 

Flu. God-den to your worship, good Captain 
James. 

Gow. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you 
quit the mines? have the pioners given o’er ? 

Mac. By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish 
give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my 
hand, I swear, and my father’s soul, the work ish 
ill done; it ish give over: I would have blowed up 
the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour: O, 
tish ill done, tish illdone; by my hand, tish ill done: 

Flu. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will 
you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with 
you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines 
of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argu- 
ment, look you, and friendly communication ; partly 
to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, 
look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of 
the military discipline; that is the point. 

Jamy. It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains 
bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may 
pick occasion; that sall I, marry. 

Mac. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save 
me: the day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, 
and the king, and the dukes: it is no time to dis- 
course. The town is beseeched, and the trumpet 
call us to the breach; and we talk, and, be Chrish, 
do nothing: *tis shame for us all: so God sa’ me, 
tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand: 
and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; 
and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ me, la! 

Jamy. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take 
themselves to slomber, ay ’1] de gud service, or ay ’l] 
lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go todeath; and ay ‘ll 
pay ’t as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, 
that is the breff and the long. Marry, 1 wad full 
fain hear some question ’tween you tway. 

Flu. Captain Matcmorris, I think, look you, under 
your correction, there is not many of your nation— 

Mac. Of my nation! Whatish my nation? Ish 
a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. 
What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation ? 

Flu. Look you, if you take the matter otherwise 
than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I 
shall think you do not use me with that affability 
as in discretion you ought to use me, look you; 
being as good a man as yourself, both in the disci- 
plines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, 
and in other particularities. 

Mac. I do not know you so good a man as myself: 
so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. 

Gow. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each 

Jamy. A! that’s a foul fault. [other. 

[A parley sounded. 

Gow. The town sounds a parley. 

Flu. Captain Macmorris, when there is more 
better opportunity to be required, look you, I will 
be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of 
war; and there is an end. | Exeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 
The Governor and some Citizens on the walls ; the 
' English forces below. Enter King Henry and train. 


4x. Hen. How yet resolves the governor of the 
This is the latest parle we will admit: 


Before the gates. 


OLN GY EIN BY. 


[town ? | 


SCENE IV. 


te 


Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves ; 
Or like to men proud of destruction 
Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier, 
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best, 
If I begin the battery once again, 
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur 
Till in her ashes she lie buried. 
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, 
And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart, 
In liberty of bloody hand shall range 
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass 
Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. 
What is it then to me, if impious war, 
Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, 
Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats 
Enlink’d to waste and desolation ? 
What is ’t to me, when you yourselves are cause, 
If your pure maidens fall into the hand 
Of hot and forcing violation ? 
What rein can hold licentious wickedness 
When down the hill he holds his fierce career ? 
We may as bootless spend our vain command 
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil 
As send precepts to the leviathan 
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, 
Take pity of your town and of your people, 
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; 
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace 
O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds 
Of heady murder, spoil and villany. 
If not, why, in a moment look to see 
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand 
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ; 
Your fathers taken by the silver beards, 
And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls, 
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, 
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused 
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry 
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. 
What say you? will you yield, and this avoid, 
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d ? 
Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end: 
The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, 
Returns us that his powers are yet not ready 
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king, 
We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. 
Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; 
For we no longer are defensible. 
Kk. Hen. Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter, 
Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, 
And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French: 
Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle, 
The winter coming on and sickness growing 
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. 
To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest, 
To-morrow for the march are we addrest. 
[Flourish. The King and his train enter the town. 


SCENE IV. —The French King’s palace. 


Enter Katharine and Alice. 

Kath. Alice, tu as été en Angleterre, et tu parles 
bien le langage. 

Alice. Un peu, madame. 

Kath. Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’ap- 
prenne a4 parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en 
Anglois ? 

Alice. La main? elle est appelée de hand. 

Kath. Dehand. Et les doigts? 

Alice. Les doigts? ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; 
mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? je pense 
qu’ils sont appelés de fingres; oui, de fingres. 

Kath. La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. 
Je pense que je suis le bon écolier; j’ai gagné deux 
mots d’Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous 
les ongles ? . . 

Alice. Les ongles ? nous les appelons de nails. 

373 


AQT ai dL: 


KING HENRY VJ. 


SCENE VI. 


Kath. De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle Dau. By faith and honour, 


bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails. 


Our madams mock at us, and plainly say 


Alice. C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon ; Our mettle is bred out and they will give 


Ang lois. 

Kath. Dites-moi l’Anglois pour le bras. 

Alice. De arm, madame. | 

Kath. Et le coude ? 

Alice. De elbow. 

Kath. De elbow. Je m’en fais la répétition de 
tous les mots que vous m’avez appris dés a présent. 

Alice. Lest trop difficile, madame, comme Je pense. 

Kath. Excusez-moi, Alice; écoutez: de hand, de 
fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow. 

Alice. De elbow, madame. 

Kath. O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie! de elbow. 
Comment appelez-yous le col ? 

Alice. De neck, madame. 

Kath. De nick. Et le menton? 

Alice. De chin. 

Kath. De sin. Le col, de nick; de menton, de sin. 

Alice. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en vérité, vous 
prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d’An- 
gleterre. 

Kath. Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grace 
de Dieu, et en peu de temps. 

Alice. N’avez vous pas déja oublié ce que je vous 
ai enseigné ? 

Kath. Non, je reciterai 4 vous promptement: de 
hand, de fingres, de mails,— 

Alice. De nails, madame. 

Kath. De nails, de arm, de ilbow. 

Alice. Sauf votre honneur, de elbow. 

Kath. Ainsi dis-je; de elbow, de nick, et de sin. 
Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe ? 

Alice. De foot, madame; et de coun. 

Kath. De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce 
sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et im- 
pudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user: 
je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seig- 
neurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot 
et le coun! Néanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois 
ma legon ensemble: de hand, de fingres, de nails, 
de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. 

Alice. Excellent, madame! 

Kath. C’est assez pour une fois: allons-nous A 


diner. [ Hxeunt. 
SCENE V.— The same. 


Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke 
of Bourbon,the Constable of France, andothers. 
Fy. King. Tis certain he hath pass’d the river 
Somme. 

Con. And if he be not fought withal, my lord, 

Let us not live in France; let us quit all 

And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. 
Dau. O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us, 

The emptying of our fathers’ luxury, 

Our scions, put in wild and savage stock, 

Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, 

And overlook their grafters ? [bastards ! 
Bour. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman 

Mort de ma vie! if they march along 

Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, 

To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm 

In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. [tle ? 
Con. Dieu de batailles! where have they this met- 

Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull, 

On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, 

Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water, 

A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth, 

Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat ? 

And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine, | 

Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, 

Let us not hang like roping icicles 

Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people 

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields! 

Poor we may call them in their native lords. | 


S74 


Their bodies to the lust of English youth 

To new-store France with bastard warriors. 

Bour. They bid us to the English dancing-schools, 
And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos; 
Saying our grace is only in our heels, 

And that we are most lofty runaways. 

Fy. King. Where is Montjoy the herald? speed 

him hence: 

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. 

Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged 

More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: 

Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; 

You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri. 

Alencgon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; 

Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, 

Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg, 

Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; 

High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights, 

For your great seats now quit you of great shames. 

Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land 

With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur : 

Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow 

Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat 

The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon: 

Go down upon him, you have power enough, 

And in a captive chariot into Rouen 

Bring him our prisoner. 

Con. This becomes the great. 
Sorry am I his numbers are so few, 

His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march, 

For I am sure, when he shall see our army, 

He ’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear 

And for achievement offer us his ransom. 

Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on 

Montjoy, 

And let him say to England that we send 

To know what willing ransom he will give. 

Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen. 
Dau. Not so, I do beseech your majesty. [us. 
Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain with 

Now forth, lord constable and princes all, 

And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. 

[ Hxewnt. 


SCENE VI.— The English camp in Picardy. 


Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting. 


Gow. How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from 
the bridge? 

Flu. I assure you, there is very excellent services 
committed at the bridge. 

Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe ? 

Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as 
Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour 
with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my 
life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is 
not—God be praised and blessed!—any hurt in 
the world; but keeps the pridge most valiantly, 
with excellent discipline. ‘There is an aunchient 
lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very 
conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony ; 
and he is a man of no estimation in the world; but 
I did see him do as gallant service. 

Gow. What do you call him ? 

Flu. He is called Aunchient Pistol. 

Gow. I know him not. 


Enter Pistol. 


Flu. Here is the man. 

Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours: 
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well. 

Flu. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some 
love at his hands. 

Pist. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, 


ACT IIl. 


AINGIEEN BY VY 


SCENE VI. 


ee ee ee SE ee ee ee ee ee ee See 


And of buxoin valour, hath, by cruel fate, 
And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, 
That goddess blind, 

That stands upon the rolling restless stone — 

Flu. By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. For- 
tune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, 
to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is 
painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which 
is the moral of it, that she is turning, and incon- 
stant, and mutability, and variation: and her foot, 
look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which 
rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth, the poet 
makes a most excellent description of it: Fortune 
is an excellent moral. [him ; 

Pist. Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on 
For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a’ be: 
A damned death! 

Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free 

And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate: 

But Exeter hath given the doom of death 

For pax of little price. 

Therefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice: 
And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut 

With edge of penny cord and vile reproach: 

Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite. 

Flu. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand 
your meaning. 

Pist. Why then, rejoice therefore. 

Flu. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to re- 
joice at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I 
would desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and 
put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used. 

Pist. Die and be damn’d! and figo for thy friend- 

Flu. Itis well. - [ship ! 

Pist. The fig of Spain! | Hact. 

Flu. Very good. 

Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal ; 
I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse. 

Flu. 1’ll assure you, a’ uttered as brave words at 
the pridge as you shall seein asummer’s day. But 
it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is 
well, I warrant you, when time is serve. 

Gow. Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now 
and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his 
return into London under the form of a soldier. 
And such fellows are perfect in the great command- 
ers’ names: and they will learn you by rote where 
services were done; at such and such a sconce, at 
such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off 
bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms 
the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in 
the phrase of war, which they trick up with new- 
tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut 
and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foam- 
ing bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be 
thought on. But you must learn to know such 
slanders of the age, or else you may be marvel- 
lously mistook. 

flu. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do per- 
ceive he is not the man that he would gladly make 
show to the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, 
I will tell him my mind. [Drum heard.] Hark you, 


the king is coming, and I must speak with him from | 


the pridge. 


Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Glouces- 
ter, and Soldiers. 
God pless your majesty! 
kK. Hen. How now, Fluellen! camest thou from 
Flu. Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of 
Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: 
the French is gone off, look you; and there is gal- 
Jant and most prave passages; marry, th’ athver- 
sary was have possession of the pridge; but he is 
enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is mas- 
ter of the pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke 
is @ prave man. 


K. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen ? 

Flu. The perdition of th’ athversary hath been 
very great, reasonable great: marry, for my part, 
J think the duke hath lost never a man, but one 
that is like to be executed for robbing a church, 
one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his 
face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and 
flames 0’ fire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it 
is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes 
red; but his nose is executed, and his fire’s out. 

K. Hen. We would have all such offenders so cut 
off: and we give express charge, that in our marches 
through the country, there be nothing compelled 
from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none 
of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful lan- 
guage; for when lenity and cruelty play for a king- 
dom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. 


Tucket. Enter Montjoy. 


Mont. You know me by my habit. 

KK. Hen. Well then I know thee: what shall I 

know of thee? 

Mont. My master’s mind. 

K. Hen. Unfold it. 

Mont. Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry 
of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but 
sleep: advantage is a better soldier than rashness. 
Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, 
but that we thought not good to bruise an injury 
till it were full ripe: now we speak upon our cue, 
and our voice is imperial: England shall repent his 
folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. 
Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which 
must proportion the losses we have borne, the sub- 
jects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; 
which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would 
bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too 
poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of 
his kingdom too faint a number; and for our dis- 
grace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a 
weak and worthless satisfaction. 'To this add defi- 
ance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed 
his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. 
So far my king and master; so much my office. 

K. Hen. What is thy name? I know thy quality. 

Mont. Montjoy. [back, 

K. Hen. Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee 
And tell thy king I do not seek him now; 

But could be willing to march on to Calais 
Without impeachment: for, to say the sooth, 
Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much 

Unto an enemy of craft and vantage, 

My people are with sickness much enfeebled, 

My numbers lessened, and those few I have 
Almost no better than so many French; 

Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, 
I thought upon one pair of English legs 

Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God, 
That I do brag thus! This your air of France 
Hath blown that vice in me; I must repent. 

Go therefore, tell thy master here I am; 

My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, 

My army but a weak and sickly guard; 

Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, 

Though France himself and such another neighbour 
Stand inour way. There’sfor thy labour, Montjoy. 


| Go, bid thy master well advise himself: 
[the bridge ? | 


If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d, 
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood 
Discolour: and so, Montjoy, fare you well. 
The sum of all our answer is but this: 
We would not seek a battle, as we are; | 
Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it: 
So tell your master. 
Mont. I shall deliver so. 
ness. 
Glou. I hope they will not come upon us now. 


375 


Thanks to your high- 
[ Heit. 


ACT Ill. 


Kk. Hen. We are in God’s hand, brother, not in 
theirs. 
March to the bridge; it now draws toward night: 
Beyond the river we ’ll encamp ourselves, 
And on to-morrow bid them march away. [Ezxeunt. 


SCENE VII.— The French camp, near Agincourt. 


Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Ram- 
bures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others. 


Con. Tut! I have the best armour of the world. 
Would it were day! 

Orl. You have an excellent armour; but let my 
horse have his due. 

Con. It is the best horse of Europe. 

Orl. Will it never be morning ? 

Dau. My Lord of Orleans, and my lord high con- 
stable, you talk of horse and armour ? 

Orl. You are as well provided of both as any 
prince in the world. 

Dau. Whatalong nightisthis! I will not change 
my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. 
Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails 
were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les 
narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am 
a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he 
touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more mu- 
sical than the pipe of Hermes. 

Orl. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. 

Dau. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast 
for Perseus: he is pure air and tire; and the dull 
elements of earth and water never appear in him, 
but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts 
him: he is indeed a horse; and all other jades you 
may call beasts. 

Con. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and 
excellent horse. 

Dau. It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like 
the bidding of a monarch and his countenance en- 
forces homage. 

Orl. No more, cousin. 

Dau. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from 
the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, 
vary deserved praise on my palfrey: it is a theme 
as fluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent 
tongues, and my horse is argument for them all: 
*tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and fora 
sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the world, 
familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their par- 
ticular functions and wonder at him. I once writ 
a sonnet in his praise and began thus: ‘ Wonder of 
nature,’— [tress. 

Orl. I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mis- 

Dau. Then did they imitate that which I com- 
posed to my courser, for my horse is my mistress. 

Orl. Your mistress bears well. 

Dau. Me well; which is the prescript praise and 
perfection of a good and particular mistress. 

Con. Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress 
shrewdly shook your back. 

Dau. So perhaps did yours. 

Con. Mine was not bridled. 

Dau. O then belike she was old and gentle; and 
you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose 
off, and in your strait strossers. 

Jon. You have good judgment in horsemanship. 

Dau. Be warned by me, then: they that ride so 
and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had 
rather have my horse to my mistress. 

Con. I had as.lief have my mistress a jade. 

Dau. I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his 
own hair. 

Con. I could make as true a boast as that, if I 
had a sow to my mistress. 

Dau. ‘ Le chien est retourné 4 son propre vomisse- 
ment, et la truie lavée au bourbier:’ thou makest 
use of any thing. 


076 


KING «HEN BY VY. 


SCENE VII. 


Con. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, 
or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose. 

Ram. My lord constable, the armour that I saw in 
your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it ? 

Con. Stars, my lord. 

Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope. 

Con. And yet my sky shall not want. 

Dau. That may be, for you bear a many super- 
tluously, and ’t were more honour some were away. 

Con. Even as your horse bears your praises; who 
would trot as well, were some of your brags dis- 
mounted. 

Dau. Would I were able to load him with his 
desert! Will it never be day? I will trot to-mor- 
Hi a mile, and my way shall be paved with English 

aces. 

Con. I will not say so, for fear I should be faced 
out of my way: but I would it were morning; for 
I would fain be about the ears of the English. 

tum. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty 
prisoners ? 

Con. Youmust first go yourself to hazard, ere you 
have them. 

Dau. "Tis midnight; Ill go arm myself. [Ezit. 

Orl. The Dauphin longs for morning. 

Ram. He longs to eat the English. 

Con. I think he will eat all he kills. [prince. 

Orl. By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant 

Con. Swear by her foot, that she may tread out 
the oath. 

Orl. He is simply the most active gentleman of 
France. 

Con. Doing is activity; and he will still be doing. 

Orl. He never did harm, that I heard of. 

Con. Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep 
that good name still. 

Orl. I know him to be valiant. 

Con. I was told that by one that knows him bet- 
ter than you. 

Orl. What ’s he ? 

Con. Marry, he told me sohimself; and he said he 
cared not who knew it. 

Orl. He needs not; it isno hidden virtue in him. 

Con. By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw 
it but his lackey: *t is a hooded valour; and when it 
appears, it will bate. 

Orl. Ill will never said well. 

Con. I will cap that proverb with ‘ There is flat- 
tery in friendship.’ {his due.’ 

Orl. And I will take up that with ‘ Give the devil 

Con. Well placed: there stands your friend for the 
devil: have at the very eye of that proverb with ‘ A 
pox of the devil.’ 

Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how much 
‘A fool’s bolt is soon shot.’ 

Con. You have shot over. 

Orl. ’T is not the first time you were overshot. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie 
within fifteen hundred paces of your tents. 

Con. Who hath measured the ground ? 

Mess. The Lord Grandpré. 

Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman. 
Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England! 
he longs not for the dawning as we do. 

Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this 
king of England, to mope with his fat-brained fol- 
lowers so far out of his knowledge! 

Con. If the English had any apprehension, they 
would run away. 

Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had any 
intellectual armour, they could never wear such 
heavy head-pieces. 

Ram. That island of England breeds very valiant 
creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable cour- 
age. 


ACT IV. 


AIG HENRY ¥. 


SCENE I. 


Orl. Foolish curs, that run winking into the 
mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads 
crushed like rotten apples! You may as well say, 
that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on 
the lip of a lion. 

Con. Just, just ; and the men do sympathize with 
the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, 
leaving their wits with their wives: and then give 


them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they 
will eat like wolves and fight like devils. eef. 
Orl. Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of 
Con. Then shall we find to-morrow they have only 
stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time 
to arm: come, shall we about it ? 
Orl. It is now two o’clock: but, let me see, by ten 
Weshall have eacha hundred Englishmen.’ [Hxeuwnt. 


PEED? LIV. 


PROLOGUE. 


“nter Chorus. 


Chor. Now entertain conjecture of a time 
When creeping murmur and the poring dark 
Fills the wide vessel of the universe. 

From camp to camp through the foul womb of night 

The hum of either army stilly sounds, 

That the fixed sentinels almost receive 

The secret whispers of each other’s watch: 

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 

Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face; 

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs 

Piercing the night’s dull ear, and from the tents 

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 

With busy hammers closing rivets up, 

Give dreadful note of preparation: 

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, 

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 

Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, 

The contident and over-lusty French 

Do the low-rated English play at dice; 

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night 

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp 

So tediously away. The poor condemned English, 

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires 

Sit patiently and inly ruminate 

The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad 

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats 

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon 

So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold 

The royal captain of this ruin’d band 

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, 

Let him cry ‘ Praise and glory on his head!’ 

For forth he goes and visits all his host, 

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile 

And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. 

Upon his royal face there is no note 

How dread an army hath enrounded him; 

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour 

Unto the weary and all-watched night, 

But freshly looks and over-bears attaint 

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ; 

That every wretch, pining and pale before, 

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: 

A largess universal like the sun 

THis liberal eye doth give to every one, 

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all, 

Behold, as may unworthiness define, 

A little touch of Harry in the night. 

And so our scene must to the battle fly ; 

Where — O for pity !— we shall much disgrace 

With four or five most vile and ragged foils, 

Right ill-disposed in brawl] ridiculous, 

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, 

Minding true things by what their yn ahae 
Lt. 


SCENE I. — The English camp at Agincourt. 


Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester. 


kK, Hen. Gloucester, ’t is true that we are in great 
danger ; 


The greater therefore should our courage be. 
Good morrow, brother Bedford. God pea 
There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 
Would men observingly distil it out. 

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, 
Which is both healthful and good husbandry: 
Besides, they are our outward consciences, 
And preachers to us all, admonishing 

That we should dress us fairly for our end. 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
And make a moral of the devil himself. 


Enter Erpingham. 


Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham: 
A good soft pillow for that good white head 
Were better than a churlish turf of France. _[ter, 
Erp. Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me bet- 
Since I may say ‘ Now lie I like a king.’ [pains 
KK. Hen. "Tis good for men to love their present 
Upon example; so the spirit is eased: 
And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, 
The organs, though defunct and dead before, 
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move, 
With casted slough and fresh legerity. 
Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, 
Commend me to the princes in our camp; 
Do my good morrow to them, and anon 
Desire them all to my pavilion. 
Glou. We shall, my liege. 
Erp. Shall I attend your grace? 
A. Hen. No, my good knight ; 
Go with my brothers to my lords of England: 
I and my bosom must debate a while, 
And then I would no other company. 
Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, nobie Harry ! 
[Hxeunt all but King. 
ik. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st 


oh tn Enter Pistol. 

Pist. Qui va 1a? 

Kk. Hen. A friend. 

Pist. Discuss unto me; art thou officer ? 
Or art thou base, common and popular ? 

K. Hen. Iam a gentleman of a company. 

Pist. Trail’st thou the puissant pike ? 

K. Hen. Even so. What are you? 

Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor. 

kK. Hen. Then you are a better than the king. 

Pist. The king ’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, 
A lad of life, an imp of fame; _ 
Of parents good, of fist most valiant. _ 
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string 
I love the lovely bully. What is thy name? 

K. Hen. Harry le Roy. 

Pist. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of 

Cornish crew ? 

Kk. Hen. No, lam a Welshman. 

Pist. Know’st thou Fluellen ? 

K. Hen. Yes. 

Pist. Tell him, I ll knock his leek about his pate 
Upon Saint Davy’s day. 

kk. Hen. Do not you wear your dagger in your Cap 
that day, lest he knock that about yours. 

v7 


ACT DY, 


KING HENEY YF. 


SCENE I. 


Pist. Art thou his friend ? 

K,. Hen. And his kinsman too. 

Pist. The tigo for thee, then! 

K. Hen. I thank you: God be with you! 
Pist. My name is Pistol call’d. 


[ Heit. 
K. Hen. It sorts well with your fierceness. 


Enter Fluellen and Gower. 


Gow. Captain Fluellen! 

Flu. So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. 
It is the greatest admiration in the universal world, 
when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws 
of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains 
but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you 
shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle 
taddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp; I war- 
rant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, 
and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the 
sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be other- 
wise. 

Gow. Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all 
night. 

Flu. If the enemy is an ass and a foo! and a prat- 
ing coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should 
also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating 
coxcomb ? in your own conscience, now ? 

Gow. I will speak lower. 

Flu. I pray you and beseech you that you will. 

[ Exeunt Gower and Fluellen. 

K. Hen. Though it appear a little out of fashion, 
There is much care and valour in this Welshman. 


Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander 
Court, and Michael Williams. 


Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morn- 
ing which breaks yonder ? 


Bates. I think it be: but we have no great cause. 


to desire the approach of day. 

Will. We see yonder the beginning of the day, 
but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who 
goes there ? 

A. Hen. A friend. 

Will. Under what captain serve you ? 

K. Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. 

Will. A good old commander and a most kind 
gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our 
estate ? 

kK. Hen. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that 
look to be washed off the next tide. 

Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king ? 

K, Hen. No; nor it is not meet he should. For, 
though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a 
man, aS I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to 
me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all 
his senses have but human conditions: his cere- 
monies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a 
man; and though his affections are higher mounted 
than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with 
the like wing. Therefore when he sees reason of 
fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the 
same relish as ours are: yet, in reason, no man 
should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest 
he, by showing it, should dishearten his army. 

Bates. He may show what outward courage he 
will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could 
wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I 
would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so 
we were quit here. 

K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience 
of the king: I think he would not wish himself any 
where but where he is. 

Bates. Then I would he were here alone: so should 
he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s 
lives saved. 

KK. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill, to 
wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to 


feel other men’s minds: methinks I could not die | 


378 


any where so contented as in the king’s company ; 
his cause being just and his quarrel honourable. 

Will. That ’s more than we know. 

Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after; 
for we know enough, if we know we are the king’s 
subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to 
the king wipes the crime of it out of us. 

Will. But if the cause be not good, the king him- 
self hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those 
legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, 
shall join together at the latter day and cry all ‘We 
died at such a place;’ some swearing, some crying 
for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor be- 
hind them, some upon the debts they owe, some 
upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there 
are few die well that die in a battle; for how can 
they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is 
their argument? Now, if these men do not die 
well, it will be a black matter for the king that led 
them to it; whom to disobey were against all pro- 
portion of subjection. 

Kk. Hen. So, if a son that is by his father sent 
about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the 
sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, 
should be imposed upon his father that sent him: 
or if a servant, under his master’s command trans- 
porting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and 
die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call 
the business of the master the author of the ser- 
vant’s damnation: but this is not so: the king is 
not bound to answer the particular endings of his 
soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his 
servant; for they purpose not their death, when 
they purpose their services. Besides, there is no 
king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to 
the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all 
unspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on 
them the guilt of premeditated and contrived mur- 
der; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken 
seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bul- 
wark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of 
peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men 
have defeated the law and outrun native punish- 
ment, though they can outstrip men, they have no 
wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is his 
vengeance; so that here men are punished for be- 
fore-breach of the king’s laws in now the king’s 
quarrel: where they feared the death, they have 
borne life away; and where they would be safe, 
they perish: then if they die unprovided, no more 
is the king guilty of their damnation than he was 
before guilty of those impieties for the which they 
are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; 
but every subject’s soul is his own. ‘Therefore 
should every soldier in the wars do as every sick 
man in his bed, wash every mote out of his con- 
science: and dying so, death is to him advantage; 
or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein 
such preparation was gained; and in him that 
escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God 
so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see 
His greatness and to teach others how they should 
prepare. 

Will. "Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill 
upon his own head, the king is not to answer it. 

Bates. I do not desire he should answer for me; 
and yet I determine to fight lustily for him. 

K. Hen. 1 myself heard the king say he would 
not be ransomed. 

Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully ; 
but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, 
and we ne’er the wiser. 

K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his 
word after. 

Will. You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot 
out of an elder-gun, that a poor and private dis- 
pleasure can do against a monarch! you may as 


AGT IV. 


well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning 
in his face with a peacock’s feather. Youll never 
trust his word after! come, ’t is a foolish saying. 

kK. Hen. Your reproof is something too round: 
I should be angry with you, if the time were con- 
venient. 

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live. 

K. Hen. I embrace it. 

Will. How shall I know thee again ? 

kK. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will 
wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest 
ucknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel. 

Will. Here’s my glove: give me another of thine. 

K. Hen. There. 

Will. This will I also wear in my cap: if ever 
thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, ‘ This 
is my glove,’ by this hand, I will take thee a box 
on the ear. 

K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it. 

Will. Thou darest as well be hanged. 

K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in 
the king’s company. 

Will. Keep thy word: fare thee well. 

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends: 
we have French quarrels enow, if you could tell 
how to reckon. 

K. Hen. Indeed, the French may lay twenty 
French crowns to one, they will beat us; for they 
bear them on their shoulders: but it is no English 
treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the 
king himself will be a clipper. [Hxeunt Soldiers. 
Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls, 

Our debts, our careful wives, 

Our children and our sins lay on the king! 

We must bear all. O hard condition, 

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath 
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel 

But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s-ease 
Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! 

And what have kings, that privates have not too, 
Save ceremony, save general ceremony ? 

And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ? 

What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more 

Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? 

What are thy rents ? what are thy comings in ? 

O ceremony, show me but thy worth! 

What is thy soul of adoration ? 

Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, 
Creating awe and fear in other men ? 

Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d 

Than they in fearing. 

What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, 
But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, 
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure! 

Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out 

With titles blown from adulation ? 

Willit give place to flexure and low bending? [knee, 
Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s 
Command the health of it? No,thou proud dream, 
That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose ; 

Lam a king that find thee, and I know 

*T is not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, 

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, 

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, 

The farced title running *fore the king, 

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp 

That beats upon the high shore of this world, 

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, 

Not all these, laid in bed majestical, 

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, 

Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind 

Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread ; 
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, 

But, like a lackey, from the rise to set 

Sweats in the eye of Phebus and all night 

Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, 

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, 


KING HENRY VJ. 


SCENE Il. 


And follows so the ever-running year, 

With profitable labour, to his grave: 

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, 

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, 
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. 

The slave, a member of the country’s peace, 
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots 

What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, 
Whose hours the peasant best advantages. 


Enter Erpingham. 


Kirp. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence. 

Seek through your camp to find you. 
. Hen. Good old knight, 
Collect them all together at my tent: 
J ll be before thee. 
Tp. Ishall do’t, my lord.  [Hzit. 

KK. Hen. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; 
Possess them not with fear; take from them now 
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers 
Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day,O Lord, 
O, not to-day, think not upon the fault 
My father made in compassing the crown! 
I Richard’s body have interred new; 
And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears 
Than from it issued forced drops of blood: 
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, 
Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up 
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built 
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests 
Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; 
Though all that I can do is nothing worth, 
Since that my penitence comes after all, 
Imploring pardon. 


Enter Gloucester. 
Glou. My liege! 
Kk. Hen. My brother Gloucester’s voice ? 
I know thy errand, I will go with thee: 
The day, my friends and all things stay for me. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.— The French camp. 


Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and 
others. 


Orl. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords! 
Dau. Montez 4 cheval! My horse! varlet! la- 
Orl. O brave spirit ! [quais! ha! 
Dau. Via! les eaux et la terre. 

Orl. Rien puis? lair et le feu. 

Dau. Ciel, cousin Orleans. 


Enter Constable. 


Now, my lord constable! 
Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service 
neigh ! [hides, 
Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their 
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, 
And dout them with superfluous courage, ha! 
Ram. What, will you have them weep our horses’ 
blood ? 
How shall we, then, behold their natural tears ? 


Ay; 


Enter Messenger. 


Mess. The English are embattled, you French 
peers. [horse ! 
Con. To horse, you gallant princes! straight to 
Do but behold yon poor and starved band, 
And your fair show shall suck away their souls, 
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. 
There is not work enough for all our hands; 
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins 
To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, 
That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, 
And sheathe for lackof sport: let us but blowon them 
The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. 
’T is positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords. 


379 


ACTA: 
That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants, 
Who in unnecessary action swarm 

About our squares of battle, were enow 

To purge this field of such a hilding foe, 
Though we upon this mountain’s basis by 
Took stand for idle speculation: 

But that our honours must not. What’s to say? 
A very little little let us do, 

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound 
The tucket sonance and the note to mount; 

For our approach shall so much dare the field 
That England shall couch down in fear and yield. 


Enter Grandpré. 


Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords: of 
France? 
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, 
Il-favouredly become the morning field: 
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, 
And our air shakes them passing scornfully: 
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host 
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps: 
The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, [ jades 
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor 
Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips, 
The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, 
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit 
Lies foul with chew’d grass, still and motionless ; 
And their executors, the knavish crows, 
Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. 
Description cannot suit itself in words 
To demonstrate the life of such a battle 
In life so lifeless as it shows itself. 
Con. They have said their prayers, and they stay 
for death. [suits 
Dau. Shall we go send them dinners and fresh 
And give their fasting horses provender, 
And after fight with them ? 
Con. I stay but for my guidon: to the field! 
I will the banner from a trumpet take, 
And use it for my haste. Come, come, away! 
The sun is high, and we outwear the day. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE III.—The English camp. 


Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, | 


with all his host: Salisbury and Westmoreland. 
Glou. Where is the king ? 
Bed. The king himself is rode to view their battle. 
West. Of fighting men they have full three-score 
thousand. [fresh. 
Exe. There’s five to one; besides, they all are 
Sal. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds. 
God be wi’ you, princes all; Ill to my charge: 
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, 
Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, 
My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, 
And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu! 
Led. Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck 
go with thee! 
Exe. Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day: 
And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it 
For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour. 
; [| Hxit Salisbury. 
Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness; 


Princely in both. 
Enter the King. 

West. O that we now had here 
But one ten thousand of those men in England 
That do no work to-day! 

K,. Hen. What’s he that wishes so ? 
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: 
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow 
To do our country loss; and if to live, 

The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 


380 


KING HENEY VF. 


SCENE III. 


Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires: 

But if it be a sin to covet honour, 

I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: 
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour 
As one man more, methinks, would share from me 
For the best hope I have. O,do not wish one more! 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 
That he which hath no stomach to this f ht, 

Let him depart; his passport shall be made 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse: 

We would not die in that man’s company 

That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian: 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age. 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 

And say ‘ To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’ 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his sears, 
And say ‘ These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ 
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 

But he ’ll remember with advantages 

What feats he did that day: then shall our names, 
Familiar in his mouth as household words, 

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. 

This story shall the good man teach his son ; 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered ; 

We few,.we happy few, we band of brothers ; 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his condition: 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day. 


Re-enter Salisbury. 


Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with 
The French are bravely in their battles set, [speed, 
And will with all expedience charge on us. 

kK. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds be so. 

West. Porish the man whose mind is backward 

now! 

K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from 

England, coz? [alone, 

West. God’s will! my liege, would you and 1 
Without more help, could fight this royal battle! 

Kk. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thou- 

sand men; 
Which likes me better than to wish us one. 
You know your places: God be with you all! 


Tucket. Enter Montjoy. 
Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, King 


arry, 
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, 
Before thy most assured overthrow: 
For certainly thou art so near the gulf, 
Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, 
The constable.desires thee thou wilt mind 
Thy followers of repentance; that their souls 
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire [bodies 
From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor 
Must lie and fester. | 
KK. Hen. Who hath sent thee now ? 
Mont. The Constable of France. 
KK. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back: 
Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones. 
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus ? 


ACT IV. 


The man that once did sell the lion’s skin 

While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. 
A many of our bodies shall no doubt 

‘ind native graves; upon the which, I trust, 

Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work: 

And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 
They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet 


them, 
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven; 
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime, 
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. 
Mark then abounding valour in our English, 
That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, 
Break out into a second course of mischief, 
Killing in relapse of mortality. 
Let me speak proudly; tell the constable 
We are but warriors for the working-day ; 
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d 
With rainy marching in the painful field ; 
There ’s not a piece of feather in our host — 
Good argument, [I hope we will not fly — 
And time hath worn us into slovenry: 
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim; 
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night 
They ’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck 
The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads 
And turn them out of service. If they do this,— 
As, if God please, they shall,— my ransom then 
Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour ; 
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald; 
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints; 
Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, 


Shall yield them little, tell the constable. [well: 
Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee 
Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [ Exit. 


K. Hen. I fear thou It once more come again for 


ransom. 
Enter York. 


York. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg 
The leading of the vaward. 
kK. Hen. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, 
march away: 
And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day! 
[EHxeunt. 
SCENE IV.—The field of battle. 


Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Sol- 
dier, and Boy. 

Pist. Yield, cur! 

Fy. Sol. Je pense que vous étes gentilhomme de 
bonne qualité. 

Pist. Qualtitie calmie custure me! 
gentleman ? what is thy name? discuss. 

Fy. Sol. O Seigneur Dieu! 

Pist. O Signieur Dew should be a gentleman: 
Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark ; 

O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox, 
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me 
Egregious ransom. 

fr. Sol. O, prenez miséricorde! ayez pitié de moi! 

Pist. Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys; 
Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat 
In drops of crimson blood. 

Fr. Sol. Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de 

Pist. Brass, cur! [ton brass ? 
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat, 
Offer’st me brass ? 

Fr. Sol. O pardonnez moi! 

Pist. Say’st thou me so? is that a ton of moys? 
Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French 
What Gpae name. 

Boy. Ecoutez: comment étes-vous appelé ? 

Fr. Sol. Monsieur le Fer. 

Boy. He says his name is Master Fer. 

Pist. Master Fer! Ill fer him, and firk him, and 
ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him. 


Alarum. 


Art thou a | 


KING VHENEY *Vi 


SCENE V. 


’ Boy. I do not know the French for fer, and fer- 
ret, and firk. 

Pist. Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat. 

Fr, Sol. Que dit-il, monsieur ? 

Boy. 11 me commande de vous dire que vous 
faites vous prét; car ce soldat ici est disposé tout A 
cette heure de couper votre gorge. 

Pist. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy, 

Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; 
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword. 

Fr, Sol. O, je vous supplie, pour l’ amour de Dieu, 
me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne 
maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux 
cents écus. 

Pist. What are his words ? 

Boy. He prays you to save his life: he is a gen- 
tleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will 
give you two hundred crowns. 

Pist. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I 
The crowns will take. 

Fr. Sol. Petit monsieur, que dit-il ? 

Boy. Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de 
pardonner aucun prisonnier, néanmoins, pour les 
écus que vous |’ avez promis, il est content de vous 
donner la liberté, le franchisement. 

Fr. Sol. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille 
remercimens; et je m’estime heureux que je suis 
tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le 
plus brave, vaillant, et trés distingué seigneur d’ 

Pist. Expound unto me, boy. [Angleterre. 

Boy. He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand 
thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath 
fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most 
brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of Eng- 
land. [Follow me! 

Pist. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. 

Boy. Suivez-vous le grand capitaine. [EHxeunt 
Pistol, and French Soldier.] I did never know so 
full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the 


| saying is true, ‘The empty vessel makes the 


greatest sound.’ Bardolph and Nym had ten times 
more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old play, 
that, every one may pare his nails with a wooden 
dagger; and they are both hanged; and so would 
this be, if he durst steal any thing adventurously. 
I must stay with the lackeys, with the luggage of 
our camp: the French might have a good prey of 
us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it 
but boys. [ Hatt. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin, 
and Rambures. 


Con. O diable! 
Orl. O seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu ! 
Dau. Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all! 
Reproach and everlasting shame 
Sits mocking in our plumes. O méchante fortune! 
Do not run away. [A short alarun. 
Con. Why, all our ranks are broke. 
Dau. O perdurable shame! let ’s stab ourselves. 
Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for ? 
Orl. Is this the king we sent to for his ransom ? 
Bour. Shame and eternal shame, nothing but 
shame! 
Let us die in honour: once more back again ; 
And he that will not follow Bourbon now, 
Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand, 
Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door 
Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog, 
His fairest daughter is contaminated. 
Con. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now! 
Let us on heaps go offer up our lives. 
Orl. We are enow yet living in the field 
To smother up the English in our throngs, 
If any order might be thought upon. 


381 


A CTs bY). 


Bour. The devil take order now! I’ to the 
throng : 
Let life be short ; else shame will be too aa 
| Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.—Another part of the field. 


Alarums. Enter King Henry and forces, Exeter, 
and others. 


K. Hen. Well have we done, thrice valiant coun- | 
trymen: 
But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field. 

Exe. The Duke of York commends him to your 

majesty. [this hour | 

K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle? thrice within | 
I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting ; 
From helmet to the spur all blood he was. 

Exe. In which array, brave soldier, doth he le, 
Larding the plain; and by his bloody side, 
Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, 

The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies. 

Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled over, 
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep’d, 
And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes 
That bloodily did yawn upon his face; 

And cries aloud ‘ Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk! 

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven: 
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, 

As in this glorious and well-foughten field 

We kept together in our chivalry!’ 

Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up: 
He smiled me in the face, raught me his hand, 
And, with a feeble gripe, says ‘ Dear my lord, 
Commend my service to my sovereign.’ 

So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck | 
He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips; 
And so espoused to death, with blood he seal’d | 
A testament of noble-ending love. | 
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced 
Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d; | 
But I had not so much of man in me, 
And all my mother came into mine eyes | 
And gave me up to tears. 
K. Hen. I blame you not; | 
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound 
With mistful eyes, or they willissue too. [Alarum. 
But, hark! what new alarum is this same ? 

The French have reinforced their scatter’d men: | 
Then every soldier kill his prisoners: 

Give the word through. 


[ Hxewnt. 
SCENE VII.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Fluellen and Gower. 


Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage! ’t is expressly | 
against the law of arms: ’tis as arrant a piece of 
knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your 
conscience, now, is it not ? 

Gow. ’T is certain there’s not a boy left alive; 
and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle 
ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned 
and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; 
wherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused 
every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tisa 
gallant king! 

Flu. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain 
Gower. What call you the town’s name where 
Alexander the Pig was born! 

Gow. Alexander the Great. 

Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig great? the pig, 
or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the 
magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the 
phrase is a little variations. 

Gow. I think Alexander the Great was born in 
Macedon: his father was called Philip of Macedon, 
as I take it. 

Flu. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander | 

882 


KING HENRY V. 


| for there is figures in all things. 


| Alarum. 


SCENE VII. 


is porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in the 
maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the 
comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, 
that the situations, look you, is both alike. There 
is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover 
a river at Monmouth: it is called Wye at Mon- 


| mouth; but it is out of my prains what is the 


name of the other river; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike 
as my fingers is to my fingers, and there 1s salmons 
in both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry 
of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well ; 
Alexander, God 
knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, 
and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, 
and: his displeasures, and his indignations, and 


_also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in 


his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best 


friend, Cleitus. 


Gow. Our king is not like him in that: he never 


killed any of his friends. 


Flu. It is not well done, mark you now, to take 
the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and 


_ finished. I speak but in the figures and compari- 


sons of it: as Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, 
being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Mon. 


mouth, being in his right wits and his good judg- 
ments, turned away the fat knight with the great 
_belly-doublet: he was full of jests, and gipes, and 
_knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name. 


Gow. Sir John Falstaff. 
Flu. That is he: 1’ll tell you there is good mei 


porn at Monmouth. 


Gow. Here comes his majesty. 


Enter King Henry and forces; War- 
wick, Gloucester, Exeter, and others. 


kK. Hen. I was not angry since I came to France 
Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; 
Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill: 
If they will fight with us, bid them come down, 
Or void the field; they do offend our sight: 
If they ’ll do neither, we will come to them, 
And make them skirr away, as swift as stones 
Enforced from the old Assyrian slings: 
Besides, we 711 cut the throats of those we have, 
And not a man of them that we shall take 
Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so. 


Enter Montjoy. 


Exe. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege. 
Glo. His eyes are humbler than they used to be. 
k. Hen. How now! what means this, herald ? 
know’st thou not 
That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom ? 
Comest thou again for ransom ? 
Mont. No, great king: 
I come to thee for charitable license, 
That we may wander o’er this bloody field 
To look our dead, and then to bury them; 
To sort our nobles from our common men. 
For many of our princes— woe the while! — 
Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood ; 
So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs 
In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds 
Fret fetlock deep in gore and with wild rage 
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters, 
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great king, 
To view the field in safety and dispose 
Of their dead bodies! 
ik. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald, 
I know not if the day be ours or no; ~ 
For yet a many of your horsemen peer 
And gallop o’er the field. 
Mont. The day is yours. 
KK. Hen. Praised be God, and not our strength, for 
What is this castle call’d that stands hard by? [it! 
Mont. They call it Agincourt. 


ACT IV. 


i. Hen. Then call we this the field of Agincourt, 
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. 

Flu. Your grandfather of famous memory, an ’t 
please your majesty, and your great-uncle Edward 
the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the 
chronicles,fought a most prave pattle here in France. 

Kk. Hen. They did, Fluellen. 

Flu. Your majesty says very true: if your majes- 
ties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good 
service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing 
leeks in their Monmouth caps ; which, your majesty 
know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the 
service; and I do believe your majesty takes no 
scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day. 

kK. Hen. I wear it for a memorable honour ; 

For [am Welsh, you know, good countryman. 

Fiu. All the water in Wye cannot wash your 
majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell 
you that: God pless it and preserve it, as long as it 
pleases his grace, and his majesty too! 

it, Hen. Thanks, good my countryman. 

Flu. By Jeshu, Iam your majesty’s countryman, L 
care not who know it ; I will confess it to all the ’orld: 
I need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised 
be God, so long as your majesty is an honest man. 

K. Hen. God keep me so! Our heralds go with 
Bring me just notice of the numbers dead {him : 
On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither. 
[Points to Williams. Hxeunt Heralds with Montjoy. 

Exe. Soldier, you must come to the king. [cap? 

JI. Hen. Soldier,why wearest thou that glove in thy 

Will. An’t please your majesty, ’tis the gage of 
one that I should fight withal, if he be alive. 

kK. Hen. An Englishman ? 

Will. An’t please your majesty, a rascal that 
swaggered with me last night; who, if alive and 
ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to 
take him a box o’ th’ ear: or if I can see my glove 
in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he 
would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly. 

cK. Hen. What think you, Captain Fluellen ? is it 
fit this soldier keep his oath ? 

Flu. He is a craven and a villain else, an ’t please 
your majesty, in my conscience. 

Kk. Hen. It may be his enemy is a gentleman of 
great sort, quite from the answer of his degree. 

Flu. Though he be as good a gentleman as the 
devil is,as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is neces- 
sary, look your grace, that he keep his vow and his 
oath: if he be perjured, see you now, his reputation 
is aS arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his 
black shoe trod upon God’s ground and his earth, 
in my conscience, la! 

kK. Hen. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou 
meetest the fellow. | 

Will. So I will, my liege, as I live. 

K. Hen. Who servest thou under ? 

Will. Under Captain Gower, my liege. 

Flu. Gower is a good captain, and is good knowl- 
edge and literatured in the wars. 

Kk. Hen. Call him hither to me, soldier. 

Will. I will, my liege. [ Hxit. 

K. Hen. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour 
for me and stick it in thy cap: when Alencon and 
myself were down together, I plucked this glove 
from his helm: if any man challenge this, he isa 
friend to Alengon, and an enemy to our person; if 
thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou 
dost me love. 

ilu. Your grace doo’s me as great honours as can 
be desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain 
see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find 
himself aggriefed at this glove; that is all; but I 
would fain see it once, an please God of his grace 
that I might:see. 

K. Hen. Knowest thou Gower ? 

Flu. He is my dear friend, an please you. 


FOUN GREE ME YR V. 


SCENE VIII. 


KK. Hen. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him 
to my tent. 
Flu. I will fetch him. [ Hai. 
KK. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, and my brother 
Follow Fluellen closely at the heels: [Gloucester, 
The glove which I have given him for a favour 
May haply purchase him a box 0’ th’ ear; 
It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should ; 
Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick : 
if that the soldier strike him, as I judge 
By his blunt bearing he will keep his word, 
Some sudden mischief may arise of it; 
For I do know Fluellen valiant 
And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder, 
And quickly will return an injury: 
Follow, and see there be no harm between them. 
Go you with me, uncle of Exeter. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VIII. — Before King Henry’s pavilion. 


Enter Gower and Williams. 
Will. I warrant it is to knight you, captain. 


Enter Fluellen. 


Flu. God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I be- 
seech you now, come apace to the king: there is 
more good toward you peradventure than is in your 
knowledge to dream of. 

Will. Sir, know you this glove? [glove. 

Flu. Know the glove! I know the glove is a 

Will. I know this; and thus I challenge it. 

[ Strikes him. 

Flu. ’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the 
universal world, or in France, or in England! 

Gow. How now, sir! you villain! 

Will. Do you think I 711 be forsworn ? 

Flu. Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give trea- 
son his payment into plows, I warrant you. 

Will. I am no traitor. 

Flu. That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in 
his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he’s a friend 
of the Duke Alengon’s. 


Enter Warwick and Gloucester. 


War. How now, how now! what’s the matter ? 

Flu. My Lord of Warwick, here is—praised be 
God for it!—a most contagious treason come to 
light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s 
day. Here is his majesty. 


Enter King Henry and Exeter. 


Kk. Hen. How now! what’s the matter ? 

Flu. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, 
look your grace, has struck the glove which your 
majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon. 

Will. My liege, this was my glove; here is the fel- 
low of it; and he that I gave it to in change prom- 
ised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, 
if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, 
and I have been as good as my word. 

Flu. Your majesty hear now, saving your majes- 
ty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, 
lousy knave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me 
testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that 
this is the glove of Alengon, that your majesty is 
give me; in your conscience, now ? 

K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is 
the fellow of it. 
°T was I, indeed, thou promised’st to strike ; 

And thou hast given me most bitter terms. 

Flu. An please your majesty, let his neck answer 
for it, if there is any martial law in the world. 

Kk. Hen. How canst thou make me satisfaction ? 

Will. All offences, my iord, come from the heart : 
never came any from mine that might offend your 

K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse. (majesty. 

Will. Your majesty came not like yourself: you 


383 


ACT V. 


appeared to me but as a common man; witness the 
night, your garments, your lowliness; and what 
your highness suffered under that shape, I beseech 
you take it for your own fault and not mine: for had 
you been as I took you for, 1 made no offence ; there- 
tore, I beseech your highness, pardon me. [crowns, 

K. Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with 

And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; 
And wear it for an honour in thy cap 
Till I do challenge it. Give him the crowns: 
And, captain, you must needs be friends with him. 

Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has 
mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve 
pence for you; and I pray you to serve Got, and 
keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, 
ana dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better 
for you. 

Will. I will none of your money. 

Flu. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will 
serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore 
should you be so pashful ? your shoes is not so good: 
‘tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it. 


Enter an English Herald. 


Kk. Hen. Now, herald, are the dead number’d ? 
Her. Here is the number of the slaughtered 
French. [uncle ? 
K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken, 
Exe. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king; 
John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt: 
Of other lords and barons, knights and squires, 
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. 
K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand 
French 
That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number, 
And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead 
One hundred twenty-six: added to these, 
Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, 
Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which, 
Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights: 
So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, 
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries ; 


KING CHENEY SY, 


SCENE I. 


The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, 
And gentlemen of blood and quality. 
The names of those their nobles that lie dead: 
Charles Delabreth, high constable of France: 
Jacques of Chatillon, admiral of France; 
The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures ; 
Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard 
Dolphin, 
John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant, 
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy, 
And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls, 
Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, 
Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. 
Here was a royal fellowship of death! 
Where is the number of our English dead ? 
[Herald shows him another paper. 

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, 
Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: 
None else of name; and of all other men 
But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here; 
And not to us, but to thy arm alone, 
Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem, 
But in plain shock and even play of battle, 
Was ever known so great and little loss 
On one part and on the other? Take it, God, 
For it is none but thine! 

Exe. ’T is wonderful! 

Kt. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village: 
And be it death proclaimed through our host 
To boast of this or take that praise from God 
Which is his only. 

Flu. Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to 
tell how many is killed ? 

K. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledg- 
That God fought for us. {ment, 
Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great good. 

Kk. Hen. Do we all holy rites; 
Let there be sung ‘ Non nobis’ and ‘ Te Deum,’ 
The dead with charity enclosed in clay: 
And then to Calais; and to England then; 
Where ne’er from France arrived more nap men. 
eunt. 


Wa eh Boas 


PROLOGUE. 


Enter Chorus. 
Chor. YVouchsafe to those that have not read the 


story, 

That I may prompt them: and of such as have, 

I humbly pray them to admit the excuse 

Of time, of numbers and due course of things, 
Which cannot in their huge and proper life 

Be here presented. Now we bear the king 
Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, 
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts 
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach 
Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, 
Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d 
Which like a mighty whiftler ’fore the king ___[sea, 
Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, 

And solemnly see him set on to London. 

So swift a pace hath thought that even now 

You may imagine him upon Blackheath; 

Where that his lords desire him to have borne 
His bruised helmet and his bended sword 

Before him through the city: he forbids it, 

Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride ; 
Giving full trophy, signal and ostent 

(uite from himself to God. But now behold, 

In the quick forge and working-house of thought, 
How London doth pour out her citizens! 

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, 


384 


Like to the senators of the antique Rome 

With the plebeians swarming at their heels, 

Go forth and fetch their conquering Ceesar in: 

As, by a lower but loving likelihood, 

Were now the general of our gracious empress, 

As in good time he may, from Ireland coming, 
Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, 

How many would the peaceful city quit, 

To welcome him! much more, and much more cause, 
Did they this Harry. Now in London place him; 
As yet the lamentation of the French 

Invites the King of England’s stay at home, 

The emperor’s coming in behalf of France, . 

To order peace between them; and omit 

All the occurrences, whatever chanced, 

Till Harry’s back-return again to France: 

There must we bring him; and myself have play’d 
The interim, by remembering you ’tis past. 

Then brook abridgement, and your eyes advance, 
After your thoughts, straight back again to France. 


[ Exit. 
SCENE I.—France. The English camp. 
Enter Fluellen and Gower. 
Gow. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your 
leek to-day? Saint Davy’s day is past. 
Flu. There is occasions and causes why and where- 


fore in all things: I will tell you, asse my friend, 
Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, 


AETV. 


pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself and 
all the world know to be no petter than a fellow, 
look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and 
prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and 
bid me eat my leek: it was in a place where I could 
not breed no contention with him: but I will be so 
bold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, 
and then I will tell hin a little piece of my desires. 


Enter Pistol. 


ns Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey- 
cock. 

Flu. °Tis no matter for his swellings nor his 
turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! 
you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you! 

Pist. Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, 

base Trojan, 
To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web ? 
Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek. 

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, 
at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to 
eat, look you, this leek: because, look you, you do 
not love it, nor your affections and your appetites 
and your digestions doo’s not agree with it, I would 
desire you to eat it. 

Pist. Not for Cadwallader and all his goats. 

Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] 
Will you be so good, scauld knave, as eat it ? 

Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. 

Flu. You say very true, scauld knave, when God’s 
will is: I will desire you to live in the mean time, 
and eat your victuals: come, there is sauce for it. 
[Strikes him.] You called me yesterday mountain- 
squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low 
degree. I pray you, fall to: if you can mock a leek, 
you can eat a leek. 

Gow. Enough, captain: you have astonished him. 

Flu. I say, I will make him eat some part of my 
leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray 
you; it is good for your green wound and your 
ploody coxcomb. 

Pist. Must I bite ? 

Flu. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of 
question too, and ambiguities. 

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge; 
I eat and eat, I swear — 

Flu. Eat, I pray you: will you have some more 
sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to 
Swear by. 

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat. 

Flu. Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. 
Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good 
for your broken coxcomb. When you take occa- 
sions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at 
’em; that is all. . 

Pist. Good. 

Flu. Ay, leeks is good: hold you, there is a groat 
to heal your pate. 

Pist. Me a groat: 

Flu. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; 
or I have another leek in my pocket, which you 
shall eat. 

Pist. I take thy groat in earnest of revenge. 

Flu. If I owe you anything, I will pay you in 
cudgels: you shall be a woodmonger, and buy noth- 
ing of me but cudgels. God b’ wi’ you, and keep 
you, and heal your pate. [ Hatt. 

Pist. All hell shall stir for this. 

Gow. Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly 
knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, 
begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a 
memorable trophy of predeceased valour and dare 
not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I 
have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentle- 
man twice or thrice. You thought, because he 
could not speak English in the native garb, he could 
not therefore handle an English cugdel: you find it 


25 


KING HENRY YJ. 


SCENE II. 


otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction 
teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well. 
Exit. 
Past: eget Fortune play the huswife iu me 
now tf 

News have I, that my Nell is dead i’ the spital 

Of malady of France; 

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.’ 

Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs 

Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd Ill turn, 

And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand. 

To England will I steal, and there Ill steal: 

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars, 

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. [ Kvit. 


SCENE II.— France. 


Enter, at one door, King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Glou- 
cester, Warwick, Westmoreland, und other Lords; 
at another, the French King, Queen Isabel, the 
Princess Katharine, Alice and other Ladies; the 
Duke of Burgundy, and his train. 


A royal palace. 


K. Hen. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are 
Unto our brother France, and to our sister, [met! 
Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes 
To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine; 
And, as a branch and member of this royalty, 

By whom this great assembly is contrived, 
We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy; 
And, princes French, and peers, health to you all! 

Fr. King. Right joyous are we to behold your 
Most worthy brother England; fairly met:  [face, 
So are you, princes English, every one. 

Q. Isa. So happy be the issue, brother England, 
Of this good day and of this gracious meeting, 

AS we are now glad to behold your eyes; 

Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them 
Against the French, that met them in their bent, 
The fatal balls of murdering basilisks: 

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope, 

Have lost their quality, and that this day 

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. 

Kk. Hen. To ery amen to that, thus we appear. 

Q. Isa. You English princes all, I do salute you.. 

Bur. My duty to you both, on equal love, 

Great Kings of France and England! That I have 
labour’d, 

With all my wits, my pains and strong endeavours, 

To bring your most imperial majesties 

Unto this bar and royal interview, 

Your mightiness on both parts best can witness. 

Since then my office hath so far prevail’d 

That, face to face and royal eye to eye, 

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me, 

If I demand, before this royal view, 

What rub or what impediment there is, 

Why that the naked, poor and mangled Peace, 

Dear nurse of arts, plenties and joyful births, 

Should not in this best garden of the world 

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage ? 

Alas, she hath from France too long been chased, 

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps, 

Corrupting in its own fertility. 

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, 

Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d, 

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, 

Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas 

The darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory 

Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts 

That should deracinate such savagery ; 

The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth 

The freckled cowslip, burnet and green clover, 

Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, 

Conceives by idleness and nothing teems 

But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, 

Losing both beauty and utility. 

And as our vineyards, fallows, meads and hedges, 


385 


Ae THY. KING 
Defective in their natures, grow to wildness, 
Even so our houses and ourselves and children 
Have lost, or do not learn for want of time, 
The sciences that should become our country ; 
But grow like savages,—as soldiers will 

That nothing do but meditate on blood,— 

To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire 
And everything that seems unnatural. 

Which to reduce into our former favour 

You are assembled: and my speech entreats 
That I may know the let, why gentle Peace 
Should not expel these inconveniences 

And bless us with her former qualities. [peace, 

K. Hen. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the 
Whose want gives growth to the imperfections 
Which you have cited, you must buy that peace 
With full accord to all our just demands; 

Whose tenours and particular effects 
You have enscheduled briefly in your hands. 

Bur. The king hath heard them; to the which as 
There is no answer made. [yet 
K. Hen. Well then the peace, 

Which you before so urged, lies in his answer. 

Fr. King. I have but with a cursorary eye 
O’erglanced the articles: pleaseth your grace 
To appoint some of your council presently 
To sit with us once more, with better heed 
To re-survey them, we will suddenly 
Pass our accept and peremptory answer. 

KK. Hen. Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter, 
And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, 
Warwick and Huntingdon, go with the king ; 

And take with you free power to ratify, 
Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best 

Shall see advantageable for our dignity, 
Anything in or out of our demands, 

And we ’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister, 
Go with the princes, or stay here with us? . 

Q. Isa. Our gracious brother, I will go with them : 
Haply a woman’s voice may do some good, 

When articles too nicely urged be stood on. 

KK. Hen. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here 

with us: 
She is our capital demand, comprised 
Within the fore-rank of our articles. 

Q. Isa. She hath good leave. 

[Hxeunt all except Henry, Katharine, and Alice. 

Kk. Hen. Fair Katharine, and most fair, 
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms 
Such as will enter at a lady’s ear 
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart ? 

Kath. Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot 
speak your England. 

kk. Hen. O fair Katharine, if you will love me 
soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to 
hear you confess it brokenly with your English 
tongue. Do you like me, Kate? 

I: ath. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is ‘like 
me. 

KK. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are 
like an angel. 

Kath. Que dit-il? que je suis semblable 4 les 
anges ? 

; Bie Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi 
dit-il. 

x. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine; and I must 
not blush to affirm it. 

Kath. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont 
pleines de tromperies. 

KK. Hen. What says she, fair one ? that the tongues 
of men are full of deceits ? 

Alice. Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full 
of deceits: dat is de princess. 

K. Hen. The princess is the better English- 
woman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy 
understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no 


FPEEN EPA. 


a eS 


SCENE It. 


— 


find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think 
I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no 
ways to mince it in love, but directly to say ‘I love 
you:’ then if you urge me farther than to say ‘ do 
you in faith?’ I wear out my suit. Give me your 
answer; i’ faith, do: and so clap hands and a bar- 
gain: how say you, lady? 

Kath. Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell. 

kK. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses or 
to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: 
for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and 
for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a 
reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a 
lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle 
with my armour on my back, under the correction 
of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into 
a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound 
my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a 
butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, 
before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp 
out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protes- 
tation: only downright oaths, which I never use 
till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou 
canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face 
is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his 
glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine 
eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: if 
thou canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say 
to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by 
the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou 
livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and un- 
coined constancy; for he perforce must do thee 
right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other 
places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that 
can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do 
always reason themselves out again. What! a 
speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. 
A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a 
black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow 
bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax 
hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the 
moon; or rather the sun and not the moon; for it 
shines bright and never changes, but keeps his 
course truly. If thou would have such a one, take 
me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, 
take a king. And what sayest thou then to my 
love ? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee. 

Kath. Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of 
France ? 

K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love 
the enemy of France, Kate: but,in loving me, you 
should love the friend of France; for I love France 
so well that I will not part with a village of it; I 
will have it all mine: and, Kate, when France is 
mine and [I am yours, then yours is France and 
you are mine. 

Icath. I cannot tell vat is dat. 

Kk. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French ; 
which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a 
new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly 
to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de 
France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi,— 
let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed! 
—done votre est France et vous étes mienne. It is 
as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to 
speak so much more French: I shall never move 
thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me. 

Kath. Sauf votre honneur, le Frangois que vous 
parlez, il est meilleur que l’Anglois lequel je parle. 

Kk. Hen. No, faith, is’t not, Kate: but thy speak- 
ing of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, 
must needs be granted to be much at one. But, 
Kate, dost thou understand thus much English, 
canst thou love me ? 

Kath. I cannot tell. 

K. Hen. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? 


better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst | I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me: and 


386 


—— 


AOT V. 


at night, when you come into your closet, youll 
question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, 
— Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me 
that you love with your heart: but, good Kate, mock 
me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because 
I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, 
as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou 
shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must 
therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder: shall 
not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint 
George, compound a boy, half French, half English, 
that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk 
by the beard ? shall we not ? what sayest thou, my 
fair flower-de-luce ? 

Kath. I do not know dat. 

K. Hen. No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to 
promise: do but now promise, Kate, you will en- 
deavour for your French part of such a boy; and 
for my English moiety take the word of a king and 
a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katha- 
rine du monde, mon tres cher et devin déesse ? 

Kath. Your majestee ave fausse French enough 
to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France. 

kK. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By 
mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate: 
by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; 
yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, 
notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect 
of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition ! 
he was thinking of civil wars when he got me: 
therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, 
with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo 


ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the | 


elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort 
is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no 
more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou 
hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if 
thou wear me, better and better: and therefore 
tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? 
Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts 
of your heart with the looks of an empress; take 
me by the hand, and say ‘ Harry of England, I am 
thine: ’ which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine 
ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud ‘ England is 
thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry 
Plantagenet is thine;’ who, though I speak it be- 
fore his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, 
thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. 
Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice 
is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen 


of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken | 


English; wilt thou have me ? 

Kath. Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere. 

i. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it 
shall please him, Kate. 

Kath. Den it sall also content me. 

4K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and [I call 
you my queen. } 

Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: m 
foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre gran- 
deur en baisant la main d’une de votre seigneurie 
indigne serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, 
mon tres-puissant seigneur. 

kK. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 

Kath. Les dames et demoiselles pour étre baisées 
devant leur noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France. 

kK. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she ? 

Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of 
France,—I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish. 

KK. Hen. To kiss. 

Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moi. 

A. Hen. It is not a fashion for the maids in France 
to kiss before they are married, would she say ? 

Alice. Oui, vraiment. 

K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great 
kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined 
within the weak list of a country’s fashion: we are 


KING HENRY YJ. 


SCENE II. 


the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that 
follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults ; 
as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of 
your country in denying mea kiss: therefore, pa- 
tiently and yielding. [Jissing her.] You have witch- 
craft in your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in 
a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the 
French council; and they should sooner’ persuade 
Harry of England than a general petition of mon- 
archs. Here comes your father. 


fte-enter the French King and his Queen, 
Burgundy, and other Lords. 


Bur. God save your majesty! my royal cousin, 
teach you our princess English ? 

KK. Hen. I would have her learn, my fair cousin, 
how perfectly I love her; and that is good English. 

Bur. Is she not apt ? 

KK. Hen. Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condi- 
tion is notsmooth; so that, having neither the voice 
nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so con- 
jure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear 
in his true likeness. 

Bur. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I an- 
swer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you 
must make a circle; if conjure up love in her in 
his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. 
Can you blame her then, being a maid yet rosed over 
with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the 
appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing 
self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid 
to consign to. 

K. Hen. Yet they do wink and yield, as love is 
blind and enforces. 

Bur. They are then excused, my lord, when they 
see not what they do. . 

kK. Hen. Then, good my lord, teach your cousin 
to consent winking. 

Bur. Iwill wink on her to consent, my lord, if you 
will teach her to know my meaning: for maids, well 
summered and warm kept, are like flies at Barthol- 
omew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and 
then they will endure handling, which before would 
not abide looking on. 

kK. Hen. This moral ties me over to time and a hot 
summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, 
in the latter end and she must be blind too. 

Bur. As love is, my lord, before it loves. 

KK. Hen. Itisso: and you may, some of you, thank 
love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair 
French city for one fair French maid that stands in 
my way. 

Fr. King. Yes, my lord, you see them perspec- 
tively, the cities turned into a maid; for they are 
all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never 
entered. 

Kk. Hen. Shall Kate be my wife ? 

Fr. King. So please you. 

A. Hen. I am content; so the maiden cities you 
talk of may wait on her: so the maid that stood in 
the way for my wish shall show me the way to my 
will. [son. 

Fr. King. We have consented to all terms of rea- 

K. Hen. Is’t so, my lords of England ? 

West. The king hath granted every article: 

His daughter first, and then in sequel all, 
According to their firm proposed natures. 

Hxe. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: 
Where your majesty demands, that the King of 
France, having any occasion to write for matter of 
grant,shall name your highness in this formand with . 
this addition, in French, Notre trescher fils Henri, 
Roi d’Angleterre, Héritier de France; and thus in 
Latin, Preclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex 
Angliz, et Heres Franciz. ; 

Fy. King. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied, 
But your request shall make me let it pass. 


387 


ACT V. 


KINGVHENEY © V. 


SCENE II. 


K. Hen. I pray you then, in love and dear alliance, 
Let that one article rank with the rest; 
And thereupon give me your daughter. 


All. Amen! 
KK. Hen. Prepare we for our marriage: on which 


ay 
Fr. King. Take her, fair son, and from her blood | My Lord Of Burgundy, we ’ll take your oath, 


raise up 
Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms 
Of France and England, whose very shores look pale 
With envy of each other’s happiness, 
May cease their hatred, and this dear conjunction 
Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord 
In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance 
His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France. 
All. Amen! 
K. Hen. Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me wit- 
ness all, 
That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen. 
[Flourish. 
Q. Isa. God, the best maker of all marriages, 
Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one! 
As man and wife, being two, are one in love, 
So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal, 
That never may ill office, or fell jealousy, 
Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, 
Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms, 
To make divorce of their incorporate league; 
That English may as French, French Englishmen, 
Receive each other. God speak this Amen ! 


And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues. 

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me; 

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be! 
[Sennet.— Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 


Enter Chorus. 


Chor. Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, 
Our bending author hath pursued the story, 
In little room confining mighty men, 
Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. 
Small time, but in that small most greatly lived 
This star of England: Fortune made his sword ; 
By which the world’s best garden he achieved, 
And of it left his son imperial lord. 
Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King 
Of France and England, did this king succeed ; 
Whose state so many had the managing, 
oh they lost France and made his England 
eed : 
Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake, 
In your fair minds let this acceptance take. [Hvzit. 


G 
Wy 


= 
= 


King Henry.—O God, thy arm was here; 
And not to us, but to thy arm alone, 


Ascribe we all! 


When, without stratagem, 


But in plain shock and even play of battle, 
Was ever known so great and little loss 

On one part and on the other? Take it, God, 
For it is none but thine! Act IV., Scene viii. 


388 


ee, pedi 


ges VS ni os fe 
— Nip bas e 


AOE ox 


(ay 
SES 
bys 


Ps S ae 


THE FIRST PART OF 


KING HENRY THE SIXTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


King Henry the Sixth. 
Duke of Gloucester, uncle to the King, and Pro- 


tector. 

Duke of Bedford, uncle to the King, and Regent 
of France. 

Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, great-uncle 
to the King. 


Henry Beaufort, great-uncle to the King, Bishop 
of Winchester, and afterwards Cardinal. 

John Beaufort, Earl, afterwards Duke, of Somerset. 

Richard Plantagenet, son of Richard late Earl 
of Cambridge, afterwards Duke of York. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Earl of Suffolk. 

Lord Talbot, afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury. 

John Talbot, his son. 

Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. 

Sir John Fastolfe. 

Sir William Lucy. 

Sir William Glansdale. 

Sir Thomas Gargrave. 

Mayor of London. 


Woodvile, Lieutenant of the Tower. 

Vernon, of the White-Rose or York faction. 

Basset, of the Red-Rose or Lancaster faction. 

A Lawyer. Mortimer’s Keepers. 

Charles, Dauphin, and afterwards King, of France. 

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples. 

Duke of Burgundy. 

Duke of Alengon. 

Bastard of Orleans. 

Governor of Paris. 

Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son. 

General of the French forces in Bourdeaux. 

A French Sergeant. A Porter. 

An old Shepherd, father to Joan la Pucelle. 

Margaret, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married 

to King Henry. 

Countess of Auvergne. 

Joan la Pucelle, commonly called Joan of Are. 
Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, 

Messengers, and Attendants. 


Fiends appearing to La Pucelle. 
SCENE — Partly in England, and partly in Framee. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVI.] 


vet COE RRA Bi 


SCENE I.— Westminster Abbey. 


Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth, 
attended on by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France ; 
the Duke of Gloucester, Protector ; ‘the Duke of Exe- 
ter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, 
Heralds, céc. 


Bed. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day 
to night! 
Comets, importing change of times and states, 
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, 
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars 
That have consented unto Henry’s death! 
King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! 
England ne’er lost a king of so much worth. 
Glou. England ne’er had a king until his time. 
Virtue he had, deserving to command: 
His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams: 
His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings; 
His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, 
More dazzled and drove back his enemies 
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. 
What should I say ? his deeds exceed all speech: 
He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered. [blood ? 
Exe. We mourn in black: why mourn we not in 
Henry is dead and never shall revive: 
Upon a wooden coffin we attend, 
And death’s dishonourable victory 
We with our stately presence glorify, 
Like captives bound to a triumphant car. 
What! shall we curse the planets of mishap 


That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow ? 
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French 
Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him 
By magic verses have contrived his end ? 

Win. He was a king bless’d of the King of kings. 
Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day 
So dreadful will not be as was his sight. 

The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought: 
The church’s prayers made him so prosperous. 
Glou. The church! where is it? Had not church- 
men pray’d, 
His thread of life had not so soon decay’d : 
None do you like but an effeminate prince, 
Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe. [tor 

Win. Gloucester, whate’er we like, thou art protec- 
And lookest to command the pr ince and realm. 
Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe, 

More than God or religious churchmen may. 

Glou. Name not religion, for thou lovest the flesh, 
And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st 
Except it be to pray against thy foes. [peace : 

Bed. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in 
Let ’s to the altar: heralds, wait on us: 

Instead of gold, we ’ll offer’ up our arms; 

Since arms “avail not now that Henry ’s dead. 
Posterity, await for wretched years, 

When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck, 
Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, 

And none but women left to wail the dead. 

Henry the Fifth, thy ghost [ invocate: 

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, 


9 889 


FIRST PART OF 


Combat with adverse planets in the heavens! 
A far more glorious star thy soul will make 
Than Julius Cesar or bright 


ACT I. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all! 

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, 

Of loss, of slaughter and discomfiture: 

Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, 

Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. [corse? 
Bed. What say’st thou, man, before dead Henry’s 

Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns 

Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. 
Glou. Is Paris lost ? is Rouen yielded up ? 

If Henry were recall’d to life again, [ghost. 

These news would cause him once more yield the 
Exe. Howwere they lost? what treachery was used? 
Mess. No treachery; but want of men and money. 

Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, 

That here you maintain several factions, 


And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, | 


You are disputing of your generals: 
One would have lingering wars with little cost; 
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; 
A third thinks, without expense at all, 
By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d. 
Awake, awake, English nobility! 
Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot : 
Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; 
Of England’s coat one half is cut away. 
Hxe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, 
These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. 
Bed. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. 
Give me my steeled coat. Ill fight for France. 
Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! 
Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, 
To weep their intermissive miseries. 


Enter to them another Messenger. 


Mess. Lords, view these letters full of bad mis- 
France is revolted from the English quite, [chance. 
Except some petty towns of no import: 

The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; 
The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d; 
Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; 

The Duke of Aleng¢on flieth to his side. 

Exe. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! 
O, whither shall we fly from this reproach ? 

Glou. We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats. 
Bedford, if thou be slack, Ill fight it out. [mess ? 

Bed. Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forward- 
An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, 

W herewith already France is overrun. 


Enter another Messenger. 


Mess. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, 
Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse, 
I must inform you of a dismal fight 
Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. 

Win. What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t so? 

Mess. O,no; wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown: 
The circumstance Ill tell you more at large. 

The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, 
Retiring from the siege of Orleans, 

Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, 

By three and twenty thousand of the French 

Was round encompassed and set upon. 

No leisure had he to enrank his men; 

He wanted pikes to set before his archers; 

Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of hedges 
They pitched in the ground confusedly, 

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. 

More than three hours the fight continued; 

Where valiant Talbot above human thought 
Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: 
Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him ; 
Here, there, and every where, enraged he flew: 


390 


KING HENRY VI. 


The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms; 
All the whole army stood agazed on him: 
His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit 
A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain 
And rush’d into the bowels of the battle. 
Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up, 
If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward: 
He, being in the vaward, placed behind 
With purpose to relieve and follow them, 
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke. 
Hence grew the general wreck and massacre ; 
Enclosed were they with their enemies: 
A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace, 
Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back, 
Whomall Francewiththeir chief assembled strength 
Durst not presume to look once in the face. 
Bed. Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself, 
For living idly here in pomp and ease, 
Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, 
Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d. 
Mess. O no, he lives; but is took prisoner, 
| And Lord Scales with him and Lord Hungerford: 
| Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise. 
Bed. His ransom there is none but I shall pay: 
| Ill hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne: 
His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; 
Four of their lords I ll change for one of ours. 
Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; 
Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make, 
To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal: 
Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, 
Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake. 
Mess. So you had need; for Orleans is besieged ; 
The English army is grown weak and faint: 
The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply, 
And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, 
Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. 
Exe. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, 
Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, 
Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. 
Bed. I do remember it; and here take my leave, 
To go about my preparation. [ Hecit 
Glou. Ill to the Tower with all the haste I can, 
To view the artillery and munition ; 
And then I will proclaim young Henry king. [ Ezit. 
Exe. To Eltham will I, where the young king is, 
Being ordain’d his special governor, 
And for his safety there I ’ll best devise. [ Exit. 
Win. Each hath his place and function to attend : 
IT am left out; for me nothing remains. 
But long [ will not be Jack out of office: 
The king from Eltham I intend to steal 
And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. 


SCENE II.— France. Before Orleans. 


Sound a flourish. Enter Charles, Alencon, and 
Reignier, marching with drum and soldiers. 


Char. Mars his true moving, even as in the 
So in the earth, to this day is not known: [heavens 
Late did he shine upon the English side; 

Now we are victors; upon us he smiles. 
What towns of any moment but we have ? 
At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; 
Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts, 
Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. 
Alen. They want their porridge and their fat 
bull-beeves : 
Hither they must be dieted like mules, ; 
And have their provender tied to their mouths, 
Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. 

Keig. Let’s raise the siege: why live we idly here ? 
Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear: 
Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury; 

And he may well in fretting spend his gall, 
Nor men nor money hath he to make war. 
; Char. Sound,sound alarum ! we will rush on them. 


SCENE II. 


[ Haeeunt. 


ACT I. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VIL 


SCENE II. 


Now for the honour of the forlorn French ! 
Him I forgive my death that killeth me 


When he sees me go back one foot or fly. [Hxeunt. 


Here alarwm; they are beaten back by the English with 
great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alengon, and Reig- 
nier. 


Char. Who ever saw the like ? what men have I! 
Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne’er have fled, 
But that they left me ’midst my enemies. 

Reig. Salisbury is a desperate homicide ; 

He fighteth as one weary of his life. 
The other lords, like lions wanting food, 
Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. 

Alen. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records, 
England all Olivers and Rowlands bred 
During the time Edward the Third did reign. 
More truly now may this be verified ; 

For none but Samsons and Goliases 
It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten ! 
Lean raw-boned rascals! who would e’er suppose 
They had such courage and audacity ? 
Char. Let’s leave this town; for they are hair- 
brain’d slaves, 
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager: 
Of old I know them; rather with their teeth 
The walls they ’1] tear down than forsake the siege. 
fteig. I think, by some odd gimmors or device 
Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on; 
Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do. 
By my consent, we ’ll even let them alone. 
Alen. Be it so. 


Enter the Bastard of Orleans. 


Bast. Where ’s the Prince Dauphin ? I have news 
for him. 

Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. 

Bast. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer 
appall’d: 

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ? 
Be not dismay’d, for succor is at hand: 
A holy maid hither with me I bring, 
Which by a vision sent to her from heaven 
Ordained is to raise this tedious siege 
_And drive the English forth the bounds of France. 
The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, 
Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: 
What’s past and what ’s to come she can descry. 
Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, 
For they are certain and unfallible. 

Char. Go, call her in. [Hit Bastard.] But first, 

to try her skill, 
Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place: 
Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern: 
By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. 


Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan La 
Pucelle. 


Reig. Fair maid, is ’t thou wilt do these wondrous 
feats ? [me ? 
Puc. Reignier, is ’t thou that thinkest to beguile 

Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; 

I know thee well, though never seen before. 

Be not amazed, there ’s nothing hid from me: 

In private will I talk with thee apart. 

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. 
Reig. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. 
Puc. Dauphin,I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter, 

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art. 

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased 

To shine on my contemptible estate: 

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 

And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks, 

God’s mother deigned to appear to me 

And in a vision full of majesty 

Will’d me to leave my base vocation 

And free my country from calamity: 


Her aid she promised and assured success: 
In complete glory she reveal’d herself ; 
And, whereas I was black and swart before, 
With those clear rays which she infused on me 
That beauty am I bless’d with which you see. 
Ask me what question thou canst possible, 
And I will answer unpremeditated : 
My courage try by combat, if thou darest, 
And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. 
Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate, 
If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. [terms: 
Char. Thou hast astonish’d me with thy high 
Only this proof Ill of thy valour make, 
In single combat thou shalt buckle with me, 
And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; 
Otherwise I renounce all confidence. 
Puc. 1am prepared: here is my keen-edged sword, 
Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side; 
The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s 
churchyard, 
Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. 
Char. Then come, 0’ God’s name; I fear no wo- 


man. 

Puc. And while I live, I ll ne’er fly from a man. 
[ Here they fight, and Joan La Pucelle overcomes. 
Char. Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon 

And fightest with the sword of Deborah. _[weak. 
Puc. Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too 
Char. Whoe’er helps thee, tis thou that must 

help me: 

Impatiently I burn with thy desire ; 

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued. 

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, 

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be: 

’T is the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. 

Puc. I must not yield to any rites of love, 

For my profession ’s sacred from above: 

When I have chased all thy foes from hence, 

Then will I think upon a recompense. [thrall. 
Char. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate 
Reig. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. 
Alen. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her 

smock; 

Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech. 
feig. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no 

mean ? [know: 

Alen. He may mean more than we poor men do 
These women are shrewd tempters with their 
tongues. on? 

Reig. My lord, where are you? what devise you 

Shall we give over Orleans, or no? 

Puc. Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants! 

Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. [out. 
Cia What she says I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it 
Puc. Assign’d am I to be the English scourge. 

This night the siege assuredly I ’ll raise: 

Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days, 

Since I have entered into these wars. 

Glory is like a circle in the water, 

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself 

Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. 

With Henry’s death the English circle ends; 

Dispersed are the glories it included. 

Now am J like that proud insulting ship 

Which Cesar and his fortune bare at once. 

Char. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? 

Thou with an eagle art inspired then. 

Helen, the mother of great Constantine, 

Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters, were like thee. 

Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth, 

How may I reverently worship thee enough? | 
Alen. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. 
Reig. Woman, do what thou canst to save our 

honours ; 

Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized. [it: 
Char. Presently we ’ll try: come, let’s away about 

No prophet will 1 trust, if she prove false. [Hxeunt. 


391 


ACT I. 


SCENE III.—London. Before the Tower. 


Enter the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serving- 
men in blue coats. 


Glou. I am come to survey the Tower this day: 
Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance. 
Where be these warders, that they wait not here ? 
Open the gates; tis Gloucester that calls. 

First Warder. [Within] Who’s there that knocks 

so imperiously ? 

First Serv. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. 

Second Warder. [| Within] Whoe’er he be, you may 

not be let in. 


First Serv. Villains, answer you so the lord pro- | 


tector ? 
First Warder. [Within] The Lord protect him! 
so we answer him: 
We do no otherwise than we are will’d. [mine ? 
Glou. Who willed you? or whose will stands but 
There ’s none protector of the realm but I. 
Break up the gates, Ill be your warrantize: 
Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms ? 
[Gloucester’s men rush at the Tower Gates, and 
Woodvile the Lieutenant speaks within. 
Woodv. What noise is this? what traitors have 
we here? 
Glou. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear ? 
Open the gates; here’s Gloucester that would enter. 
Woodv. Have patience, noble duke; I may not 
The Cardinal of Winchester forbids: [open ; 
From him I have express commandment 
That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. 
Glou. RPE Maly Woodvile, prizest him ’fore 
me! 
Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate, 
Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook ? 
Thou art no friend to God or to the king: 
Open the gates, or I ’ll shut thee out shortly. 
Serving-men. Open the gates unto the lord pro- 
ector, 
Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not 
quickly. 


Enter to the Protector at the Tower Gates Winches- 
ter and his men in tawny coats. 


Win. How now, ambitious Humphry! what 

means this ? 

Glou. Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be 

shut out ? 

Win. I do, thou most usurping proditor, 

And not protector, of the king or realm. 

Glou. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, 
Thou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord; 
Thou that givest whores indulgences to sin: 

Ill canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, 
If thou proceed in this thy insolence. foot: 

Win. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a 
This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain, 

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. 

Glou. I will not slay thee, but I ll drive thee back: 
Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth 
I ll use to carry thee out of this place. 

Gu Do what thou darest; I beard thee to thy 

ace. 

Glou. What! am I dared and bearded to my face? 
Draw, men, for all this privileged place; 

Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard; 
I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly: 

Under my feet I stamp thy ecardinal’s hat: 

In spite of pope or dignities of church, 

Here by the cheeks Ill drag thee up and down. 

Win. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before 

the pope. 

Glou. Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! a rope! 
Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay ? 
Thee I’ chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s array. 
Out, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite! 

392 


FIRST. "PART VORP NEING PEN EY 


| 


| Ill never trouble you, if I may spy them. 


SCENE IV. 


Here Gloucester’s men beat out the Cardinal’s men, and 
enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his 
Officers. 


May. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magis- 
trates, 
Thus contumeliously should break the peace! 
Glow. Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my 
wrongs: 
Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king, 
Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. 
Win. Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens, 
One that still motions war and never peace, 
O’ercharging your free purses with large fines, 
That seeks to overthrow religion, 
Because he is protector of the realm, 
And would have armour here out of the Tower, 
To crown himself king and suppress the prince. 
Glow. I will not answer thee with words, but 
blows. [Here they skirmish again. 
May. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous 
But to make open proclamation: [strife 
aed officer; as loud as e’er thou canst. 
ry 
Off. All manner of men assembled here in arms 
this day against God’s peace and the king’s, we 
charge and command you, in his highness’ name, 
to repair to your several dwelling-places ; and not to 
wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger, 
henceforward, upon pain of death. 
Glou. Cardinal, Ill be no breaker of the law: 
But we shall meet, and break our minds at large. 
Win. Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure: 
Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work. 
May. 171) call for clubs, if you will not away. 
This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil. 
Glou. Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou 


mayst. 
Win. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head ; 
For I intend to have it ere long. 

[Hxeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester 
with their Serving-men. 
May. See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart. 
Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! 
I myself fight not once in forty year. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Orleans. 
Enter, on the walls, a Master-Gunner and his Boy. 


M. Gun. Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is be- 
sieged, 
And how the English have the suburbs won. 

Boy. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, 
Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. 

M. Gun. But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled 
Chief master-gunner am I of this town; [by me: 
Something I must do to procure me grace. 

The prince’s espials have informed me 

How the English, in the suburbs close intrench’d, 
Wont through a secret grate of iron bars 

In yonder tower to overpeer the city 

And thence discover how with most advantage 
They may vex us with shot or with assault. 
To intercept this inconvenience, 

A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have placed ; 
And even these three days have I watch’d, 
If I could see them. 

Now do thou watch, for I can stay no longer. 
If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word; 
And thou shalt find me at the governor’s. [ Exit. 

Boy. Father, I warrant you; take you 310 care ; 
[ Exit. 
Enter, on the turrets, the Lords Salisbury and Talbot, 

Sir William Glansdale, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and 

others. 

Sal. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return’d! 
How wert thou handled being prisoner ? 


ACT I. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE V. 


Or by what means got’st thou to be released ? 
Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top. 
Tal. The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner 
Call’d the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles ; 
For him was I exchanged and ransomed. 
But with a baser man of arms by far 
Once in contempt they would have barter’d me: 
Which I disdaining scorn’d and craved death 
Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d. 
In fine, redeem’d I was as I desired. 
But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart, 
Whom with my bare fists I would execute, 
If I now had him brought into my power. 
Sal. Yet tell’st thou not how thouwert entertain’d. 
Tal. With scoffs and scorns and contumelious 
In open market-place produced they me, __ [taunts. 
To be a public spectacle to all: 
Here, said they, is the terror of the French, 
The scarecrow that affrights our children so. 
Then broke I from the officers that led me, 
And with my nails digg’d stones out of the ground, 
To hurl at the beholders of my shame: 
My grisly countenance made others fly ; 
None durst come near for fear of sudden death. 
In iron walls they deem’d me not secure; 
So great fear of my name ’mongst them was spread 
That they supposed I could rend bars of steel 
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant: 
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had 
That walked about me every minute while; 
And if I did but stir out of my bed, 
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. 


Enter the Boy with a linstock. 


Sal. I grieve to hear what torments you endured, 
But we will be revenged sufticiently. 
Now it is supper-time in Orleans: 
Here, through this grate, I count each one 
And view the Frenchmen how they fortify : 
Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. 
Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale, 
Let me have your express opinions 
Where is best place to make our battery next. 
Heat I aa at the north gate; for there stand 
ords. 
Glan. And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge. 
Tal. For aught I see, this city must be famish’d, 
Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. 
- [Here they shoot. Salisbury and Gargrave fall. 
Sal. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! 
Gar. O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man! 
Tal. What chance is this that suddenly hath 
cross’d us? 
Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak: 
How farest thou, mirror of all martial men ? 
One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off! 
Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand 
That hath contrived this woful tragedy! 
In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame ; 
Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars ; 
Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up, 
His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field. 
Yet Sy thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth 
ail, 
One eye thou hast, to look to heaven for grace: 
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. 
Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive, 
If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! 
Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. 
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? 
Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. 
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort; 
Thou shalt not die whiles — 
He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, 
As who should say ‘ When I am dead and gone, 
Remember to avenge me on the French.’ 
Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, 


Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn: 
Wretched shall France be only in my name. 

[Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens. 
What stir is this ? what tumult ’s in the heavens ? 
Whence cometh this alarum and the noise ? 


Enter a Messenger. 
ee rh lord, my lord, the French have gather’d 
ead: 


The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d, 

A holy prophetess new risen up, 

Is come with a great power to raise the siege. 
[Here Salisbury lifteth himself up and groans. 

Tal. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan! 

It irks his heart he cannot be revenged. 

Frenchmen, I ’ll be a Salisbury to you: 

Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, 

Your hearts I ll stamp out with my horse’s heels, 

And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. 

Convey me Salisbury into his tent, 

And then we ’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen 
dare. [Alarum. Exeunt. 


SCENE V.— The same. 


Here an alarum again: and Talbot pursueth the Dau- 
phin, and driveth him: then enter Joan La Pucelle, 
driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them: then 
re-enter Talbot. 


ies. Whee is my strength, my valour, and my 
orce | 

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them ; 

A woman clad in armour chaseth them. 


Re-enter La Pucelle. 


Here, here she comes. Ill have a bout with thee; 
Devil or devil’s dam, Ill conjure thee: 

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch, 

And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest. 

Puc. Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace 

thee. [Here they fight. 

Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail ? 
My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage 
And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, 
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. 

[They fight again. 

Puc. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come: 
I must go victual Orleans forthwith. 

[A short alarum: then enter the town with soldiers. 
O’ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. 
Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men; 

Help Salisbury to make his testament : 
This day is ours, as many more shall be. [ Hxitt. 

Tal. My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s 
I know not where I am, nor what I do: [wheel ; 
A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal, 

Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists: 
So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench 
Are from their hives and houses driven away. 
They call’d us for our fierceness English dogs; 
Now, like to whelps, we crying run away. 
[A short alarum. 
Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight, 
Or tear the lions out of England’s coat; 
Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead: 
Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, 
Or horse or oxen from the leopard, 
As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. 
[Alarum. Here another skirmish. 
It will not be: retire into your trenches: 
You all consented unto Salisbury’s death, 
For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. 
Pucelle is enter’d into Orleans, 
In spite of us or aught that we could do. 
O, would I were to die with Salisbury ! 
The shame hereof will make me hide my head. 
[Hxit Talbot. Alarum; retreat; flourish. 


393 


ACD TE. 


SCENE VI.—The same. 


Enter, on the walls, La Pucelle, Charles, Reig- 
nier, Alencon, and Soldiers. 


Puc. Advance our waving colours on the walls; 
Rescued is Orleans from the English: 
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word. 
Char. Divinest creature, Astrza’s daughter, 
How shall I honour thee for this success ? 
Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens 
That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next. 
France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! 
. Recover’d is the town of Orleans: 
More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state. 
Reig. Why ring not out the bells aloud through- 
out the town ? 
Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires 
And feast and banquet in the open streets, 
To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE I. 


Alen. All France will be replete with mirth and 


JOY; 
When they shall hear how we have play’d the men. 
Char. ’T is Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; 
For which I will divide my crown with her, 
And all the priests and friars in my realm — 
Shall in procession sing her endless praise. 
A statelier pyramis to her Ill rear 
Than Rhodope’s or Memphis’ ever was: 
In memory of her when she is dead, 
Her ashes, in an urn more precious 
Than the rich-jewel’d coffer of Darius, 
Transported shall be at high festivals 
Before the kings and queens of France. 
No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, 
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint. 
Come in, and let us banquet royally, 
After this golden day of victory. 


[Flourish. Hceunt. 


PO) 5: Es 


SCENE I.— Before Orleans. 


Enter a Sergeant of a band, with two Sentinels. 


Serg. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant: 
If any noise or soldier you perceive 
Near to the walls, by some apparent sign 
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. 
First Sent. Sergeant, you shall. [Hxit Sergeant.] 
Thus are poor servitors, 
When others sleep upon their quiet beds, 
Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain and cold. 


Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and forces, with 
scaling-ladders, their drums beating a dead march. 


Tal. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, 
By whose approach the regions of Artois, 
Wallon and Picardy are friends to us, 
This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, 
Having all day caroused and banqueted: 
Embrace we then this opportunity 
As fitting best to quittance their deceit 
Contrived by art and baleful sorcery. 
Bed. Coward of France! how much he wrongs 
his fame, 
Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude, 
To join with witches and the help of hell! 
Bur. Traitors have never other company. 
But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure ? 
Tal. A maid, they say. 
Bed. A maid! and be so martial! 
. Pray God she prove not masculine ere 


long, 
If underneath the standard of the French 
She carry armour as she hath begun. 
Tal. Well, let them practise and converse with 
spirits: 
God is our fortress, in whose conquering name 
Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. 
Bed. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. 
Tal. Not all together: better far, I guess, 
That we do make our entrance several ways; 
That, if it chance the one of us do fail, 
The other yet may rise against their force. 
Bed. Agreed: 1°ll to yond corner. 
Bur. And I to this. 
Tal. And here will Talbot mount, or make his 


grave. 
Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right 
Of English Henry, shall this night appear 
How much in duty I am bound to both. 
Sent. Arm! arm! the enemy doth make assault! 
[Cry: ‘ St. George,’ ‘A Talbot.’ 
304 


The French leap over the walls in their shirts. Enter, sev- 
eral ways, the Bastard of Orleans, Alengon, and Reig- 
nier, half ready, and half unready. 

Alen. How now, my lords! what, all unready so? 
Bast. Unready! ay, and glad we ’scaped so well. 
Reig. *T was time, { trow, to wake and leave our 

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors. _[beds, 
Alen. Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms, 

Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise 

More venturous or desperate than this. 

Bast. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. 
Reig. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him. 
Alen. Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped. 
Bast. Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard. 


Enter Charles and La Pucelle. 


Char. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame ? 
Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, 
Make us partakers of a little gain, 
That now our loss might be ten times so much ? 
Puc. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his 
At all times will you have my power alike? [friend? 
Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, 
Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? 
Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good, 
This sudden mischief never could have fall’n. 
Char. Duke of Alencon, this was your default, 
That, being captain of the watch to-night, 
Did look no better to that weighty charge. 
Alen. Had all your quarters been as safely kept 
As that whereof I had the government, 
We had not been thus shamefully surprised. 
Bast. Mine was secure. 
Reig. And so was mine, my lord. 
Char. And, for myself, most part of all this night, 
Within her quarter and mine own precinct 
I was employ’d in passing to and fro, 
About relieving of the sentinels: 

Then how or which way should they first break in ? 
Puc. Question, my lords, no further of the case, 
How or which way: ’t is sure they found some place 
But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. 

And now there rests no other shift but this; . 
To gather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispersed, 
And lay new platforms to endamage them. 


Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying ‘A Talbot! 
a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind. 


Sold. Ill be so bold to take what they have left. 
The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword ; 
For I have loaden me with many spoils, 


Using no other weapon but his name. [ Heit. 


ACT II. 


SCENE II.— Orleans. Within the town. 


Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, 
and others. 


Bed. The day begins to break, and night is fled, 
Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth. 
Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit. 
[ Retreat sounded. 
Tal. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, 
And here advance it in the market-place, 
The middle centre of this cursed town. 
Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; 
For every drop of blood was drawn from him 
There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. 
And that hereafter ages may behold 
What ruin happen’d in revenge of him, 
Within their chiefest temple I ll erect 
A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d: 
Upon the which, that every one may read, 
Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans, 
The treacherous manner of his mournful death 
And what a terror he had been to France. 
But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, . 
J muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace, 
His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, 
Nor any of his false confederates. [began, 
Bed. °T is thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight 
Roused on the sudden from their drowsy beds, 
They did amongst the troops of armed men 
Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field. 
Bur. Myself, as far as I could well discern 
For smoke and dusty vapours of the night, 
Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull, 
When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, 
Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves 
That could not live asunder day or night. 
After that things are set in order here, 
We’ll follow them with all the power we have. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely 
Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts [train 
So much applauded through the realm of France ? 

deme is the Talbot: who would speak with 

im 

Mess. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, 
With modesty admiring thy renown, 

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe 
To visit her poor castle where she lies, 

That she may boast. she hath beheld the man 
Whose glory fills the world with loud report. 

Bur. Isitevenso? Nay, then, I see our wars 
Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport, 

When ladies crave to be encounter’d with. 
You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. 

Tal. Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of 
Could not prevail with all their oratory, [men 
Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-ruled: 

And therefore tell her I return great thanks, 
And in submission will attend on her. 
Will not your honours bear me company ? 

Bed. No, truly; it is more than manners will: 
And I have heard it said, unbidden guests 
Are often welcomest when they are gone. 

Tal. Well then, alone, since there ’s no remedy, 
I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy. 

Come hither, captain. [ Whispers.| You perceive 
my mind? 

Capt. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. 

| Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Awvergne. 


Enter the Countess and her Porter. 


Count. Porter, remember what I gave in charge ; 
And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. 
Port. Madam, I will. [Hxcit. 


The Countess’s castle. 


PYRSTUPART OFS RING HENRY VI. 


SCENE Iil. 


Count. The plot is laid: if all things fall out right, 
I shall as famous be by this exploit 
As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death. 
Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, 
And his achievements of no less account : 
Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears, 
To give their censure of these rare reports. 


Enter Messenger and Talbot. 


Mess. Madam, 

According as your ladyship desired, 

By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come. 

Count. And he is welcome. What! is this the 
Mess. Madam, it is. [man ? 
Count. Is this the scourge of France ? 

Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad 

That with his name the mothers still their babes ? 

I see report is fabulous and false: 

I thought I should have seen some Hercules, 

A second Hector, for his grim aspect, 

And large proportion of his pata. limbs. 

Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! 

It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp 

Should strike such terror to his enemies. 

Tal. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; 

But since your ladyship is not at leisure, 

I ll sort some other time to visit you. [he goes. 
Count. What means he now? Goask him whither 
Mess. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves 

To know the cause of your abrupt departure. 

Tal. Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief, 

I go to certify her Talbot ’s here. 


Re-enter Porter with keys. 


Count. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. 

Tal. Prisoner! to whom ? 

Count. To me, blood-thirsty lord ; 
And for that cause I train’d thee to my house. 
Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, 

For in my gallery thy picture hangs: 

But now the substance shall endure the like, 
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine, 
That hast by tyranny these many years 
Wasted our country, slain our citizens 

And sent our sons and husbands captivate. 

Tal. Ha, ha, ha! 

Count. Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall 

turn to moan. 

Tal. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond 
To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow 
Whereon to practise your severity. 

et Why, art not thou the man? 

al. 

Count. Then have I substance too. 

Tal. No, no, Iam but shadow of myself: 

You are deceived, my substance is not here; 
For what you see is but the smallest part 

And least proportion of humanity: 

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, 
It is of such a spacious lofty pitch, 

Your roof were not sufficient to contain ’t. 

Count. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce ; 
He will be here, and yet he is not here: 

How can these contrarieties agree ? 

Tal. That will I show you presently. 

[ Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal 
of ordnance. Enter Soldiers. 
How say you, madam ? are you now persuaded 
That Talbot is but shadow of himself ? 
These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength, 
With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, 
Razeth your cities and subverts your towns 
And in a moment makes them desolate. 
Count. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse: 
I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited 
And more than may be gather’d by thy shape. 
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath; 


395 


I am indeed. 


ACT II. 


For I am sorry that with reverence 
I did not entertain thee as thou art. 
Tal. Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconstrue 
The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake 
The outward composition of his body. 
What you have done hath not offended me; 
Nor other satisfaction do I crave, 
But only, with your patience, that we may 
Taste of your wine and see what cates you have; 
For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well. 
Count. With all my heart, and think me honoured 
To feast so great a warrior in my house. [Hzewnt. 


SCENE IV. — London. 


Enter the Barls of Somerset, Suffolk, and Warwick; 
Richard Plantagenet, Vernon, and another Lawyer. 


Plan. Great lords and gentlemen, what means 
this silence ? 
Dare no man answer in a case of truth? 
Suf. Within the Temple-hall we were too loud; 
The garden here is more convenient. 
Plan. Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth ; 
Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error ? 
Suf. Faith, I have been a truant in the law, 
And never yet could frame my will to it; 
And therefore frame the law unto my will. 
Som. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, be- 
tween us. [pitch ; 


The Temple-garden. 


War. Between two hawks, which flies the higher | 


Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; 
Between two blades, which bears the better temper ; 
Between two horses, which doth bear him best ; 
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye; 

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; 
But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, 

Good faith, 1 am no wiser than a daw. 

Plan. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance : 
The truth appears so naked on my side 
That any purblind eye may find it out. 

Som. And on my side it is so well apparell’d, 

So clear, so shining and so evident 

That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye. 
Plan. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to 

speak, 

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts: 

Let him that is a true-born gentleman 

And stands upon the honour of his birth, 

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, 

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. 

Som. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, 
But dare maintain the party of the truth, 

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. 

War. I love no colours, and without all colour 
Of base insinuating flattery 
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. 

Suf. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset 
And say withal I think he held the right. 

Ver. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no 

more, 
Till you conclude that he upon whose side 
The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree 
Shall yield the other in the right opinion. 

Som. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected: 
If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. 

Plan. And I. 

Ver. Then for the truth and plainness of the case, 
I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, 
Giving my verdict on the white rose side. 

Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, 
Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red 
And fall on my side so, against your will. 

Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, 
Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt 
And keep me on the side where still I am. 

Som. Well, well, come on: who else ? 

Law. Unless my study and my books be false, 


396 


FIRST PARTY OPS KW GARE NET AY. 


SCENE IV... 


The argument you held was wrong in you; 
[To Somersez. 
In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. 
Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument ? 
Som. Here in my scabbard, meditating that 
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. [roses ; 
Plan. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our 
For pale they look with fear, as witnessing 
The truth on our side. 
Som. No, Plantagenet 
°T is not for fear but anger that thy cheeks 
Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, 
And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. 
Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset ? 
Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet ? 
sit Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his 


Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. 

Som. Well, Ill find friends to wear my bleeding 

roses, 
That shall maintain what I have said is true, 
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. 

Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, 
T scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. 

Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. 

Plan. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him 

and thee. 

Suf. I?ll turn my part thereof into thy throat. 

Som. Away, away, good William de la Pole! 

We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. 

War. Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, 

Somerset ; 
His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, 
Third son to the third Edward King of England: 
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root ? 

Plan. He bears him on the place’s privilege, 
Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus. 

Som. By him that made me, 1’ll maintain my 
On any plot of ground in Christendom. [words 
Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, 
For treason executed in our late king’s days ? 
And, by his treason, stand’st not thou attainted, 
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry ? 

His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; 
And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman. 

Plan. My father was attached, not attainted, 
Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor; 

And that Ill prove on better men than Somerset, 
Were growing time once ripen’d to my will. 

For your partaker Pole and you yourself, 

Ill note you in my book of memory, 

To scourge you for this apprehension : 

Look to it well and say you are well warn’d. 

Som. Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still ; 
And know us by these colours for thy foes, 

For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. 

Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, 
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, 

Will I for ever and my faction wear, 
Until it wither with me to my grave 
Or flourish to the height of my degree. [tion ! 

Suf. Go forward and be choked with thy ambi- 
And so farewell until I meet thee next. [ vit. 

Som. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious 

Richard. [ Hicit. 

Plan. How I am braved and must perforce en- 

dure it! {house 

War. This blot that they object against your 
Shall be wiped out in the next parliament 
Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester ; 
And if thou be not then created York, 

I will not live to be accounted Warwick. 
Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, 
Against proud Somerset and William Pole, 
Will I upon thy party wear this rose: 

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, 
Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden, 


ACT II. 


Shall send between the red rose and the white 
A thousand souls to death and deadly night. 
Plan. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, 
‘That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. 
Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the same. 
Law. And so will I. 
Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. 
Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say 
This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Hzxeunt. 


SCENE V.—The Tower of London. 


Finter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Gaolers. 


Mor. Kind Keepers of my weak decaying age, 
Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. 
Even like a man new haled from the rack, 
So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; 
And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, 
Nestor-like aged in an age of care, 
Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. 
These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, 
Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent ; 
Weak shoulders, overborne with burthening grief, 
And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine 
That droops his sapless branches to the ground: 
Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, 
Unable to support this lump of clay, 
Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, 
As witting I no other comfort have. 
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come ? 
First Gaol. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will 
come: 
We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber ; 
And answer was return’d that he will come. 

Mor. Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied. 
Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. 
Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, 
Before whose glory I was great in arms, 

This loathsome sequestration have I had; 

And even since then hath Richard been obscured, 
Deprived of honour and inheritance. 

But now the arbitrator of despairs, 

Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries, 

With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence : 
I would his troubles likewise were expired, 

That so he might recover what was lost. 


Enter Richard Plantagenet. 
First Gaol. My lord, your loving nephew now is 


come. 
Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come ? 
Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly used, 
Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. 
Mor. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck, 
And in his bosom spend my latter gasp: 
O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, 
That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. 
And now Ashlea sweet stem from York’s great 
stock, 
Why didst-thou say, of late thou wert despised ? 
' Plan. First, lean thine aged back against mine 


arm ; 
And, in that ease, I ’ll tell thee my disease. 
This day, in argument upon a case, 
Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me; 
Among which terms he used his lavish tongue 
And did upbraid me with my father’s death: 
Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, 
Else with the like I had requited him. 
Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake, 
In honour of a true Plantagenet 
And for alliance sake, declare the cause 
My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. 
Mor. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me 
And hath detain’d me all my flowering youth 


FIRST PART (OF KING: HENRY VI. 


SCENE V. 


Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, 
Was cursed instrument of his decease. 

Plan. Discover more at large what cause that was, 
For I am ignorant and cannot guess. . 

Mor. I will, if that my fading breath permit 
And death approach not ere my tale be done. 
Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, 
Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, 

The first-begotten and the lawful heir 

Of Edward king, the third of that descent: 
During whose reign the Percies of the north, 
Finding his usurpation most unjust, 
Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne: 
The reason moved these warlike lords to this 
Was, for that — young King Richard thus removed, 
Leaving no heir begotten of his body — 

I was the next by birth and parentage; 

For by my mother I derived am 

From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son 
To King Edward the Third; whereas he 
From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, 
Being but fourth of that heroic line. 

But mark: as in this haughty great attempt 
They laboured to plant the rightful heir, 

I lost my liberty and they their lives. 

Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, 
Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, 
Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then derived 
From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, 
Marrying my sister that thy mother was, 
Again in pity of my hard distress 

Levied an army, weening to redeem 

And have install’d me in the diadem: 

But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl 

And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, 

In whom the title rested, were suppress’d. 

Plan. Of which, my lord, your honour is the last. 

Mor. True; and thou seest that I no issue have 
And that my fainting words do warrant death: 
Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather: 
But yet be wary in thy studious care. 

Plan. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me: 
But yet, methinks, my father’s execution 
Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 

Mor. With silence, nephew, be thou politic: 
Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster 
And like a mountain, not to be removed. 

But now thy uncle is removing hence; 
As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d 
With long continuance in a settled place. 

Plan. O, uncle, would some part of my young years 
Might but redeem the passage of your age! 

Mor. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaugh- 

terer doth 
Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. 
Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; 
Only give order for my funeral: 
And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes 
And prosperous be thy lifein peaceand war! [Dies. 

Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! 
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage 
And like a hermit overpass’d thy days. 

Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast ; 
And what I do imagine let that rest. 
Keepers, convey him hence, and I myself 
Will see his burial better than his life. 

[Hxeunt Gaolers, bearing out the body of Mortimer. 
Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, 
Choked with ambition of the meaner sort: 
And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, 
Which Somerset hath offer’d to my house, 
I doubt not but with honour to redress; 
And therefore haste I to the parliament, 
Either to be restored to my blood, 

Or make my ill the advantage of my good. 


397 


[ Exit. 


ACT Ill. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENEY VI. 


7 


— 


an Ca) LE BS Bd Bp 


SCENE I.— London. The Parliament-house. 


Flourish. Enter King, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, 
Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop of Winchester, 
Richard Plantagenet, and others. Gloucester offers 
to put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, and tears tt. 


Win. Comest thou with deep premeditated lines, 
With written pamphlets studiously devised, 
Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse, 
Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, 


Do it without invention, suddenly ; 
As I with sudden and extemporal speech 
Purpose to answer what thou canst object. 
Glou. Presumptuous priest! this place commands 
my patience, 
Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me. 
Think not, although in writing I preferr’d 
The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, 
That therefore I have forged, or am not able 
Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen: 
No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, 
Thy lewd, pestiferous and dissentious pranks, 
As very infants prattle of thy pride. 
Thou art a most pernicious usurer, 
Froward by nature, enemy to peace; 
Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems 
A man of thy profession and degree; 
And for thy treachery, what ’s more manifest ? 
In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life, 
As well at London bridge as at the Tower. 
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, 
The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt 
From envious malice of thy swelling heart. [safe 
Win. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouch- | 
To give me hearing what I shall reply. 
If I were covetous, ambitious or perverse, 
As he will have me, how am I so poor ? 
Or how haps it I seek not to advance 
Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling ? 
And for dissension, who preferreth peace 
More than I do ?— except I be provoked. 
No, my good lords, it is not that offends; 
It is not that that hath incensed the duke: 
It is, because no one should sway but he; 
No one but he should be about the king; 
And that engenders thunder in his breast 
And makes him roar these accusations forth. 
But he shall know I am as good — 
Glou. As good! 
Thou bastard of my grandfather! 
Win. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, 
But one imperious in another’s throne ? 
Glou. Am I not protector, saucy priest ? 
Win. And am not I a prelate of the church ? 
Glou. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps 
And useth it to patronage his theft. 
Win. Unreverent Gloster! 
Glou. Thou art reverent 
Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. 
Win. Rome shall remedy this. 
ar. ~ Roam thither, then. 
Som. My lord, it were your duty to forbear. 
War. Ay, see the bishop be not overborne. 
Som. Methinks my lord should be religious 
And know the office that belongs to such. 
War. Methinks his lordship should be humbler ; 
It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. 

Som. Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near. 
War. State holy or unhallow’d, what of that ? 
Is not his grace protector to the king ? [tongue, 

Plan. [Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his 
Lest it be said ‘ Speak, sirrah, when you should; 
Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?’ 
Else would I have a fling at Winchester. 


398 


King. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, 
The special watchmen of our English weal, 
I would prevail, if prayers might prevail, 
To join your hearts in love and amity. 
O, what a scandal is it to our crown, 
That two such noble peers as ye should jar! 
Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell 
Civil dissension is a viperous worm 
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. 
[A noise within, ‘Down with the tawny-coats!’ 
What tumult ’s this ? 
War. An uproar, I dare warrant, 
Begun through malice of the bishop’s men. 
[A noise again, ‘Stones! stones!’ 


Enter Mayor. . 


May. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, 
Pity the city of London, pity us! 
The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men, 
Forbidden late to carry any weapon, 
Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones 
And banding themselves in contrary parts 
Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate 
That many have their giddy brains knock’d out: 
Our windows are broke down in every street 
And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops. 


Enter Serving-men, in skirmish, with bloody pates. 


King. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, 
To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace. 
Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. 


SCENE I.. 


First Serv. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we ’ll | 


fall to it with our teeth. 
Sec. Serv. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. 
[Skirmish again. 
Glou. You of my household, leave this peevish 
And set this unaccustom’d fight aside. [broil 
Third Serv. My lord, we know your grace to be a 
Just and upright; and, for your royal birth, [man 
Inferior to none but to his majesty: 
And ere that we will suffer such a prince, 
So kind a father of the commonweal, 
To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, 
We and our wives and children all will fight 
And have our bodies slaughter’d by thy foes. 
First Serv. Ay, and the very parings of our nails 
Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [Begin again. 
Glou. Stay, stay, I say! 
And if you love me, as you say you do, 
Let me persuade you to forbear awhile. 
King. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! 
Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold 
My sighs and tears and will not once relent ? 
Who should be pitiful, if you be not ? 
Or who should study to prefer a peace, 
If holy churchmen take delight in broils ? 
War. Yield, my lord protector; yield, Winchester; 
Except you mean with obstinate repulse | 
To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. 
You see what mischief and what murder too 
Hath been enacted through your enmity ; 
Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. 
Win. He shall submit, or I will never yield. 
Glou. Compassion on the king commands me 
Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest [stoop; 
Should ever get that privilege of me. 
War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke 
Hath banish’d moody discontented fury, 
As by his smoothed brows it doth appear: - 
Why look you still so stern and tragical ? 
Glou. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. 
King. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you 
preach 
That malice was a great and grievous sin; 


ACHenIT . 


And will not you maintain the thing you teach, 
But prove a chief offender in the same ? 
War. Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird. 
For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! 
What, shall a child instruct you what to do? 
Win. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; 
Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. 
Glow. [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow 
heart.— 
See here, my friends and loving countrymen; 
This token serveth for a flag of truce 
Betwixt ourselves and all our followers: 
So help me God, as I dissemble not! 
Win. [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not! 
King. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, 
How joyful am I made by this contract ! 
Away, my masters! trouble us no more; 
But join in friendship, as your lords have done. 
First Serv. Content: Ill to the surgeon’s. 
Sec. Serv. And so will I. 
Third Serv. And I will see what physic the tav- 
ern affords. [Hxeunt Serving-men, Mayor, &c. 
War. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, 
Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet 
We do exhibit to your majesty. [prince, 
Glow. Well urged, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet 
An if your grace mark every circumstance, 
You have great reason to do Richard right: 
Especially for those occasions 
At Eltham Place I told your majesty. 
King. And those occasions, uncle, were of force: 
Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is 
That Richard be restored to his blood. 
War. Let Richard be restored to his blood: 
So shall his father’s wrongs be recompensed. 
Win. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. 
King. If Richard will be true, not that alone 
But all the whole inheritance I give 
That doth belong unto the house of York, 
From whence you spring by lineal descent. 
Plan. Thy humble servant vows obedience 
And humble service till the point of death. ([foot; 
King. Stoop then and set your knee against my 
And, in reguerdon of that duty done, 
I gird thee with the valiant sword of York: 
Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, 
And rise created princely Duke of York. 
Plan. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! 
And as my duty springs, so perish they 
That grudge one thought against your majesty ! 
All. Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of 
York! [of York! 
Som. [Aside] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke 
Glow. Now will it best avail your majesty 
To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France: 
The presence of a king engenders love 
Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, 
As it disanimates his enemies. [Henry goes; 
King. When Gloucester says the word, King 
For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. 
Glou. Your ships already are in readiness. 
[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter. 
Exe. Ay, we may march in England or in France, 
Not seeing what is likely to ensue. . 
This late dissension grown betwixt the peers 
urns under feigned ashes of forged love 
And will at last break out into a flame: 
As fester’d members rot but by degree, 
Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, 
So will this base and envious discord breed. 
And now I fear that fatal prophecy 
Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth 
Was in the mouth of every sucking babe; 
That Henry born at Monmouth should win all 
And Henry born at Windsor lose all: 
Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish 


His days may finish ere that hapless time.  [vit. 


TLESIVTARTVOLRAKING MEN RYVWVL 


SCENE II. 


SCENE II.—France. Before Rouen. 


Enter La Pucelle disguised, with four Soldiers 
with sacks upon their backs. 


Puc. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, 
Through which our policy must make a breach: 
Take heed, be wary how you place your words; 
Talk like the vulgar sort of market men 
That come to gather money for their corn. 

If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, 

And that we find the slothful watch but weak, 

Ill by a sign give notice to our friends, 

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. 
First Sol. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the 

And we be lords and rulers over Rouen; [city, 

Therefore we ’ll knock. [ Knocks. 
Watch. [Within] Qui est 1a ? 

Puc. Paysans, pauvres gens de France; 

Poor market folks that come to sell their corn. 
Watch. Enter, go in; the market bell is rung. 
Puc. Now, Rouen, Ill shake thy bulwarks to the 

ground. [ Hxeunt. 


Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, 
Reignier, and forces, 

Char. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem ! 
And once again we ’ll sleep secure in Rouen. 

Bast. Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants ; 
Now she is there, how will she specify 
Where is the best and safest passage in ? 

Reign. By thrusting out atorch from yonder tower ; 
Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is, 
No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d. 


Enter La Pucelle on the top, thrusting out a torch 
burning. 
Puc. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch 
That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, 
But burning fatal to the Talbotites! [ Hit. 
Bast. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend ; 
The burning torch in yonder turret stands. 
Char. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, 
A prophet to the fall of all our foes! 
Reign. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends: 
Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently, 
And then do execution on the watch. 


[Alarum. Hxeunt. 


Analarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion. 


Tal. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy 
If Talbot but survive thy treachery. [tears, 
Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress, 

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, 
That hardly we escaped the pride of France. |Hzit. 


An alarum: excursions. Bedford, brought in sick in a 
chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without : within 
La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard, Alengon, and Reig- 
nier, on the walls, 


Puc. Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn for 
J think the Duke of Burgundy will fast [bread ? 
Before he ’ll buy again at such arate: 
’'T was full of darnel; do you like the taste ? 
Bur. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan ! 
I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own 
And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. 
Char. Your grace may starve perhaps before that 
time. [treason ! 
Bed. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this 
Puc. What will you do, good grey-beard ? break 
And run a tilt at death within a chair? [a lance, 
Tal. Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite. 
Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours! 
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age 
And twit with cowardice a man half dead ? 
Damsel, Ill have a bout with you again, 
Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. 


399 


ACT III. 


Puc. Are ye so hot, sir? yet, Pucelle, hold thy 
If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [peace; 
[The English whisper aes ak in council. 
God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker ? 
Tal. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field ? 
Puc. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, 
To try if that our own be ours or no. 
Tal. I speak not to that railing Hecate, 
But unto thee, Alencgon, and the rest ; 
Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out ? 
Alen. Signior, no. 
Tal. Signior, hang! base muleters of France! 
Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls 
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. 
Puc. Away, captains! let ’s get us from the walls; 
For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. 
God be wi’ you, my lord! we came but to tell you 
That we are here. [EHxeunt from the walls. 
Tal. And there will we be too, ere it be long, 
Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame! 
Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, 
Prick’d on by publie wrongs sustain’d in France, 
Either to get the town again or die: 
And I, as sure as English Henry lives 
And as his father here was conqueror, 
As sure as in this late-betrayed town 
Great Coeur-de-lion’s heart was buried, 
So sure I swear to get the town or die. 
Bur. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. 
Tal. But, ere we go, regard this dying prince, 
The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, 
We will bestow you in some better place, 
Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. 
Bed. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me: 
Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen 
And will be partner of your weal or woe. [you. 
Bur. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade 
Bed. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read 
That stout Pendragon in his litter sick 
Came to the field and vanquished his foes: 
Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts, 
Because [ ever found them as myself. 
Tal. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! 
Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe! 
And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, 
But gather we our forces out of hand 
And set upon our boasting enemy. 
[Hxeunt all but Bedford and Attendants. 


An alarum: excursions. Enter Sir John Fastolfe 
and a Captain. 


ae ya hee away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such 
1aste 1 
Fast. Whither away! to save myself by flight: 
We are like to have the overthrow again. 
Cap. What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot! 
Fast. Ay, 
All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. [ Hvit. 
Cap. Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow oe 
eit. 


Retreat: excursions. La Pucelle, Alengon, and 
Charles jly. 
Bed. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, 
For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow. 
What is the trust or strength of foolish man ? 
They that of late were daring with their scoffs 
Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. 
[Bedford dies, and is carried in by two in 
his chair. 


Analarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and the 
rest. 
Tal. Lost, and recover’d in a day again! 
This is a double honour, Burgundy: 
Yet heavens have glory for this victory! 
Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy 


400 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene 111. 


Enshrines thee in his heart and there erects 
Thy noble deeds as valour’s monuments. 
Tal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle 
I think her old familiar is asleep: {now ? 
Now where ’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his 
gleeks ? 
What, all amort ? Rouen hangs her head for grief 
That such a valiant company are fled. 
Now will we take some order in the town, 
Placing therein some expert officers, 
And then depart to Paris to the king, 
For there young Henry with his nobles lie. 
Bur. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy, 
Tal. But yet, before we go, let ’s not forget 
The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased, 
But see his exequies fulfill’d in Rouen: 
A braver soldier never couched lance, 
A gentler heart did never sway in court; 
But kings and mightiest potentates must die 
For that’s the end of human misery. [ mt. 


SCENE III.—The plains near Rouen. 


Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alencon, 
La Pucelle, and forces. 


Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident, 
Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered: 
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, 
For things that are not to be remedied. 
Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while 
And like a peacock sweep along his tail; 
We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train, 
If Dauphin and the rest will be but ruled. 
Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto 
And of thy cunning had no diffidence: 
One sudden foil shall never breed distrust. 
Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies, 
And we will make thee famous through the world. 
Alen. We’ll set thy statue in some holy place, 
And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint: 
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good. 
Puc. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: 
By fair persuasions mix’d with sugar’d words 
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy 
To leave the Talbot and to follow us. 
Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, 
France were no place for Henry’s warriors ; 
Nor should that nation boast it so with us, 
But be extirped from our provinces. 
Alen. For ever should they be expulsed from 
And not have title of an earldom here. [France 
Puc. Your honours shall perceive how I will work 
To bring this matter to the wished end. 
[Drum sounds afar off. 
Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive 
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. 


Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over 
at a distance, Talbot and his forces. 


There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, 
And all the troops of English after him. 


French march. Enter the Duke of Burgundy and 


Sorces. 


Now in the rearward comes the duke and his: 
Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. 
Summon a parley; we will talk with him. _ 
[Trumpets sound a parley. 
Char. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! 
Bur. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy ? 
Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy coun- 
tryman. [ing hence. 
Bur. What say’st thou, Charles ? for Iam march- 
Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy 
words. 
Puc. Brave Suu undoubted hope of France! 
Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. 


ACT IV. EPYR STIL ART? OF 


Bur. Speak on; but be not over-tedious. 

Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, 
And see the cities and the towns defaced 
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe. 

As looks the mother on her lowly babe 

When death doth close his tender dying eyes, | 

See, see the pining malady of France; 

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, 

Which thou thyself hast given her-:woful breast. 

O, turn thy edged sword another way ; 

Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help. 

One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom 

Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign 
gore: 

Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, 

And wash away thy country’s stained spots. 

Bur. Either she hath bewitch’d me with her 

words, 

Or nature makes me suddenly relent. 

Puc. Besides, all French and France exclaims on 
Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. [thee, 
Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation 
That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake ? 
When Talbot hath set footing once in France 
And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill, 

Who then but English Henry will be lord 

And thou be thrust out like a fugitive ? 

Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof, 
Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe ? 

And was he not in England prisoner ? 

But when they heard he was thine enemy, 

They set him free without his ransom paid, 

In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. 

See, then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen 
And join’st with them will be thy slaughter-men. 
Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord; 
Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. 

Bur. I am vanquished; these haughty words of 
Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot, [hers 
And made me almost yield upon my knees. 
Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen, 
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace: 

My forces and my power of men are yours: 
So farewell, Talbot; Ill no longer trust thee. 

Puc. [Aside] Done like a Frenchman: turn, and 

turn again! 

Char. W elcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes 

us fresh. 

Bast. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. 

Alen. Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this, 
And doth deserve a coronet of gold. [powers. 

Char. Now let us on, my lords, and join our 
And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Hzxewnt. 


enh O78 by 
SCENE I.—Paris. A hall of state. 


Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, 
York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talbot, Exeter, 
the Governor of Paris, and others. 


Glou. Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head. 
Win. God save King Henry,of that name thesixth! 
Glou. Now, governor of Paris, take your oath, 
That you elect no other king but him; 
Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, 
And none your foes but such as shall pretend 
Malicious practices against his state: 
This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! 


Enter Sir John Fastolfe. 


Fast. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from 
To haste unto your coronation, [Calais, 
A letter was deliver’d to my hands, | 
Writ to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy. 


26 


KING HENRY VI. SCENE L 
SCENE IV.—Paris. The palace. 


Enter the King, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, 

- York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter: Ver- 
non, Basset, and others. To them with his Soldiers, 
Talbot. 


|. Tal. My gracious prince, and honourable peers, 
Hearing of your arrival in this realm, ‘ 
| I have awhile given truce unto my wars, 
To do my duty to my sovereign : 
In sign whereof, this arm, that hath reclaim’d 
To your obedience fifty fortresses, 
Twelve cities and seven walled towns of strength, 
Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, 
Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet, 
And with submissive loyalty of heart 
Ascribes the glory of his conquest got 
First to my God and next unto your grace. [Kneels. 
King. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, 
That hath so long been resident in France ? 
Glou. Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege. 
King.Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! 
When I was young, as yet I am not old, 
I do remember how my father said 
A stouter champion never handled sword. 
Long since we were resolved of your truth, 
Your faithful service and your toil in war; 
Yet never have you tasted our reward, 
Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks, 
Because till now we never saw your face: 
Therefore, stand up; and, for these good deserts, 
We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury ; 
And in our coronation take your place. 
[Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernonand Basset. 
Ver. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea, 
Disgracing of these colours that I wear 
In honour of my noble Lord of York: —[spakest ? 
Darest thou maintain the former words thou 
Bas. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage 
The envious barking of your saucy tongue 
Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. 
Ver. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. 
Bas. Why, what is he? as good a man as York. 
Ver. Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that. 
[Strikes him. 
Bas. Villain, thou know’st the law of arms is such 
That whoso draws a sword, ’t is present death, 
| Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. 
| But Ill unto his majesty, and crave 
I may have liberty to venge this wrong; 
When thou shalt see I 71] meet thee to thy cost. 
Ver. Well, miscreant, I ll be there as soon as you; 
And,after,meet you sooner than you would. [Hxeunt. 


IV. 


Tal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! 
I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next, 
To tear the garter from thy craven’s leg, 

[Plucking it off. 

Which I have done, because unworthily 
Thou wast installed in that high degree. 
Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest: 
This dastard, at the battle of Patay, 
When but in all I was six thousand strong 
And that the French were almost ten to one, 
Betore we met or that a stroke was given, 
Like to a trusty squire did run away: 
In which assault we lost twelve hundred men ; 
Myself and divers gentlemen beside 
Were there surprised and taken prisoners. | 
Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss ; 
Or whether that such cowards ought to wear 
This ornament of knighthood, yea or no. 

Glou. To say the truth, this fact was infamous 


401 


ACT IV. FIRST (PART YOR 


And ill beseeming any common man, 
Much more a knight, a captain and a leader. 
Tal. When first this order was ordain’d, my lords, 
Knights of the garter were of noble birth, 
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, 
Such as were grown to credit by the wars; 
Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress, 
But always resolute in most extremes. 
He then that is not furnish’d in this sort 
Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, 
Profaning this most honourable order, 
And should, if I were worthy to be judge, 
Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain 
That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. [doom! 
King. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear’st thy 
Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight: 
Henceforth we banish thee, on pain of death. 


[Ewit Fastolfe. | 


And now, my lord protector, view the letter 

Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. [his style? 
Glou. What means his grace, that he hath changed 

No more but, plain and bluntly, ‘To the king!’ 

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign ? 

Or doth this churlish superscription 

Pretend some alteration in good will? 

What ’s here ? [Reads] ‘ I have, upon especial cause, 

Moved with compassion of my country’s wreck, 

Together with the pitiful complaints 

Of such as your oppression feeds upon, 

Forsaken your pernicious faction 

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of 

O monstrous treachery! can this be so, 

That in alliance, amity and oaths, 

There should be found such false dissembling guile? 
King. What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt ? 
Glou. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. 
King. Is that the worst this letter doth contain ? 
Glou. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. 


King. Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with | 


And give him chastisement for this abuse. 
How say you, my lord? are you not content ? 
Tal. Content, my liege! yes, but that I am pre- 
vented, 
I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d. 
King. Then gather strength and march unto him 
straight : 
Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason 
And what offence it is to flout his friends. 
Tal. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still 
You may behold confusion of your foes. 


[him 


[ Exit. 
Enter Vernon and Basset. 


Ver. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. 
Bas. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. 
York. This is my Servant: hear him, noble prince. 
Som. And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him. 
K. Hen. Be patient, lords; and give them leave 
to speak. i 
Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim ? 
And wherefore crave you combat ? or with whom ? 
Ver. With him, my lord; for he hath done me 
wrong. 
Bas. And I with him; for he hath done me wrong. 


K. Hen. What is that wrong whereof you both | 


complain ? 
First let me know, and then I ’ll answer you. 
Bas. Crossing the sea from England into France, 
This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, 
Upbraided me about the rose I wear; 
Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves 
Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks, 
When stubbornly he did repugn the truth 
About a certain question in the law 
Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him; 
With other vile and ignominious terms: 
In econfutation of which rude reproach 
And in defence of my lord’s worthiness, 
I crave the benefit of law of arms. 
402 


[France.’ | 


KING HENRY VI. SCENE I. 


Ver. And that is my petition, noble lord: 

For though he seem with forged quaint conceit 
To set a gloss upon his bold intent, 

Yet know, my lord, I was provoked by him; 
And he first took exceptions at this badge, 
Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower 
Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart. 

York. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left ? 

Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will 
Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it. fout, 

K. Hen. Good Lord, what madness rules in brain- 

sick men, 
When for so slight and frivolous a cause 
Such factious emulations shall arise! 
Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, 
Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. 

York. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, 
And then your highness shall command a peace. 

Som. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone; 
Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. 

York. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. 

Ver. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. 

Bas. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. 

Glow. Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife! 
And perish ye, with your audacious prate! 
Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed 
With this immodest clamorous outrage 
To trouble and disturb the king and us? 

_ And you, my lords, methinks you do not well 
To bear with their perverse objections ; 

Much less to take occasion from their mouths 
To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves: 

Let me persuade you take a better course. 

Exe. It grieves his highness: good my lords, be 

friends. . [batants : 
kK. Hen. Come hither, you that would be com- 
Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, 
Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. 
And you, my lords, remember where we are; 
In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation: 
If they perceive dissension in our looks 
And that within ourselves we disagree, 
| How will their grudging stomachs be provoked 
| To wilful disobedience, and rebel! 
Beside, what infamy will there arise, 
When foreign princes shall be certified 
| That for a toy, a thing of no regard, 
King Henry’s peers and chief nobility 
Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France! 
O, think upon the conquest of my father, 
_ My tender years, and let us not forego 
That for a trifle that was bought with blood! 
Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. 
I see no reason, if I wear this rose, 
[Putting on a red rose. 
That any one should therefore be suspicious 
I more incline to Somerset than York: 
Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both: 
As well they may upbraid me with my crown, 
Beeause. forsooth, the king of Scots is crown’d. 
| But your discretions better can persuade 
Than I am able to instruct or teach: 
| And therefore, as we hither came in peace, 
So let us still continue peace and love. 
| Cousin of York, we institute your grace 
To be our regent in these parts of France: 
And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite 
Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot; 
And, like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, 
Go cheerfully together and digest 
Your angry choler on your enemies. 
Ourself, my lord protector and the rest 
After some respite will return to Calais; 
From thence to England; where I hope ere long 
To be Bereiods by your victories, 
With Charles, Alencon and that traitorous rout. 

[Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter 

and Vernon. 


ACT IV. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI 


SCENE IV. 


War. My Lord of York, I promise you, the king 
Prettily, methought, did play the orator. 
York. And so he did; but yet I like it not, 


In that he wears the badge of Somerset. [not ; 


War. Tush, that was but his fancy, blame him | 


I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. 
York. An if I wist he did,— but let it rest; 
Other affairs must now be managed. 
[ Hxeunt all but Exeter. 
Exe. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy 
For, had the passions of thy heart burst out, [voice; 
I fear we should have seen decipher’d there 
More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, 
Than yet can be imagined or supposed. 
But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees 
This jarring discord of nobility, 
This shouldering of each other in the court, 
This factious bandying of their favourites, 
But that it doth presage some ill event. 
*T is much when sceptres are in children’s hands; 
But more when envy breeds unkind division; 
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. 


SCENE II. — Before Bourdeaux. 


Enter Talbot, with trump and drum. 


Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter ; 
Summon their general unto the wall. 


Y 


at. 


Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft. 


English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth, 
Servant in arms to Harry King of England; 
And thus he would: Open your city gates; 

Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours, 
And do him homage as obedient subjects; 
And I’ withdraw me and my bloody power: 
But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace, 
You tempt the fury of my three attendants, 
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; 
Who in a moment even with the earth 

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers, 
If you forsake the offer of their love. 

Gen. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, 
Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! 
The period of thy tyranny approacheth. 

On us thou canst not enter but by death; 

For, I protest, we are well fortified 

And strong enough to issue out and fight: 

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, 

Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee: 

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d, 

To wall thee from the liberty of flight; 

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress, 

But death doth front thee with apparent spoil 

And pale destruction meets thee in the face. 

Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament 

To rive their dangerous artillery 

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. 

Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man, 

Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit! 

This is the latest glory of thy praise 

That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; 

For ere the glass, that now begins to run, 

I’inish the process of his sandy hour, 

These eyes, that see thee now well coloured, 

Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale and dead. 

[Drum afar off. 

Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell, 

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; 

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. 
[Hxeunt General, Ke. 

Tal. He fables not; I hear the enemy: 

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. 
O, negligent and heedless discipline! 

How are we park’d and bounded in a pale, 

A little herd of England’s timorous deer, 

Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs! 

If we be English deer, be then in blood; 


Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch, 

But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, 

Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel 
And make the cowards stand aloof at bay: 

Sell every man his life as dear as mine, 

And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. 
God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right, 
Prosper our colours inthis dangerous fight! [Exeunt. 


SCENE III.—Plains in Gascony. 


Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York 
with trumpet and many Soldiers. 
York. Are not the speedy scouts return’d again, 
That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin ? 
Mess. ‘They are returned, my lord, and give it out 
That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his power, 
To fight with Talbot: as he march’d along, 
By your espials were discovered 
Two mightier troops tHan that the Dauphin led, 
Which join’d with him and made their march for 
Bourdeaux. 
York. A plague upon that villain Somerset, 
That thus delays my promised supply 
Of horsemen, that were levied for this siege! 
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, 
And I am lowted by a traitor villain 
And cannot help the noble chevalier: 
God comfort him in this necessity ! 
If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. 


Enter Sir William Lucy. 


Lucy. Thou princely leader of our English strength, 

Never so needful on the earth of France, 

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, 

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron 

And hemm’d about with grim destruction: 

To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, Y ork ! 

Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s hon- 

our. 
York. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart 

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place! 

So should we save a valiant gentleman 

By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. 

Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep, 

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep. 
Lucy. O, send some succour to the distress’d lord! 
York. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word ; 

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get ; 

All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset. [soul ; 
Lucy. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s 

And on his son young John, who two hours since 

I met in travel toward his warlike father! 

This seven years did not Talbot see his son; 

And now they meet where both their lives are done. 
York. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot-have 

To bid his young son welcome to his grave ? 

Away! vexation almost stops my breath, 

That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death. 

Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can, 

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. 

Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours are won away, 

’Long all of Somerset and his delay. 

[Hxit, with his soldiers. 
Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition 

Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, 

Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss 

The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, 

That ever living man of memory, 

Henry the Fifth: whiles they each other cross, 

Lives, honours, lands and all hurry to loss. [Hvil. 


SCENE IV.—Other plains in Gascony. 


Enter Somerset, with his army; a Captain of 
Talbot’s with him. 
Som. It is too late; I cannot send them now: 
This expedition was by York and Talbot 
403 


FIRST PART OF 


Too rashly plotted: all our general force 

Might with a sally of the very town 

Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot 

Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour 

By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure: 

York set him on to fight and die in shame, 

That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. 
Cap. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me 

Set from our o’ermatched forces forth for aid. 


ACT IV. 


Enter Sir William Lucy. 


Som. How now, Sir William! whither were you 
sent ? [Lord Talbot; 
Lucy. Whither, my lord? from bought and sold 

Who, ring’d about with bold adversity, 

Cries out for noble York and Somerset, 

To beat assailing death from his weak legions: 

And whiles the honourable captain there 

Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs, 

And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue, 

You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s honour, 

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. 

Let not your private discord keep away 

The levied succours that should lend him aid, 

While he, renowned noble gentleman, 

Yields up his life unto a world of odds: 

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, 

Aleng¢on, Reignier, compass him about, 

And Talbot perisheth by your default. [him aid. 
Som. York set him on; York should have sent 
Lucy. And Y ork as fast upon your grace exclaims ; 

Swearing that you withhold his levied host, 

Collected for this expedition. [horse; 
Som. York lies; he might have sent and had the 

I owe him little duty, and less love; 

And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. 
Lucy.The fraudof England ,not the force of France, 

Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot: 

Never to England shall he bear his life; 

But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife. 

Som. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen 

Within six hours they will be at his aid. [straight: 
Lucy. Too late comes rescue: he is ta’en or slain; 

For fly he could not, if he would have fled; 

And fiy would Talbot never, though he might. 
Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu! 
Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame in 

you. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—The English camp near Bourdeaux. 


Enter Talbot and John his son. 


Tal. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee 
To tutor thee in stratagems of war, 

That Talbot’s name might be in thee revived 
When sapless age and weak unable limbs 

Should bring thy father to his GE eoning, chair. 
But, O malignant and ill-boding stars! 

Now thou art come unto a feast of death, 

A terrible and unavoided danger: 

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse ; 
And Ill direct thee how thou shalt escape 

By sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone. 

John. Is my name Talbot ? and am I your son ? 
And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, 
Dishonour not her honourable name, 

To make a bastard and a slave of me! 
The world will say, he is not Talbot’s blood, 
That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. 

Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain. 

John. He that flies so will ne’er return again. 

Tal. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. 

John. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly: 
Your loss is great, so your regard should be; 

My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. 
Upon my death the French ean little boast ; 
In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. 
Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; 


404 


KENG VEEN fr? OT, 


SCENE VI. 


But mine it will, that no exploit have done: 
You fled for vantage, every one will swear: 
But, if I bow, they ’Il say it was for fear. 
There is no hope that ever I will stay, 
If the first hour I shrink and run away. 
Here on my knee I beg mortality, 
Rather than life preserved with infamy. 
Tal. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb ? 
John. Ay, rather than Ill shame my mother’s ~ 
womb. 
Tal. Upon my blessing, I command thee go. 
John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. 
Tal. Part of thy father may be saved in thee. 
John. No part of him but will be shame in me. 
Tal. ree never hadst renown, nor canst not ite 
it. it? 
John. Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse 
Tal. Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from 
that stain. 
John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. 
If death be so apparent, then both fly. 
Tal. And leave my followers here to fight and die ? 
My age was never tainted with such shame. 
John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? 
No more can I be sever’d from your side, 
Than can yourself yourself in twain divide: 
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; 
For live I will not, if my father die. . 
Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, 
Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. 
Come, side by side together live and die; 
And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. | 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE VI. —A field of battle. 


Alarum: excursions, wherein Talbot’s son is 
hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him. 


poe ee George and victory! fight, soldiers, 


ght: ; 
The regent hath with Talbot broke his word 
And left us to the rage of France his sword. 
Where is John Talbot ? Pause, and take thy breath; 
I gave thee life and rescued thee from death. 
John. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! 
The life thou gavest me first was lost and done, 
Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, 
To my determined time thou gavest new date. 
Tal. When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword 
struck fire, R 
It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire 
Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age, 
Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage, 
Beat down Alengon, Orleans, Burgundy, 
And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. 
The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood 
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood 
Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, 
And interchanging blows I quickly shed 
Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace 
Bespoke him thus; ‘Contaminated, base 
And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, 
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine 
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy: 
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, 
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care, 
Art thou not weary, John ? how dost thou fare ? 
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, 
Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry ? 
Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: 
The help of one stands me in little stead. 
O, too much folly is it, well I wot, 
To hazard all our lives in one small boat! 
If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage, 
To-morrow I shall die with mickle age: 
By me they nothing gain an if I stay; 
*T is but the shortening of my life one day: 
In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, 
My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame: 


ACT V. 


TLRSE PART, OF. KING) (HENEY ) VI 


All these and more we hazard by thy stay; 
All these are saved if thou wilt fly away. [smart; 
John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me 
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart : 
On that advantage, bought with such a shame, 
To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, 
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, 
The coward horse that bears me fall and die! 
And like me to the peasant boys of France, 
To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance! 
Surely, by all the glory you have won, 
An if I fly, [am not Talbot’s son: 
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; 
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot. 
Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, 
Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet: 
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side; 
And, commendable proved, let ’s die in pride. 
[Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII. — Another part of the field. 


Alarum: excursions. Enter old Talbot led by a 
Servant. 


Tal. Where is my other life? mine own is gone; 
O, where’s young Talbot ? where is valiant John ? 
Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity, 
Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee: 
When he perceived me shrink and on my knee, 
His bloody sword he brandish’d over me, 
And, like a hungry lion, did commence 
Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; 
But when my angry guardant stood alone, 
Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none, 
Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart 
Suddenly made him from my side to start 
Into the clustering battle of the French; 
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench 
His over-mounting spirit, and there died, 
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. 

Serv. O my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne! 


Enter Soldiers, with the body of young Talbot. 


Tal. Thou antic death, which laugh’st us here to 
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, [scorn, 
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, 

In thy despite shall ’scape mortality. 

O thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death, 

Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! 

Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no; 

Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. 

Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, 

Had death been French, then death had died to-day. 

Come, come and lay him in his father’s arms: 

My spirit can no longer bear these harms. 

Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, 

Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave. 
Dies. 


Enter Charles, Alencon, Burgundy, Bastard, 
La Pucelle, and forces. 


Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, 
We should have found a bloody day of this. 
Last. How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging- 


Woo 
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood! 


SCENE. I, 


Puc. Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said: 
‘Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’ 
But, with a proud majestical high scorn, 

He answer’d thus: ‘ Young Talbot was not born 
To be the pillage of a giglot wench: ’ 

So, rushing in the bowels of the French, 

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. [knight - 

Bur. Doubtless he would have made a noble 
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms 
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! [der, 

Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asun- 
Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder. 

Char. O,no, forbear! for that which we have fled 
During the life, let us not wrong it dead. 


Enter Sir William Lucy, attended; Herald of the 
French preceding. ; 


Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent, 
To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day. 
Char. On what submissive message art thou sent? 
Lucy. Submission, Dauphin! ’t is a mere French 
word ; 
We English warriors wot not what it means. 
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en 
And to survey the bodies of the dead. [is. 
Char. For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison 
But tell me whom thou seek’st. 
Lucy. But where ’s the great Alcides of the field. 
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, 


Created, for his rare success in arms, 
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence ; 
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, 


-| Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, 


Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of 
Sheffield, 

The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge; 

Knight of the noble order of Saint George, 

Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece; 

Great marshal to Henry the Sixth 

Of all his wars within the realm of France? 

Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed! 
The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, 
Writes not so tedious a style as this. 
Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles 
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. 

Inucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only 

scourge, 

Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis ? 
O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d, 
That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! 
O, that I could but call these dead to life! 
It were enough to fright the realm of France: 
Were but his picture left amongst you here, 
It would amaze the proudest of you all. 
Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence 
And give them burial as beseems their worth. 

Puc. I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost, 
He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. 
For God’s sake, let him have ’em; to keep them here, 
They would but stink, and putrefy the air. 

Ohar. Go, take their bodies hence. 

Lucy. 1711 bear them hence; but from their ashes 

shall be rear’d 
A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. 

Char. So we be rid of them, do with ’em what thou 
| And now to Paris, in this conquering vein: [wilt. 
| All will be ours, now bloody Talbot ’s slain. [Hxeunt. 


ONG) TL OV: 


SCENE I.— London. 


Enter King, Gloucester, and Exeter. 


The palace. 
Sennet. 


Glow. I have, my lord: and their intent is this: 
They humbly sue unto your excellence 
To have a godly peace concluded of 


King. Have you perused the letters from the | Between the realms of England and of France. . 


pope, 
The emperor and the Earl of Armagnac ? 


King. How doth your grace affect their motion ? 
Glou. Well, my good lord; and as the only means 
406 


A CHEV, 


To stop effusion of our Christian blood | 

And stablish quietness on every side. 
King. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought 

It was both impious and unnatural 

That such immanity and bloody strife 

Should reign among professors of one faith. 
Glou. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect 

And surer bind this knot of amity, 

The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, 

A man of great authority in France, 

Proffers his only daughter to your grace 

In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. 
King. Marriage, uncle! alas, my years are young ! 

And fitter is my study and my books 

Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. 

Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please, 

So let them have their answers every one: 

I shall be well content with any choice 

Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal. 


Enter Winchester in Cardinal’s habit, a Legate 
and two Ambassadors. 


Exe. What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d, 
And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree ? 
Then I perceive that will be verified 
Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, 
‘If once he come to be a cardinal, 
He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’ 
King. My lords ambassadors, your several suits 
Have been consider’d and debated on. 
Your purpose is both good and reasonable ; 
And therefore are we certainly resolved 
To draw conditions of a friendly peace; 
Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean 
Shall be transported presently to France. 
Glou. And for the proffer of my lord your master, 
I have inform’d his highness so at large 
As liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts, 
Her beauty and the value of her dower, 
He doth intend she shall be England’s queen. 
King. In argument and proof of which contract, 
Bear her this Jewel, pledge of my affection. 
And so, my lord protector, see them guarded 
And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d 
Commit them to the fortune of the sea. 
[Hxeunt all but Winchester and Legate. 
Win. Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive 
The sum of money which I promised 
Should be deliver’d to his holiness 
For clothing me in these grave ornaments. 
Leg. I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure. 
im. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I 
Or be inferior to the proudest peer. [trow, 
Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive 
That, neither in birth or for authority, 
The bishop will be overborne by thee: 
I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, 
Or sack this country with a mutiny. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—France. 


Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Bastard, 
Reignier, La Pucelle, and forces. 
Char. These news, my lords, may cheer our droop- 
ing spirits: 
*T is said the stout Parisians do revolt 
And turn again unto the warlike French. [France, 
Alen. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of 
And keep not back your powers in dalliance. 
Puc. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; 
Else, ruin combat with their palaces! 


Plains in Anjou. 


Enter Scout. 
Scout. Success unto our valiant general, 

And happiness to his accomplices! [speak. 
Char. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, 
Scout. The English army, that divided was 

406 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI 


SCENE III. 


Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, 
And means to give you battle presently. 

Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is: 
But we will presently provide for them. 

Bur. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there: 
Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. 

Puc. Of all base passions, fear is most accursed. 
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine, 
Let Henry fret and all the world repine. 

Char. Then on, my lords; and France be for- 


tunate! [ Exeunt. 
SCENE III. — Before Angiers. 
Alarum. EHzacursions. Enter La Pucelle. 


Puc. The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen 


Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; _[fly. 
And ye choice spirits that admonish me 
And give me signs of future accidents. [Thunder. 


You speedy helpers, that are substitutes 
Under the lordly monarch of the north, 
Appear and aid me in this enterprise. 


Enter Fiends. 


This speedy and quick appearance argues proof 
Of your accustom’d diligence to me. 
Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d 


| Out of the powerful regions under earth, 


Help me this once, that France may get the field. 
They walk, and speak not. 
O, hold me not with silence over-long! 
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, 
I ll lop a member off and give it you 
In earnest of a further benefit, 
So you do condescend to help me now. 
[| They hang their heads. 
No hope to have redress? My body shall 
Pay recompense, if you will ee my suit. 
[They shake their heads. 
Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice 
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? 
Then take my soul, my body, soul and all, 
Before that England give the French the foil. 
[They depart. 
See, they forsake me! Now the time is come 
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest 
And let her head fall into England’s lap. 
My ancient incantations are too weak, 
And hell too strong for me to buckle with: 
Now, France, thy glory droopeth tothedust. [Zwit. 


Excursions. Re-enter La Pucelle fighting hand to hand 
with York: La Pucelle is taken. The French fly. 

York. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast: 
Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms 
And try if they can gain your liberty. 

A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace! 
See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows, 
As if with Circe she would change my shape! 

Puc. Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be. 

York. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man; 
No shape but his can please your dainty eye. 

Puc. A plaguing mischief light on Charles and 
And may ye both be suddenly surprised [thee ! 
By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! 

York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy 

tongue! 

Puc. I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile. 

York. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the 

stake. [ Hxeunt. 


Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand. 


Suf. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. 
tee on her. 
O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! 
For I will touch thee but with reverent hands; 
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, 


ei 


ACT Vv. 


And lay them gently on thy tender side. 
Who art thou? say, that I may honour thee. 
Mar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, 
The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. 
Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am [ call’d. 
Be not offended, nature’s miracle, 
Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me: 
So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, 
Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. 
Yet, if this servile usage once offend, 
Go and be free again as Suffolk’s friend. 
[She is going. 
O, stay! I have no power to let her pass; 
My hand would free her, but my heart says no. 
As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, 
Twinkling another counterfeited beam, 
So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. 
Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak : 
I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. 
Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself ; 
Hast not a tongue? is she not here ? 
Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight ? 
Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such, 
Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. 
Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk —if thy name be so— 
What ransom must I pay before I pass ? 
For I perceive I am thy prisoner. 
Suf. How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, 
Before thou make a trial of her love ? I pay ? 
Mar. Why speak’st thou not ? what ransom must 
Suf. She ’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d: 
She is a woman, therefore to be won. 
Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom? yea, or no. 
Suf. Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; 
Then how can Margaret be thy paramour ? 
Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will not hear. 
Suf. There allis marr’d; there lies a cooling card. 
ar. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. 
She And yet a dispensation may be had. 
ar. And yet I would that you would answer me. 
Suf. Ill win this Lady Margaret. For whom ? 
Why, for my king: tush, that’s a wooden thing! 
Mar. He talks of wood: it is some carpenter. 
Suf. Yet so my fancy may be satisfied. 
And peace established between these realms. 
But there remains a scruple in that too; 
For ptr her father be the King of Naples, 
Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, 
And our nobility will scorn the match. 
Mar. Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure ? 
Suf. It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much: 
Henry is youthful and will quickly yield. 
Madam, I have a secret to reveal. {knight, 
Mar. What though I be enthrall’d ? he seems a 
And will not any way dishonour me. 
Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. 
ar. Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French ; 
And then I need not crave his courtesy. 
che Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause — 
ar. Tush, women have been captivate ere now. 
Suf. Lady, wherefore talk you so ? 
ar. L cry you mercy, ’t is but Quid for Quo. 


Suf. Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose | 


Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ? 
Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vile 
Than is a slave in base servility ; 
For princes should be free. 
uf. And so shall you, 
If happy England’s royal king be free. 
Mar. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me ? 
Suf. 1’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen, 
To put a golden sceptre in thy hand 
And set a precious crown upon thy head, 
If thou wilt condescend to be my — 
Mar. What ? 
Suf. His love. 
ar. Tam unworthy to be Henry’s wife. 


FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. scenettt. 


Suf. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am 
To woo so fair a dame to be his wife 
And have no portion in the choice myself. 
How say you, madam, are ye so content ? 
Mar. An it my father please, I am content. 
Suf. Then call our captains and our colours forth, 
And, madam, at your father’s castle walls 
We'll crave a parley, to confer with him., 


A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls. 
See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! 
Feig. To whom ? 
Suf. To me. 
Reig. Suffolk, what remedy ? 
I am a soldier and unapt to weep 
Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness. 
Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord: 
Consent, and for thy honour give consent, 
Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king; 
Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto; 
And this her easy-held imprisonment 
Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty. 
Reig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks ? 
Suf. Fair Margaret knows 
That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. 
Reig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend 
To give thee answer of thy just demand. 
[Exit from the walls. 
Suf. And here I will expect thy coming. 


Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below, 


Reig. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories: 
Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. 
Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, 
Fit to be made companion with a king: 
What answer makes your grace unto my suit ? 
Reig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth 
To be the princely bride of such a lord; 
Upon condition I may quietly 
Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, 
Free from oppression or the stroke of war, 
My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please. 
Suf. That is her ransom; I deliver her; 
And those two counties I will undertake 
Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy. 
Reig. And I again, in Henry’s royal name, 
As deputy unto that gracious king, 
Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith. 
Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, 
Because this is in traffic of a king. 
[Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content 
To be mine own attorney in this case. 
I ll over then to England with this news, 
And make this marriage to be solemnized. 
So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe 
In golden palaces, as it becomes. 
Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace 
The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. 
Mar. Farewell, my lord: good wishes, praise and 
prayers 
Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [Going. 
Suf. Farewell, sweet madam: but hark you, Mar: 
No princely commendations to my king? __[garet; 
Mar. Such commendations as becomes a maid, 
A virgin and his servant, say to him. 
Suf. Words sweetly placed and modestly directed. 
But, madam, I must trouble you again ; 
No loving token to his majesty ? 
Mar. Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart, 
Never yet taint with love, I send the king. 
Suf. And this withal. [ Kisses her. 
ar. That for thyself: I will not so presume 
To send such peevish tokens to a king. 
[Exeunt Reignier and Margaret. 
Suf. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay ; 
Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth ; 
There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. 


407 


ACT V. 


Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise: 

Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, 

And natural graces that extinguish art ; 

Repeat their semblance often on the seas, 

That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry’s feet, 

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with ies 
vit. 


SCENE IV.— Camp of the Duke of York in Anjou. 


Enter York, Warwick, and others. 


York. Bring forth that sorceress condemn’d to 
burn. 


Enter La Pucelle, guarded, and a Shepherd. 


Shep. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father’s heart out- 
Have I sought every country far and near, [right! 
And, now it is my chance to find thee out, 

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ? 
Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I ll die with thee! 

Puc. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch! 

I am descended of a gentler blood: 
Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. [not so; 

Shep. Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis 
I did beget her, all the parish knows: 

Her mother liveth yet, can testify 
She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. 

War. Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage ? 

York. This argues what her kind of life hath been, 
Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. 

Shep. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! 
God knows thou art a collop of my flesh; 

And for thy sake have I shed many a tear: 
Deny me not, I prithee, Benue Joan. [man, 

Puc. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this 
Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. 

Shep. ’T is true, I gave a noble to the priest 
The morn that I was wedded to her mother. 

Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. 
Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time 

Of thy nativity! I would the milk 

Thy mother gave thee when thou suck’dst her breast, 
Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake! 

Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, 

I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee! 

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab ? 

O, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good. [Ezxit. 

York. Take her away; for she hath lived too long, 
To fill the world with vicious qualities. [demn’d: 

Puce. First, let me tell you whom you have con- 
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, 

But issued from the progeny of kings; 
Virtuous and holy; chosen from above, 

By inspiration of celestial grace, 

To work exceeding miracles on earth. 

I never had to do with wicked spirits: 

But you, that are polluted with your lusts, 
Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, 
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, 
Because you want the grace that others have, 
You judge it straight a thing impossible 

To compass wonders but by help of devils. 
No, misconceived! Joan of Are hath been 
A virgin from her tender infancy, 

Chaste and immaculate in very thought; 
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused, 
Wiil cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. 

York. Ay, ay: away with her to execution! 

_ War. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid, 
Spare for no faggots, let there be enow: 

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, 

That so her torture may be shortened. 

Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ? 

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, 
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege. 
{ am with child, ye bloody homicides: 
Murder not then the fruit within my womb, 
Although ye hale me to a violent death. [child ! 

York. Now heaven forfend! the holy maid with 

408 


FIRST PARTVOR KING  HENEY Ve 


SCENE IV. 


War. The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought: 
Is all your strict preciseness come to this ? 
York. She and the Dauphin have been juggling: 
I did imagine what would be her refuge. 
War. Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live; 
Especially since Charles must father it. 
Puc. You are deceived; my child is none of his: 
It was Alencgon that enjoy’d my love. 
York. Alengon! that notorious Machiavel! 
It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. 
Puc. O, give me leave, I have deluded you: 
°T was neither Charles nor yet the duke I named, 
But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail’d. 
War. A married man! that’s most intolerable. 
York. Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows 
not well, 
There were so many, whom she may accuse. 
War. It’s sign she hath been liberal and free. 
York. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. 
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee: 
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. [curse : 
Puc. Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my 
May never glorious sun refiex his beams 
Upon the country where you make abode; 
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death 
Environ you, till mischief and despair 
Drive you to break your necks or nan yourselves! 
[| Hxit, guarded, 
York. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, 
Thou foul accursed minister of hell! 


Enter Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winches*r, 
attended. 


Car. Lord regent, I do greet your excellence 
With letters of commission from the king. 
For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, 
Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils, 


| Have earnestly implored a general peace 


Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; 
And here at hand the Dauphin and his train 
Approacheth, to confer about some matter. 
York. Is all our travail turn’d to this effect ? 
After the slaughter of so many peers, 
So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers, 
That in this quarrel have been overthrown 
And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit. 
Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace ? 
Have we not lost most part of all the towns, 
By treason, falsehood and by treachery, 
Our great progenitors had conquered ? 
O, Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief 
The utter loss of all the realm of France. 
War. Be patient, York: if we conclude a peaca, 
It shall be with such strict and severe covenants 
As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. 


Enter Charles, Alencon, Bastard, Reignier, and 
others. 


Char. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed 
That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in Franc, 
We come to be informed by yourselves | 
What the conditions of that league must be. 

York. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes 
The hollow passage of my poison’d voice, 

By sight of these our baleful enemies. 

Win. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: 
That, in regard King Henry gives consent, 

Of mere compassion and of lenity, 

To ease your country of distressful war, 

And sufier you to breathe in fruitful peace, 
You shall become true liegemen to his crown: 
And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear 
To pay him tribute, and submit thyself, 

Thou shalt be placed as viceroy under him, 
And still enjoy thy regal dignity. 

Alen. Must he be then as shadow of himself ? 
Adorn his temples with a coronet, 

And yet, in substance and authority, 


AGT. V. 


Retain but privilege of a private man ? 
This proffer is absurd and reasonless. 
Char. ’Tis known already that I am possess’d 
With more than half the Gallian territories, 
And therein reverenced for their lawful king: 
Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d, 
Detract so much from that prerogative, 
_ As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole ? 
No, lord ambassador, I ’ll rather keep 
That which I have than, coveting for more, 
Be cast from possibility of all. [means 
York. Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret 
Used intercession to obtain a league, 
And, now the matter grows to compromise, 
Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison ? 
Either accept the title thou usurp’st, 
Of benefit proceeding from our king 
And not of any challenge of desert, 
Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. 
Reig. My lord, you do not well in obstinacy 
To cavil in the course of this contract: 
If once it be neglected, ten to one 
We shall not find like opportunity. 
Alen. To say the truth, it is your policy 
To save your subjects from such massacre 
And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen 
By our proceeding in hostility ; 
And therefore take this compact of a truce, 
Although you break it when your pleasure serves. 
War. How say’st thou, Charles ? shall our condi- 
Char. It shall; [tion stand ? 
Only reserved, you claim no interest 
In any of our towns of garrison. 
York. Then swear allegiance to his majesty, 
As thou art knight, never to disobey 
Nor be rebellious to the crown of England, 
Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. 
So, now dismiss your army when ye please; 
Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, 
For here we entertain a solemn peace. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— London. 


Enter Suffolk in conference with the King, Glou- 
cester and Exeter. 


King. Your wondrous rare description, noble earl, 
Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me: 
Her virtues graced with external gifts 
Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart: 
And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts 
Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, 
So am I driven by breath of her renown 
Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive 
Where I may have fruition of her love. 

Suf. Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale 
Is but a preface of her worthy praise ; 

The chief perfections of that lovely dame, 
Had I sufficient skill to utter them, 

Would make a volume of enticing lines, 

Able to ravish any dull conceit : 

And, which is more, she is not so divine, 

So full-replete with choice of all delights, 

But with as humble lowliness of mind 

She is content to be at your command; 
Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, 
To love and honour Henry as her lord. 

King. And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume. 
Therefore, my lord protector, give consent 
That Margaret may be England’s royal queen. 

Glow. So should I give consent to flatter sin. 
You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d 
Unto another lady of esteem: 

How shall we then dispense with that contract, 
And not deface your honour with reproach ? 

Suf. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths; 
Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d 
To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists 


The palace. 


FIEST PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE Y. 


By reason of his adversary’s odds: . 
A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds, 
And therefore may be broke without offence. 

Glou. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than 
Her father is no better than an earl, {that ? 
Although in glorious titles he excel. 

Suf. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, 

The King of Naples and Jerusalem ; j 
And of such great authority in France 
As his alliance will contirm our peace 
And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. 

Glou. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, 
Because he is near kinsman unto Chiles [dower 

Exe. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal 
Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. 

Suf. A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king, 
That he should be so abject, base and poor, 

To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. 
Henry is able to enrich his queen 

And not to seek a queen to make him rich: 

So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, 
As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. 
Marriage is a matter of more worth 

Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; 

Not whom we will, but whom his grace affects, 
Must be companion of his nuptial bed: 

And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, 
It most of all these reasons bindeth us, 

In our opinions she should be preferr ’d. 

For what is wedlock forced but a hell, 

An age of discord and continual strife ? 
Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, 

And is a pattern of celestial peace. 

Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, 
But Margaret, that is daughter to a king ? 

Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, 
Approves her fit for none but for a king: 

Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, 

More than in women commonly is seen, 

Will answer our hope in issue of a king; 

For Henry, son unto a conqueror, 

Is likely to beget more conquerors, 

If with a lady of so high resolve 

As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love. 

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me 
That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she. 

King. Whether it be through force of your report, 
My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that 
My tender youth was never yet attaint 
With any passion of inflaming love, 

I cannot tell; but this I am assured, 

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, 

Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, 

As I am sick with working of my thoughts. 

Take, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France; 
Agree to any covenants, and procure 

That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come 

To cross the seas to England and be crown’d 

King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen : 

For your expenses and sufficient charge, 

Among the people gather up a tenth. 

Be gone, I say; for, till you do return, 

I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. 

And you, good uncle, banish all offence: 

If you do censure me by what you were, 

Not what you are, I know it will excuse 

This sudden execution of my will. 

And so, conduct me where, from company, 

I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [ Kixtt. 

Glou. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last. 

[Exeunt Gloucester and Hxeter. 

Suf. Thus Suffolk hath prevailed; and thus he 
As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, [goes, 
With hope to find the like event in love, 

But prosper better than the Trojan did. 
Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the kin us 
But [ will rule both her, the king and realm. [Hxv. 


409 


THE SECOND PART OF 


KING HENRY THE SIXTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


King Henry the Sixth. 

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, his uncle. 

Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great- 
uncle to the King. 

Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. 

Edward and Richard, his sons. 

Duke of Somerset. 

Duke of Suffolk. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Lord Clifford. 

Young Clifford, his son. 

Earl of Salisbury. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Lord Scales. 

Lord Say. 

Sir Humphrey Stafford, and William Staf- 
ford, his brother. 

Sir John Stanley. 

Vaux. 

Matthew Goffe. 

A Sea-captain, Master, and Master’s-Mate, and 
Walter Whitmore. 


Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk. 
John Hume and John Southwell, priesta, 
Bolingbroke, a conjurer. 
Thomas Horner, an armourer. Peter, his man. 
Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Alban’s. 
Simpcox, an impostor. 
Alexander Iden, a Kentish gentleman. 
Jack Cade, a rebel. 
George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the butcher, 
Smith the weaver, Michael, &c., followers of Cade. 
Two Murderers. 
Margaret, Queen to King Henry. 
Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester. 
Margaret Jourdain, a witch. 
Wife to Simpcox. 
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a 
Herald, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, ’Pren- 
tices, Faleconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. 


A Spirit. 


SCENE — England. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lvil.] 


oNK O01 RS 


SCENE I.— London. The palace. 


Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys. Enter the King, 
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, Salisbury, War- 
wick, und Cardinal Beaufort, on the one side; the 
Queen, Suffolk, York, Somerset, and Buckingham, 
on the other, 


Suf. As by your high imperial majesty 
I had in charge at my depart for France, 
As procurator to your excellence, 
To marry Princess Margaret for your grace, 
So, in the famous ancient city Tours, 
In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil, [eon, 
The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne and Alen- 
Seven earls, twelve barons and twenty reverend 
bishops, 
I have perform’d my task and was espoused : 
And humbly now upon my bended knee, 
In sight of England and her lordly peers, 
Deliver up my title in the queen 
To your most gracious hands, that are the substance 
Of that great shadow I did represent ; 
The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, 
The fairest queen that ever king received. 
King. Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret: 
I can express no kinder sign of love 
Than this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life, 
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! 
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face 
A world of earthly blessings to my soul, 
If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. lord, 
Queen. Great King of England and my gracious 


410 


| The mutual conference that my mind hath had, 

| By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, 

In courtly company or at my beads, 

With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, 

Makes me the bolder to salute my king 

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords 

And over-joy of heart doth minister. 
King. Her sight did ravish; but her grace in 

speech, 

Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty, 

Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys; 

Such is the fulness of my heart’s content. 

Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. 
All [kneeling]. Long live Queen Margaret, Eng- 

land’s happiness! 
eee We thank you all. [Flowrish. 
uff. My lord protector, so it please your grace. 

Here are the articles of contracted peace 

Between our sovereign and the French king Charles, 

For eighteen months concluded by consent. 

Glou. [Reads] ‘Imprimis, It is agreed between the 
| French king Charles, and William de la Pole, Mar- 
'quess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of 

England, that the said Henry shall espouse the 
Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of 
Naples, Sicilia and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen 
of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. 
Item, that the duchy of Anjou and the county of 
Maine shall be released and delivered to the a: 


her father ’— [Lets the paper fal 
King. Uncle, how now! 
Glou. Pardon me, gracious lord ; 


oe 


ACT I. 


Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart 
And dimm/’d mine eyes, that I can read no further. 
King. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on. 
Car. [Reads] ‘ Item, It is further agreed between 
them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall 
be released and delivered over to the king her father, 
and she sent over of the King of England’s own 
proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.’ 
King. They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel 


own: 
We here create thee the first duke of Suffolk, 
And gird thee with the sword. Cousin of York, 
We here discharge your grace from being regent 
I’ the parts of France, till term of eighteen months 
Be full expired. Thanks, uncle Winchester, 
Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, 
Salisbury, and Warwick; 
We thank you all for this great favour done, 
In entertainment to my princely queen. 
Come, let us in, and with all speed provide 
To see her coronation be perform’d. 
[Hxeunt King, Queen, and Bee 

Glou. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, 
To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, 
Your griet, the common grief of all the land. 
What! did my brother Henry spend his youth, 
His valour, coin and people, in the wars ? 
Did he so often lodge in open field, 
In winter’s cold and summer’s parching heat, 
To conquer France, his true inheritance ? 
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, 
To keep by policy what Henry got ? 
Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, 
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, 
Received deep scars in France and Normandy ? 
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, 
With all the learned council of the realm, 
Studied so long, sat in the council-house 
Early and late, debating to and fro 


. How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe, 


And had his highness in his infancy 
Crowned in Paris in despite of foes ? 
And shall these labours and these honours die ? 
Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, 
Your deeds of. war and all our counsel die ? 
O peers of England, shameful is this league! 
Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, 
Blotting your names from books of memory, 
Razing the characters of your renown, 
Defacing monuments of conquer’d France, 
Undoing all, as all had never been! [course, 
Car. Nephew, what means this passionate dis- 
This peroration with such circumstance ? 
For France, ’t is ours; and we will keep it still. 
Glou. Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can; 
But now it is impossible we should: 
Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, 
Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine 
Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style 
Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. 
Sal. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, 
These counties were the keys of Normandy. 
But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son ? 
War. For grief that they are past recovery: 
For, were there hope to conquer them again, 
My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. 
Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both; 
Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer: 
And are the cities, that I got with wounds, 
Deliver’d up again with peaceful words ? 
Mort Dieu! 
York. For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate, 
That dims the honour of this warlike isle! 
France should have torn and rent my very heart, 
Before I would have yielded to this league. 
I never read but England’s kings have had 
Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives; 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY ‘VI. 


SCENE I. 


And our King Henry gives away his own, 
To match with her that brings no vantages. 
Glou. A proper jest, and never heard before, 
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth 
For costs and charges in transporting her! 
She should have stayed in France and starved in 
Before — [France, 
Car. My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too 
It was the pleasure of my lord the king. [hot: 
Glou. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind; 
*T is not my speeches that you do mislike, 
But ’t is my presence that doth trouble ye. 
Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face 
I see thy fury: if I longer stay, 
We shall begin our ancient bickerings. 
Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, 
I prophesied France will be lost ere long. 
Car. So, there goes our protector in a rage. 
*T is known to you he is mine enemy, 
Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, 
And no great friend, I fear me, to the king. 
Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, 
And heir apparent to the English crown: 
Had Henry got an empire by his marriage, 
And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, 
There ’s reason he should be displeased at it. 
Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words 
Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. 
What though the common people favour him, 
Calling See i Humphrey, the good Duke of Glou- 
cester, 
Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice, 
‘ Jesu maintain your royal excellence! ’ 
With ‘God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!’ 
I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, 
He will be found a dangerous protector. 
Buck. Why should he, then, protect our sovereign, 
He being of age to govern of himself ? 
Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, 
And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, 
We ’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. 
Car. This weighty business will not brook delay ; 
Ill to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [ Kaci. 
Som. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s 
And greatness of his place be grief to us, [pride 
Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal: 
His insolence is more intolerable 
Than all the princes in the land beside: 
If Gloucester be displaced, he ’ll be protector. 
Buck. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be protector, 
Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal. 
[Hxeunt Buckingham and Somerset. 
Sal. Pride went before, ambition follows him. 
While these do labour for their own preferment, 
Behoves it us to labour for the realm. 
I never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester 
Did bear him like a noble gentleman. 
Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal, 
More like a soldier than a man 0’ the church, 
As stout and proud as he were lord of all, 
Swear like a ruffian and demean himself 
Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. 
Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age, 
Thy deeds, thy plainness and thy housekeeping, 
Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, 
Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey: 
And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, 
In bringing them to civil discipline, 
Thy late exploits done in the heart of France, 
When thou wert regent for our sovereign, 
Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people: 
Join we together, for the public good, 
In what we can, to bridle and suppress 
The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal, 
With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition j 
And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds, 
While they do tend the profit of the land. 


411 


ACT I. 


War. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land, 
And common profit of his country! 

York. [Aside] And so says York, for he hath 

greatest cause. 

Sal. Then let ’s make haste away, and look unto 

the main. 

War. Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost; 
That Maine which by main force Warwick did win, 
And would have kept so long as breath did last! 
Main chance, father, you meant ; but Imeant Maine, 
Which I will win from France, or else be slain. 

[Hxeunt Warwick and Salisbury. 

York. Anjou and Maine are given to the French; 
Paris is lost; the state of Normandy 
Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone: 
Suffolk concluded on the articles, 

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased 

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter. 

I cannot blame them all: what is ’t to them ? 

°T is thine they give away, and not their own. 

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage 

And purchase friends and give to courtezans, 

Still revelling like lords till all be gone, 

While as the silly owner of the goods 

Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands 

And shakes his head and trembling stands aloof, 

While all is shared and all is borne away, 

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own: 

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue, 

While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold. 

Methinks the realms of England, Franceand Ireland 

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood 

As did the fatal brand Althzea burn’d 

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon. 

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French! 

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France, 

Even as I have of fertile England’s soil. 

A day will come when York shall claim his own; 

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts 

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, 

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown, 

For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit: 

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, 

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist, 

Nor wear the diadem upon his head, 

Whose church-like humours fits not for a crown. 

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve: 

Watch thou and wake when others be asleep, 

To pry into the secrets of the state; 

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, [queen, 

With his new bride and England’s dear-bought 

And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars: 

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, 

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed ; 

And in my standard bear the arms of York, 

To grapple with the house of Lancaster; 

And, force perforce, I ll make him yield the crown, 

Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England Toit 
it. 


SCENE II.—The Duke of Gloucester’s house. 


Enter Duke Humphrey and his wife Eleanor. 


Duch. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d corn, 
Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load ? 
Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, 
As frowning at the favours of the world ? 
Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth, 
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ? 
What seest thou there ? King Henry’s diadem, 
Enchased with all the honours of the world ? 
If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face, 
Until thy head be circled with the same. 
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. 
What, is’t too short? Ill lengthen it with mine; 
And, having both together heaved it up, 
We'll both together lift our heads to heaven, 


412 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene tt. 


And never more abase our sight so low 
As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. 
Glou. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, 
Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts. 
And may that thought, when I imagine ill 
Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry, 
Be my last breathing in this mortal world! 
My troublous dream this night doth make me sad. 
Duch. What dream’d my lord? tell me, and Ill 
requite it 
With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. 
Glou. aaa this staff, mine office-badge in 
cou 
Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot, 
But, as I think, it was by the cardinal; 
And on the pieces of the broken wand 
Were placed the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, 
And William de la Pole, first duke of Suffolk. 
This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows. 
Duch. Tut, this was nothing but an argument 
That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s grove 
Shall lose his head for his presumption. 
But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke: 
Methought I sat in seat of majesty 
In the cathedral church of Westminster, 
And in that chair where kings and queens are 
crown’d; 
Where Henry and dame Margaret kneel’d to me 
And on my head did set the diadem. 
Glou. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright: 
Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor, 
Art thou not second woman in the realm 
And the protector’s wife, beloved of him ? 
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command, 
Above the reach or compass of thy thought ? 
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery, 
To tumble down thy husband and thyself 
From top of honour to disgrace’s feet ? 
Away from me, and let me hear no more! 
Duch. What, what, my lord! are you so choleric 
With Eleanor, for telling but her dream ? 
Next time [ll keep my dreams unto myself, 
And not be check’d. 
Glou. Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again. 


Enter Messenger. 


Mess. My lord protector, ’t is his highness’ pleasure 

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s, 

Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk. 
Glou. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us ? 
Duch. Yes, my good lord, Ill follow presently. 

[Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger. 

Follow I must; I cannot go before, 

While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind. 

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, 

I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks 

And smooth my way upon their headless necks; 

And, being a woman, I will not be slack . 

To play my part in Fortune’s pageant. 

Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man, 

We are alone; here ’s none but thee and I. 


Enter Hume. 


Hume. Jesus preserve your royal majesty ! 
Duch. What say’st thou? majesty! [am but grace. 
Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s 
Your grace’s title shall be multiplied. [advice, 
Duch. What say’st thou, man? hast thou as yet 
conferr’d 
With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch, 
With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer ? 
And will they undertake to do me good? [highness 
Hume. This they have promised, to show your 
A spirit raised from depth of under-ground, 
That shall make answer to such questions 
As by your grace shall be propounded him. 
Duch. It is enough; Ill think upon the questions: 


a 


ACT [f. 


When from Saint Alban’s we do make return, 

We’ll see these things effected to the full. 

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man, 

With thy confederates in this weighty cause. [Hwit. 
Hume. Hume must make merry with the duchess’ 


old; 
(ee and shall. But, how now, Sir John Hume! 
Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum: 
The business asketh silent secrecy. 
Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch: 
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. 
Yet have I gold flies from another coast ; 
I dare not say, from the rich cardinal 
And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk, 
Yet I do find it so; for, to be plain, 
They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour, 
Have hired me to undermine the duchess 
And buz these conjurations in her brain. 
They say ‘ A crafty knave does need no broker; ’ 
Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker. 
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near 
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. 
Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last 
Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wreck, 
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall: 
Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. 


SCENE III. — The palace. 


Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Armourer’s 
man, being one. 


First Petit. My masters, let ’s stand close: my 
lord protector will come this way by and by, and 
then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. 

Sec. Petit. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s 
a good man! Jesu bless him! 


Enter Suffolk and Queen. 


Peter. Here a’ comes, methinks, and the queen 
with him. 171 be the first, sure. 

Sec. Petit. Come back, fool; this is the Duke of 
Suffolk, and not my lord protector. [me ? 

Suf. How now, fellow! wouldst any thing with 

First Petit. I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took 
ye for my lord protector. 

Queen. [Reading] ‘To my Lord Protector!’ Are 
your supplications to his lordship? Let me see 
them: what is thine ? 

First Petit. Mine is, an’t please your grace, against 
John Goodman, my lord cardinal’s man, for keeping 
my house, and lands, and wife and all, from me. 

Suf. Thy wife too! that’s some wrong, indeed. 
What’s yours? What’s here! [Reads] ‘ Against 
the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of 
Melford.’ How now, sir knave! 

Sec. Petit. Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of 
our whole township. 

Peter. [Giving his petition] Against my master, 
Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York 
was rightful heir to the crown. 

Queen. What say’st thou? did the Duke of York 
say he was rightful heir to the crown ? 

Peter. That my master was? no, forsooth: my 
master said that he was, and that the king was an 
usurper. 

Suf. Who is there ? [Enter Servant.] Take this 
fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant 
presently: we’ll hear more of your matter before 
the king. [Hait Servant with Peter. 

Queen. And as for you, that love to be protected 
Under the wings of our protector’s grace, 

Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. 
[Tears the supplications. 
Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go. 

All. Come, let ’s be gone. [ Hxeunt. 

Queen. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, 
Is this the fashion in the court of England ? 


[ Exit. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI sceyeE rt. 


Is this the government of Britain’s isle, 

And this the royalty of Albion’s king ? 
What, shall King Henry be a pupil still 
Under the surly Gloucester’s governance ? 
Am I a queen in title and in style, 

And must be made a subject to a duke ? 

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours 
Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love 

And stolest away the ladies’ hearts of France, 
I thought King Henry had resembled thee 
In courage, courtship and proportion: 

But all his mind is bent to holiness, 

To number Ave-Maries on his beads; 

His champions are the prophets and apostles, 
His weapons holy saws of sacred writ, 

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves 

Are brazen images of canonized saints. 

I would the college of the cardinals 

Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome, 
And set the triple crown upon his head: 
That were a state fit for his holiness. 

Suf. Madam, be patient: as I was cause 
Your highness came to England, so will I 
In England work your grace’s full content. 

Queen. Beside the haughty protector, have we 

Beaufort 
The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, 
And grumbling York; and not the least of these 
But can do more in England than the king. 

Suf. And he of these that can do most of all 
Cannot do more in England than the Nevils: 
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. 

Queen. Not all these lords do vex me half somuch 
As that proud dame, the lord protector’s wife. 

She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, 
More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife : 
Strangers in court do take her for the queen: 

She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, 

And in her heart she scorns our poverty: 

Shall I not live to be avenged on her ? 
Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, 

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’other day, 

The very train of her worst wearing gown 

Was better worth than all my father’s lands, 

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. 

Suf. Madam, myself have limed a bush for her, 
And placed a quire of such enticing birds, 

That she will light to listen to the lays, 

And never mount to trouble you again. 

So, let her rest: and, madam, list to me; 

For I am bold to counsel you in this. 
Although we fancy not the cardinal, 

Yet must we join with him and with the lords, 
Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace. 
As for the Duke of York, this late complaint 
Will make but little for his benefit. 

So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last, 
And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. 


Sound a sennet. Enter the King, Duke Humphrey of 
Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Buckingham, York, 
Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and the Duchess of 
Gloucester. 


King. For my part,noble lords, I care not which ; 
Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me. 
York. If York have ill demean’d himself in 
France, 
Then let him be denay’d the regentship. 
Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, 
Let York be regent; I will yield to him. 
War. Whether your grace be worthy, yea or no, 
Dispute not that: York is the worthier. 
Car. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. 
War. The cardinal’s not my better in the field. 
riers eee in this presence are thy betters, War- 
wick. 
War. Warwick may live to be the best of all. 
413 


ACT I. 


SECOND. PART OF KING HENNEY ‘Vi. SGenE Tye 


Sal. Peace, son! and show some reason, Bucking- 
Why Somerset should be preferred in this. [ham, 
ueen. Because the king, forsooth, will have it so. 

Glou. Madam, the king is old enough himself 
To give his censure: these are no women’s matters. 

@ueen. If he be old enough, what needs your grace 
To be protector of his excellence ? 

Glou. Madam, I am protector of the realm ; 
And, at his pleasure, will resign my place. 

Suf. Resign it then and leave thine insolence. 
Since thou wert king —as who is king but thou ? — 
The commonwealth hath daily run to wreck; 

The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas; 
And all the peers and nobles of the realm 
Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. 

Car. The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s 
Are lank and lean with thy extortions. [bags 

Som. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy witfe’s 
Have cost a mass of public treasury. - [attire 

Buck. Thy cruelty in execution 
Upon offenders hath exceeded law 
And left thee to the mercy of the law. 

Queen. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, 
If they were known, as the suspect is great, 
Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. 

[| Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan. 
Give me my fan: what, minion! can ye not? 
[ She gives the Duchess a box on the ear. 
I ery you mercy, madam; was it you? 
Duch. Was ’t I! yea, I it was, proud French- 
woman: 
Could I come near your beauty with my nails, 
I’Ild set my ten commandments in your face. 
King. Sweet aunt, be quiet ; ’t was against her will. 
Duch. Against her will! good king, look to’t in 


time; 
She 711 hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby: 
Though in this place most master wear no breeches, 
She shall not strike Dame Eleanor ferris 
it. 

Buck. Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, 
And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds: 
She ’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs, 
She ’li gallop far enough to her destruction. [Evit. 


Re-enter Gloucester. 


Glou. Now, lords, my choler being over-blown 

With walking once about the quadrangle, 
I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. 
As for your spiteful false objections, 
Prove them, and I lie open to the law: 
But God in mercy so deal with my soul, 
As I in duty love my king and country! 
But, to the matter that we have in hand: 
I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man 

To be your regent in the realm of France. 

Suf. Before we make election, give me leave 
To show some reason, of no little force, 

That York is most unmeet of any man. 

York. Ill tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: 
First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride; 
Next, if I be appointed for the place, 

My Lord of Somerset will keep me here, 
Without discharge, money, or furniture, 

Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands: 
Last time, I danced attendance on his will 
Till Paris was besieged, famish’d, and lost. 

War. That can I witness; and a fouler fact 
Did never traitor in the land commit. 

Suf. Peace, headstrong Warwick ! 

War. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? 


Enter Horner, the Armourer, and his man Peter, 
guarded, 
Suf. Because here is a man accused of treason: 
Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself! 
ork. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor ? 
414 


| 


King. What mean’st thou, Suffolk; tell me, what 

are these ? 

Suf. Please it your majesty, this is the man 
That doth accuse his master of high treason: 

His words were these: that Richard Duke of York 
Was rightful heir unto the English crown 
And that your majesty was an usurper. 

King. Say, man, were these thy words? 

Hor. An’t shall please your majesty, I never said 
nor thought any such matter: God is my witness, I 
am falsely accused by the villain. 

Pet. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak 
them to me in the garret one night, as we were 
scouring my Lord of York’s armour. 

York. Base dunghill villain and mechanical, 

I ‘ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech. 
I do beseech your royal majesty, 
Let him have all the rigour of the law. 

Hor. Alas, my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the 
words. My accuser is my ’prentice; and when I 
did correct him for his fault the other day, he did 
vow upon his knees he would be even with me: I 
have good witness of this; therefore I beseech your 
majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a vil- 
lain’s accusation. 

King. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? 

Glou. This doom, my lord, if I may judge: 

Let Somerset be regent o’er the French, 

Because in York this breeds suspicion: 

And let these have a day appointed them 

For single combat in convenient place, 

For he hath witness of his servant’s malice: 

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom. 

Som. I humbly thank your royal majesty. 

Hor. And I accept the combat willingly. 

Pet. Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God’s sake, 
pity my case. The spite of man prevaileth against 
me. Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never 
be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart! 

Glou. Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d. 

King. Away with them to prison; and the day 
of combat shall be the last of the next month. Come, 
Somerset, we ’ll see thee sent away. 

[Flourish. Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV. — Gloucester’s garden, 


Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, 
and Bolingbroke. 


Hume. Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell 
you, expects performance of your promises. 
Boling. Master Hume, we are therefore provided: 
will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms ? 
Hume. Ay, what else? fear you not her courage. 
Boling. I have heard her reported to be a woman 
of an invincible spirit: but it shall be convenient, 
Master Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we 
be busy below; and so, I pray you, go, in God’s 
name, and leave us. [Hxit Hume.] Mother Jour- 
dain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth; John 
Southwell, read you; and let us to our work. 


inter Duchess aloft, Hume following. 


Duch. Well said, my masters; and welcome all. 
To this gear the sooner the better. [times : 
Boling. Patience, good lady; wizards know their 
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night, 
The time of night when Troy was set on fire; 
The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl 
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves, 
That time best fits the work we have in hand. 
Madam, sit you and fear not: whom we raise, 
We will make fast within a hallow’d verge. 

[Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and 
make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell 
reads, Conjuro te, &c. Jt thunders and 
lightens terribly ; then the Spirit riseth. 


ACE At. 


SHCOND PART’ OF KING: HENRY VI. 


SCENE I. 


Spir. Adsum. 
M. Jourd. Asmath, 

By the eternal God, whose name and power 

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask; 

For, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence. 
Spir. Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and 


one! 
Boling. ‘ First of the king: what shall of him be- 
come ?’ | Reading out of a paper. 
Spir. The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose ; 
But him outlive, and die a violent death. 

[As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer. 
Boling. ‘ What fates await the Duke of Suffolk ?’ 
Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end. 
Boling. ‘What shall befall the Duke of Somerset ?’ 
Spir. Let him shun castles; 

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains 
Than where castles mounted stand. 
Have done, for more I hardly can endure. 
Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning lake! 
False fiend, avoid! 
[Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit. 


Enter the Duke of York and the Duke of Buck- 
ingham with their Guard and break in. 


York. Lay hands upon these traitors and their 
Beldam, I think we watch’d you at aninch. [trash. 
What, madam, are youthere? the king and com- 

monweal 
Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains: 
My lord protector will, I doubt it not, 
See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts. 

Duch. Not half so bad as thine to England’s king, 
Injurious duke, that threatest where ’s no cause. 

ie cease madam, none at all: what call you 

this : 
Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close, 


SCENE I.— Saint Alban’s. 


Enter the King, Queen, Gloucester, Cardinal, 
and Suffolk, with Falconers halloing. 


Queen. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, 
I saw not better sport these seven years’ day: 
Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high; 
And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. 
King. But whata point, my lord, your falcon made, 
And what a pitch she flew above the rest! 
To see how God in all his creatures works! 
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. 
Suf. No marvel, an it like your majesty, 
My lord protector’s hawks do tower so well; 
They know their master loves to be aloft 
And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch. 
Glou. My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind 
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. 
Car. I thought as much; he would be above the 
clouds. [that ? 
Glou. Ay, my lord cardinal? how think you by 
Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven ? 
King. The treasury of everlasting joy. [thoughts 
Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and 
Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart ; 
Pernicious protector, dangerous peer, 
That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal! 
Glou. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown 
Tantzene animis ccelestibus ire ? [peremptory ? 
Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice; 
With such holiness can you do it ? 
Suf. No malice, sir; no more than well becomes 
So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. 
lou. As who, my lord ? 


And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us. 
Stafford, take her to thee. 
| Kxeunt above Duchess and Hume, guarded. 
We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. 
All, away! . 
[Hxeunt guard with Jourdain, Southwell, &ec. 
York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch’d 
her well: , 
A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon ! 
Now, pray, my lord, let ’s see the devil’s writ. 
What have we here ? [ Reads. 
‘ The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; 
But him outlive, and die a violent death.’ 
Why, this is just 
‘ Aio te, Aiacida, Romanos vincere posse.’ 
Well, to the rest: 
‘ Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk ?? 
By water shall he die, and take his end. 
What shall betide the Duke of Somerset ? 
‘Let him shun castles; 
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains 
Than where castles mounted stand.’ 
Come, come, my lords;. 
These oracles are hardly attain’d, 
And hardly understood. 
The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s, 
With him the husband of this lovely lady: 
Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry 
A sorry breakfast for my lord protector. [them : 
Buck. Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of 
To be the post, in hope of his reward. York, 


York. At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s 
within there, ho! 
Enter a Servingman. 
Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick 
| Tosup with me to-morrow night. Away! [Hxeunt. 


Suf. Why, as you, my lord, 
An ’t like your lordly lord-protectorship. 

Glow. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine inso- — 

fei And thy ambition, Gloucester. {lence. 

‘ing. I prithee, peace, good queen, 
And whet not on these furious peers ; 
For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. 

Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I make, 
Against this proud protector, with my sword! 

Glou. [Aside to Car.] Faith, holy uncle, woul 

’t were come to that! 
Car. [Aside to Glou.] Marry, when thou darest. 
Glou. [Aside to Car.| Make up no factious num- 
bers for the matter; 
In thine own person answer thy abuse. 
Car. [Aside to Glou.] Ay, where thou darest not 
peep: an if thou darest, 
This evening, on the east side of the grove. 

King. How now, my lords! 

Car. Believe me, cousin Gloucester, 
Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, 
We had had more sport. [Aside to Glow.] Come with 

thy two-hand sword. 

Glow. True, uncle. 

Oar. [Aside to Glou.] Are ye advised? the east 

side of the grove ? 

Glou. [Aside to Car.] Cardinal, I am with you. 

King. Why, how now, uncle Gloucester ! 

Glou. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. 
[Aside to Car.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I ‘ll 

shave your crown for this, 
Or all my fence shall fail. 

Car. [Aside to Glou.] Medice, teipsum — 

Protector, see to ’t well, protect yourself. 


415 


SECOND PART OF 


King. The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, 
How irksome is this music to my heart! [lords. 
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony ? 

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. 


ACT Il. 


Enter a Townsman of Saint Alban’s, crying ‘A 
miracle !” 


Glou. What means this noise ? 
Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ? 
Towns. A miracle! a miracle! 
Suf. Come to the king and tell him what miracle. 
Towns. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s 
shrine, 
Within this half-hour, hath received his sight ; 
A man that ne’er saw in his life before. 
King. Now, God be praised, that to believing souls 
Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair! 


Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s and his brethren, bear- 
ing Simpcox, between two in a chair, Simpcox’s Wife 
following. 

Car. Here comes the townsmen on procession, 

To present your highness with the man. 

King. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, 

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. 

Glou. Stand by, my masters: bring him near the 

His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him. [king; 
King. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance, 

That we for thee may glorify the Lord. 

What, hast thou been long blind and now restored ? 
Simp. Born blind, an ’t please your grace. 

Wife. Ay, indeed, was he. 

Suf. What woman is this ? 

Wife. His wife, an ’t like your worship. 

Glou. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst 
have better told. 

King. Where wert thou born ? grace. 

Simp. At Berwick in the north, an’t like your 

King. Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great 
to thee: 

Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass, 

But still remember what the Lord hath done. 

Queen. Tell me, good fellow, camest thou here by 

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine ? [chance, 
Simp. God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d 

A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep, 

By good Saint Alban; who said, ‘ Simpcox, come, 

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.’ 
Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft 

Myself have heard a voice to call him so. 

Car. What, art thou lame ? 


Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me! 
Suf. How camest thou so? 
Simp. A fall off of a tree. 


Wife. A plum-tree, master. 

Glow. How long hast thou been blind ? 

Simp. O, born so, master. 

Glow. What, and wouldst climb a tree ? 

Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. 

Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear. 

Glou. Mass, thou lovedst plums wells, that wouldst 

venture so. [damsons, 

Simp. Alas, good master, my wife desired some 
And made me climb, with danger of my life. 

Glou. A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve. 
Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them: 
In my opinion yet thou see’st not well. 

hide oe Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and 

aint Alban. [cloak of ? 

Glou. Say’st thou me so? What colour is this 

Simp. Red, master; red as blood. [gown of ? 

Glou. Why, that’s well said. What colour is my 

Simp. Black, forsooth: coal-black as jet. [is of? 

King. Why, then, thou know’st what colour jet 

Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. 

Glou. But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a 

many. 


416 


KING HENRY VI 


Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. 

Glou. Tell me, sirrah, what ’s my name? 

Simp. Alas, master, I know not. 

Glou. What’s his name ? 

Simp. I know not. 

Glou. Nor his ? 

Simp. No, indeed, master. 

Glou. What’s thine own name? [ter. 

Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, mas- 

Glou. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave 
in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, 
thou mightst as well have known all our names as 
thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight 
may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nomi- 
nate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint 
Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not 
think his cunning to be great, that could restore 
this cripple to his legs again ? 

Simp. O master, that you could! 

Glou. My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you not 
beadles in your town, and things called whips ? 

May. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace. 

Glou. Then send for one presently. 

May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight. 

[ Hxit an Attendant. 

Glou. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. 
Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from 
whipping, leap me over this stool and run away. 

Simp. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone: 
You go about to torture me in vain. 


SCENE I. 


Enter a Beadle with whips. 


Glou. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. 
pita beadle, whip him till he leap over that same 
stool. 

Bead. I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with 
your doublet quickly. 

Simp. Alas, master, what shallI do? Iam not 
able to stand. 

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps 
over the stooland runs away; and they follow 
and cry, ‘ A miracle!’ 

King. O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long ? 

ele It made me laugh to see the villain run. 

lou. Follow the knave; and take this drab away. 

Wife. Alas, sir, we did it for pure need. 

Glou. Let them be whipped through every mar- 
ket-town, till they come to Berwick, from whence 
they came. [EHxeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, é&c. 

Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. 

Suf. True; made the lame to leap and fly away. 

Glou. But you have done more miracles than I; 
You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. 


Enter Buckingham. 


bert Bee: tidings with our cousin Bucking- 
am | 
Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. 
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, 
Under the countenance and confederacy 
Of Lady Eleanor, the protector’s wife, 
The ringleader and head of all this rout, 
Have practised dangerously against your state, 
Dealing with witches and with conjurers: 
Whom we have apprehended in the fact ; 
Raising up wicked spirits from under ground, 
Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, 
And other of your highness’ privy-counceil ; 
As more at large your grace shall understand. 
Car. [Aside to Glou.|] And so, my lord protector, 
by this means 
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. 
This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge ; 
”T is like, my lord, you will not keep your hour. 
Caen Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my 
eart : 
Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers; 


——————a CeCe 


ACT II. 


SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene itt. 


And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee, 

Or to the meanest groom. [ones, 
King. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked 

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby ! 
Queen. Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy 


nest, 
And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. 

Glou. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal, 
How I have loved my king and commonweal: 
And, for my wife, I know not how it stands; 

Sorry I am to hear what I have heard : 
Noble she is, but if she have forgot 

Honour and virtue and conversed with such 

As, like to pitch, defile nobility, 

I banish her my bed and company 

And give her as a prey to law and shame, 

That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name. 

King. Well, for this night we will repose us here: 
To-morrow toward London back again, 

To look into this business thoroughly 

And call these foul offenders to their answers 

And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales, 

Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause pre- 
vails. [Flourish. Haxeunt. 


SCENE II.—London. The Duke of York’s garden. 


Enter York, Salisbury, and Warwick. 


York. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and 
Warwick, 
Our simple supper ended, give me leave 
In this close walk to satisfy myself, 
In craving your opinion of my title, 
Which is infallible, to England’s crown. 
Sal. My lord, I long to hear it at full. 
War. Sweet York, begin: and if thy claim be 
The Nevils are thy subjects to command. [good, 
York. Then thus: 
Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons: 
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of 
Wales ; 
The second, William of Hatfield, and the third, 
Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom 
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster ; 
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; 


The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of | 


Gloucester ; 
William of Windsor was the seventh and last. 
Edward the Black Prince died before his father 
And left behind him Richard, his only son, [king; 
Who after Edward the Third’s death reign’d as 
Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, 
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, 
Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth, 
Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king, 
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she 


came, 

And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know, 

Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously. 
War. Father, the duke hath told the truth; 

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. 

York. Mee now they hold by force and not by 
right ; 

For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead, 

The issue of the next son should have reign’d. 
Sal. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. 
York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from 

whose line 

I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter, 

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March: 

Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March; 

Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor. 

Sal. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, 

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ; 

And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, 

Who kept him in captivity till he died. 

But to the rest. 


27 


York. His eldest sister, Anne, 
My mother, being heir unto the crown, 
Married Richard Earl of Cambridge; who was son 
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son. 
By her I claim the kingdom: she was heir 
To Roger Earl of March, who was the son 
Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, 
Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence: 
So, if the issue of the elder son 
Succeed before the younger, I am king. [this ? 
War. What plain proceeding is more plain than 
Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, 
The fourth son; York claims it from the third. 
Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign: 
It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee 
And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. 
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together ; 
And in this private plot be we the first 
That shall salute our rightful sovereign 
With honour of his birthright to the crown. 
Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s 
king! [king 
York. We thank you, lords. But I am not your 
Till I be crown’d and that my sword be stain’d 
With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster ; 
And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d, 
But with advice and silent secrecy. 
Do you as I do in these dangerous days: 
Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence, 
At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition, 
At Buckingham and all the crew of them, 
Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock, 
That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey: 
’T is that they seek, and they in seeking that 
Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. 
Sal. My lord, break we off; we know your mind 
at full. [wick 
War. My heart assures me that the Earl of War- 
Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. 
York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself: 
Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick 
The greatest man in England but the king. 
[ Exeunt. 
SCENH ITI. — A hall of justice. 


Sound trumpets. Hnter the King, the Queen, Glouces- 
ter, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury; the Duchess of 
Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, 
and Bolingbroke, under guard. 


King. Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Glou- 
cester’s wife: 
In sight of God and us, your guilt is great: 
Receive the sentence of the law for sins 
Such as by God’s book are adjudged to death. 
You four, from hence to prison back again ; 
From thence unto the place of execution : 
The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes, 
And you three shall be strangled on the gallows. 
You, madam, for you are more nobly born, 
Despoiled of your honour in your life, 
Shall, after three days’ open penance done, 
Live in your country here in banishment, 
With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man. 
Duch. Welcome is banishment; welcome were my 
death. [thee: 
Glow. Eleanor, the law, thou see’st, hath judged 
I cannot justify whom the law condemns. 
[Exveunt Duchess and other prisoners, guarded. 
Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. 
Ah, Humphrey, this dishonour in thine age 
Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground! 
I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go; 
Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease. 
ae Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester: ere 
ou go, 
Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself 
Protector be; and God shall be my hope, 


417 


AGT Awe 


My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet: 
And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved 
Than when thou wert protector to thy king. 
Queen. I see no reason why a king of years 
Should be to be protected like a child. 
God and King Henry govern England’s realm. 
Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm. 
Glou. My staff? here, noble Henry, is my staff: 
As willingly do I the same resign 
As e’er thy father Henry made it mine; 
And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it 
As others would ambitiously receive it. 
Farewell, good king: when I am dead and gone, 
May honourable peace attend thy throne! [ Exit. 
Queen. Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret 
queen ; 
And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself, 
That bears so shrewd a maim; two pulls at once; 
His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off. 
This staff of honour raught, there let it stand 
Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. [sSprays; 
Suf. Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his 
Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days. 
York. Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty, 
This is the day appointed for the combat ; 
And ready are the appellant and defendant, 
The armourer and his man, to enter the lists, 
So please your highness to behold the fight. 
ueen. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore 
Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried. [fit : 
King. O’ God’s name, see the lists and all things 
Here let them end it; and God defend the right! 
York. I never saw a fellow worse bested, 
Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, 
The servant of this armourer, my lords. 


Enter at one door, Horner, the Armourer, and his Neigh- 
bours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk ; and he 
enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag 
fastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with 
a drum and sand-bag, and ’Prentices drinking to him. 


First Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to 
you inacup of sack: and fear not, neighbour, you 
shall do well enough. [charneco. 

Sec. Neigh. And here, neighbour, here ’s a cup of 

Third Neigh. And here’s a pot of good double 
beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man. 

Hor. Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; 
and a fig for Peter! [not afraid. 

First ’Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee: and be 

Sec. ’Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy 
master: fight for credit of the ’prentices. 

Peter. I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I 
pray you; for I think I have taken my last draught 
in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee 
my apron: and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer : 
and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O 
Lord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able 
to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much 
fence already. 

Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows. 
Sirrah, what ’s thy name ? 

Peter. Peter, forsooth. 

Sal. Peter! what more ? 

Peter. Thump. [well. 

Sal. Thump! then see thou thump thy master 

Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon 
my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave and 
myself an honest man: and touching the Duke of 


York, I will take my death, I never meant him any | 


ill, nor the king, nor the queen: and therefore, Peter, 
have at thee with a downright blow! [double. 
York. Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to 
Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants! 
[Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes him down. 
Hor. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess 
treason. 


418 


SHCOND PART OF KING HENRY Va. 


[ Dies. | 


SCENE IV. 


York. Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank 
God, and the good wine in thy master’s way. 

Peter. O God, have I overcome mine ehemy in 
this presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right! 

King. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight ; 
For by his death we do perceive his guilt: 
And God in justice hath reveal’d to us 
The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, 
Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully. 
Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. 

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— A street. 


Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen, in mourn- 
ing cloaks. 


Glou. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a 
And after summer evermore succeeds [cloud ; 
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: 

So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. 
Sirs, what ’s o’clock ? 

Serv. Ten, my lord. 

Glou. Ten is the hour that was appointed me 
To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess: 
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, 

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. 

Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook 

The abject people gazing on thy face, 

With envious looks, laughing at thy shame, 

That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels 
When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. 
But, soft! I think she comes; and I ’ll prepare 

My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries. 


Enter the Duchess of Gloucester in a white sheet, and a 
taper burning in her hand; with Sir John Stanley, the 
Sheriff, and Officers. 


Serv. So please your grace, we’ll take her from 
the sheriff. 

Glou. No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by. 

Duch. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame ? 

Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze! 

See how the giddy multitude do point, 

And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee! 

Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks, 

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, 

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine! — 
Glou. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief. 
Duch. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! 

For whilst I think I am thy married wife 

And thou a prince, protector of this land, 

Methinks I should not thus be led along, 

Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back, 

And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice 

To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans. 

The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, 

And when I start, the envious people laugh 

And bid me be advised how I tread. 

Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke ? 

Trow’st thou that e’er I ll look upon the world, 

Or count them happy that enjoy the sun? 

No; dark shall be my light and night my day; 

To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. 

Sometime I ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife, 

And he a prince and ruler of the land: 

Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was 

As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, 

Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock 

To every idle rascal follower. 

But be thou mild and blush not at my shame, 

Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death 

Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will; 

For Suffolk, he that can do all in all 

With her that hateth thee and hates us all, 

And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest, 

Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings, 

And, fly thou how thou canst, they ’ll tangle thee: 


AGTIIT. 


But fear not thou, until thy foot be snared, 

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. . 
Glou. Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all awry; 

I must offend before I be attainted ; 

And had I twenty times so many foes, 

And each of them had twenty times their power, 

All these could not procure me any scathe, 

So long as I am loyal, true and crimeless. 

Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach ? 

Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away, 

But I in danger for the breach of law. 

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell: 

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience; 

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn. 


Enter a Herald. 
Her. [summon your grace to his majesty’s parlia- 


ment, 

Holden at Bury the first of this next month. 

Glou. And my consent ne’er ask’d herein before! 
This is close dealing. Well, I will be there. 

[Hxit Herald. 

My Nell, I take my leave: and, master sheriff, 
Let not her penance exceed the king’s commission. 

Sher. An’t please your grace, here my commission 
And Sir John Stanley is appointed now [stays, 
To take her with him to the Isle of Man. 

Glou. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here ? 

Stan. So am I given in charge, may ’t please your 


grace. 
Glou. Entreat her not the worse in that I pray 


SHGON DT Pah OF KING: HENRY VL 


SCENE I. 


You use her well: the world may laugh again; 
And I may live to do you kindness if 
You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell! [well' 
Duch. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not fare. 
Glou. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. 
[| Hxeunt Gloucester and Servingmen. 
Duch. Art thou gone too? all comfort go with thee! 
For none abides with me: my joy is death; 
Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d, 
Because I wish’d this world’s eternity. 
Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence; 
I care not whither, for I beg no favour, 
Only convey me where thou art commanded. 
Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man; 
There to be used according to your state. 
Duch. That’s bad enough, for Iam but reproach: 
And shall I then be used reproachfully ? 
Stan. Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s 


ady ; 
According to that state you shall be used. 
Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, 
Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. 
Snrer. It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. 
Duch. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged. 
Come, Stanley, shall we go? 
Stan. Madam, your penance done, throw off this 
And go we to attire you for our journey. [sheet, 
Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet: 
No, it will hang upon my richest robes 
And show itself, attire me how I can. 
Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison. [Hxeunt. 


mG TTT. 


SCENE I.— The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s. 


Sound a sennet. Enter the King, the Queen, Cardinal 
Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury 
and Warwick, to the Parliament. 


King. Imuse my Lord of Gloucester is not come: 
*T is not his wont to be the hindmost man, 
Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now. 

Queen. Can you not see? or will ye not observe 
The strangeness of his alter’d countenance ? 

With what a majesty he bears himself, 

How insolent of late he is become, 

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself ? 
We know the time since he was mild and affable, 
And if we did but glance a far-off look, 
Immediately he was upon his knee, 

That all the court admired him for submission: 
But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, 

When every one will give the time of day, 

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye 

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, 
Disdaining duty that to us belongs. 

Small curs are not regarded when they grin; 

But great men tremble when the lion roars; 

And Humphrey is no little man in England. 
First note that he is near you in descent, 

And should you fall, he as the next will mount. 
Me seemeth then it is no policy, 

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears 

And his advantage following your decease, 

That he should come about your royal person 

Or be admitted to your highness’ council. 

By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts, 
And when he please to make commotion, 

*T is to be fear’d they all will follow him. 

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted ; 
Suffer them now, and they ’ll o’ergrow the garden 
And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. 

The reverent care I bear unto my lord 

Made me collect these dangers in the duke. 


If it be fond, call it a woman’s fear; 
Which fear if better reasons can supplant, 
I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the duke. 
My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, 
Reprove my allegation, if you can; 
Or else conclude my words effectual. 
Suf. Well hath your highness seen into this duke ; 
And, had I first been put to speak my mind, 
I think I should have told your grace’s tale. 
The duchess by his subornation, 
Upon my life, began her devilish practices: 
Or, if he were not privy to those faults, 
Yet, by reputing of his high descent, 
As next the king he was successive heir, 
And such high vaunts of his nobility, 
Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess 
By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall. 
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep; 
And in his simple show he harbours treason. 
The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb. 
No, no, my sovereign; Gloucester is a man 
Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit. 
Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law, 
Devise strange deaths for small offences done ? 
York. And did he not, in his protectorship, 
Levy great sums of money through the realm 
For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it ? 
By means whereof the towns each day revolted. 
Buck. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown, 
Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke 
Humphrey. 
King. My lords, at once: the care you have of 
us, 
To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot, 
Is worthy praise: but, shall I speak my conscience, 
Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent 
From meaning treason to our royal person 
As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove: 
The duke is virtuous, mild and too well given 


i To dream on evil or to work my downfall. 


Aq) 


ACD. iis. 


Queen. Ah, what’s more dangerous than this 
fond affiance! 
Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow’d, 
For he’s disposed as the hateful raven : 
Is he a lamb ? his skin is surely lent him, 
For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolf. 
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit ? 
Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all 
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. 


Enter Somerset. 


Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign ! 
King. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news 
from France ? 
Som. That all your interest in those territories 
Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. 
King. Cold news, Lord Somerset: but God’s will 
be done! [of France 
York. [Aside] Cold news for me; for I had hope 
As firmly as I hope for fertile England. 
Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud 
And caterpillars eat my leaves away; 
But I will remedy this gear ere long, 
Or sell my title for a glorious grave. 


Enter Gloucester. 


Glow. All happiness unto my lord the king! 
Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long. [Soon, 
Suf. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too 
Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art: 
I do arrest thee of high treason here. 
Glou. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush 
Nor change my countenance for this arrest : 
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. 
The purest spring is not so free from mud 
As I am clear from treason to my sovereign: 
Who can accuse me ? wherein am I guilty? 
York. ’Tis thought, my lord, that you took 
bribes of France, 
And, being protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay ; 
By means whereof his highness hath lost France. 
Glou. Is it but thought so? What are they that 
I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, [think it ? 
Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. 
So help me God, as I have watch’d the night, 
Ay, night by night, in studying good for England, 
That doit that e’er I wrested from the king, 
Or any groat I hoarded to my use, 
Be brought against me at my trial-day! 
No; many a pound of mine own proper store, 
Because I would not tax the needy commons, 
Have I dispursed to the garrisons, 
And never ask’d for restitution. 
Car. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. 
Glou. I say no more than truth, so help me God! 
York. In your protectorship you did devise 
Strange tortures for offenders never heard of, 
That England was defamed by tyranny. [tector, 
Glou. Why, ’t is well known that, whiles I was pro- 
Pity was all the fault that was in me; 
For I should melt at an offender’s tears, 
And lowly words were ransom for their fault. 
Unless it were a bloody murderer, - 
Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers, 
I never gave them condign punishment: 
Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured 
Above the felon or what trespass else. [swered : 
Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly an- 
But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, 
Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. 
I do arrest you in his highness’ name; 
And here commit you to my lord cardinal 
To keep, until your further time of trial. 
King. My lord of Gloucester, ’t is my special hope 
That you will clear yourself from all suspect: 
My conscience tells me you are innocent. 
Glou. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous: 


420 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE lI. 


— 


Virtue is choked with foul ambition 

And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand; 

Foul subornation is predominant 

And equity exiled your highness’ land. 

I know their complot is to have my life, 

And if my death might make this island happy 

And prove the period of their tyranny, 

I would expend it with all willingness: 

But mine is made the prologue to their play: 

For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, 

Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. 

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice, 

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate; 

Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue 

The envious load that lies upon his heart; 

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, 

Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back, 

By false accuse doth level at my life: 

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, 

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head 

And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up 

My liefest liege to be mine enemy: 

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together — 

Myself had notice of your conventicles— 

And all to make away my guiltless life. 

I shall not want false witness to condemn me, 

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ; 

The ancient proverb will be well effected : 

‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’ 

Car. My liege, his railing is intolerable: 

If those that care to keep your royal person 

From treason’s secret knife and traitors’ rage 

Be thus upbraided, chid and rated at, 

And the offender granted scope of speech, 

*T will make them cool in zeal unto your grace. 
Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here 
With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d, 

As if she had suborned some to swear 

False allegations to o’erthrow his state ? 

ueen. But I can give the loser leave to chide. 
lou. Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed ; 

Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false! 

And well such losers may have leave to speak. 
Buck. He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here 

all day: 

Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner. [sure. 
Car. Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him 
Glou. Ah! thus King Henry throws away his 

Before his legs be firm to bear his body. {erutch 

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side 

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. 

Ah, that my fear were false! ah, that it were! 

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. 

[ Exit, guarded. 
King. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth 
best, 

Do or undo, as if ourself were here. [ment ? 

ueen. What, will your highness leave the parlia- 
cing. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with 
erief 

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes, 

My body round engirt with misery, 

For what ’s more miserable than discontent ? 

Ah, uncle Humphrey! in thy face I see 

The map of honour, truth and loyalty: 

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come 

That e’er I proved thee false or fear’d thy faith. 

What louring star now envies thy estate, 

That these great lords and Margaret our queen 

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ? 

Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong ; 

And as the butcher takes away the calf 

And binds the wretch and beats it when it strays, 

Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, 

Even so remorseless have they borne him hence ; 

And as the dam runs lowing up and down, 

Looking the way her harmless young one went, 


ated IIT. 


And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss, 
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case 
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes 
Look after him and cannot do him good, 

So mighty are his vowed enemies. 

His fortunes I will weep and ’twixt each groan 

Say ‘Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.’ 

[Hxeunt all but Queen, Cardinal Beaufort, 
eh Baan and York; Somerset remains apart. 

Queen. Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s 
Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, [hot beams. 
Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester’s show 
Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile 
With sorrow snares relenting passengers, 

Or as the snake roll’d in a flowering bank, 

With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child 

That for the beauty thinks it excellent. 

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I — 

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good— 

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world, 

To rid us from the fear we have of him. 

Car. That he should die is worthy policy ; 

But yet we want a colour for his death: 

*T is meet he be condemn’d by course of law. 

Suf. But, in my mind, that were no policy: 

The king will labour still to save his life, 

The commons haply rise, to save his life; 

And yet we have but trivial argument, 

More than mistrust, that shows hin, worthy death. 
York. Sothat, by this, you would not have him die. 
Suf. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! 

Ch ae York that hath more reason for his 

eath. 

But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, 

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls, 

Were ’t not all one, an empty eagle were set 

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, 

As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector ? 
Queen. So the poor chicken should be sure of death. 
Suf. Madam, ’tis true; and were ’t not madness, 

To make the fox surveyor of the fold ? [then, 

Who being accused a crafty murderer, 

His guilt should be but idly posted over, 

Because his purpose is not executed. 

No; let him die, in that he is a fox, 

By nature proved an enemy to the flock, 

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood, 

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege, 

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him: 

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety, 

Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how, 

So he be dead; for that is good deceit 

Which mates him first that first intends deceit. 
ee Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’t is resolutely spoke. 

uf. Not resolute, except so much were done; 

For things are often spoke and seldom meant: 

But that my heart accordeth with my tongue, 

Seeing the deed is meritorious, 

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, 

Say but the word, and I will be his priest. 

Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of 
Ere you can take due orders for a priest: [Suffolk, 
Say you consent and censure well the deed, 

And Ill provide his executioner, 

I tender so the safety of my liege. ? 

Suf. Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing. 

Queen. And so say I. 

York. And I: and now we three have spoke it, 
It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. 


Enter a Post. 


Post. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain, 
To signify that rebels there are up 
And put the Englishmen unto the sword: 
Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, 
Before the wound do grow uncurable ; 
For, being green, there is great hope of help. 


SeCONDAPARD OF “KING (HENRY VI. 


SCENE I. 


Car. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! 
What counsel give you in this weighty cause ? 
York. That Boreas be sent as regent thither: 
*T is meet that lucky ruler be employ’d; 
Witness the fortune he hath had in France. 
Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy, 
Had been the regent there instead of me, 
He never would have stay’d in France so long. 
York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done: 
I rather would have lost my life betimes 
Than bring a burthen of dishonour home 
By staying there so long till all were lost. 
Show me one scar character’d on thy skin: 
Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win. 
Queen. Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging 
If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with:  [fire, 
No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still: 
Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there, 
Might happily have proved far worse than his. 
York. What, worse than nought? nay, then, a 
shame take all! 
Som. And, inthe number, thee that wishest shame! 
Car. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. 
The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms 
And temper clay with blood of Englishmen: 
To Ireland will you lead a band of men, 
Collected choicely, from each county some, 
And try your hap against the Irishmen ? 
York. I will, my lord, so please his majesty. 
Suf. Why, our authority is his consent, 
And what we do establish he confirms: 
Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. 
York. Iam content: provide me soldiers, lords, 
Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. 
Suf. A charge, Lord York, that I will see per- 
form’d. 
But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. 
Car. No more of him: for I will deal with him 
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. 
And so break off; the day is almost spent: 
Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. 
York. My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days 
At Bristol I expect my. soldiers; 
For there Ill ship them all for Ireland. 
Suf. Ill see it truly done, my Lord of York. 
[ Exeunt all but York. 
York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful 
And change misdoubt to resolution : [thoughts, 
Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art 
Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying: 
Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man, 
And find no harbour in a royal heart. [thought, 
Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on 
And not a thought but thinks on dignity. 
My brain more busy than the labouring spider 
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. 
Well, nobles, well, ’t is politicly done, 
To send me packing with an host of men: 
I fear me you but warm the starved snake, 
Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 
°T was men I lack’d and you will give them me: 
I take it kindly; yet be well assured 
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands. 
Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, 
I will stir up in England some black storm 
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell ; 
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage 
Until the golden circuit on my head, 
Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams, 
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw. 
And, for a minister of my intent, | 
I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman, 
John Cade of Ashford, 
To make commotion, as full well he can, 
Under the title of John Mortimer. 
In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade 
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, 


AQ] 


SECOND PART OF 


And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts 
Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine; 
And, in the end being rescued, I have seen 

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, 

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells. 

Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern, 

Hath he conversed with the enemy, 

And undiscover’d come to me again 

And given me notice of their villanies. 

This devil here shall be my substitute ; 

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, 

In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble: 

By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind, 
How they affect the house and claim of York. 
Say he be taken, rack’d and tortured, 

I know no pain they can inflict upon him 

Will make him say I moved him to those arms. 
Say that he thrive, as ’t is great like he will, 
Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength 
And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d; 
For Humphrey being dead, as he shall be, 

And Henry put apart, the next for me. [ Bait. 


SCENE II.—Bury St. Hdmund’s. A room of state. 


Enter certain Murderers, hastily. 


First Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him 
know 
We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded. 
Sec. Mur. O that it were to do! What have we 
Didst ever hear a man so penitent ? [done ? 


Enter Suffolk. 


First Mur. Here comes my lord. 
Suf. Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this thing ? 
First Mur. Ay, my good lord, he’s dead. 
Suf. Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my 
house ; 
I will reward you for this venturous deed. 
The king and all the peers are here at hand. 
Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, 
According as I gave directions ? 
First Mur. ’T is, my good lord. 
Suf. Away! be gone. [Hxeunt Murderers. 


Sound trumpets. Enter the King, the Queen, Car- 
dinal Beaufort, Somerset, with Attendants. 


King. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight ; 
Say we intend to try his grace to-day, 
If he be guilty, as ’t is published. 
Suf. 1 7ll call him presently, my noble lord. [Ezvit. 
Kang. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all, 
Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester 
Than from true evidence of good esteem 
He be approved in practice culpable. 
Queen. God forbid any malice should prevail, 
That faultless may condemn a nobleman! 
Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion! [much. 
King. I thank thee, Meg; these words content me 


Re-enter Suffolk. 


How neee why look’st thou pale? why tremblest 
10U f . 

Where is our uncle? what ’s the matter, Suffolk ? 
Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead. 
Queen. Marry, God forfend! 

Car. God’s secret judgment: I did dream to-night 
The duke was dumb and could not speak a word. 
[The King swoons. 

Help, lords! the 


AC Teal 1, 


Queen. How fares my lord? 
king is dead. 

Som. Rear up his body; wring him by the nose. 

Queen. Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine 
eyes ! 

Suf. He doth revive again: madam, be patient. 

King. O heavenly God! 

Queen. How fares my gracious lord ? 

422 


KING HENRY VI. SscENeE tt. 


Suf. Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, 
comfort! 
King. What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me? 
Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, 
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers; 
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, 
By crying comfort from a hollow breast, 
Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? 
Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words; 
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say; 
Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting. 
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! 
Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny 
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world. 
Look not upon, me, for thine eyes are wounding: 
Yet do not go away: come, basilisk, 
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight; 
For in the shade of death I shall find joy; 
In life but double death, now Gloucester ’s dead. 
Queen. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus ? 


' Although the duke was enemy to him, 


Yet he most Christian-like laments his death: 
And for myself, foe as he was to me, 
Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans 


_ Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life, 


I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans, 
Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, 
And all to have the noble duke alive. 

What know I how the world may deem of me? 

For it is known we were but hollow friends: 

It may be judged I made the duke away; 

So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded, 

And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach. 

This get I by his death: ay me, unhappy! 

To be a queen, and crown’d with infamy! [man! 
King. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched 
Queen. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. 

What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face ? 

I am no loathsome leper: look on me. 

What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf ? 

Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen. 

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb ? 

Why, then, dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy. 

Erect his statua and worship it, 

And make my image but an alehouse sign. 

Was I for this nigh wreck’d upon the sea 

And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank 

Drove back again unto my native clime? 

What boded this, but well forewarning wind 

Did seem to say ‘ Seek not a scorpion’s nest, 

Nor set no footing on this unkind shore’ ? 

What did I then, but cursed the gentle gusts 

And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves; 

And bid them blow towards England’s blessed 

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock? _ [shore, 

Yet olus would not be a murderer, 

But left that hateful office unto thee: 

The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me, 

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on 

shore, 

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness: 

The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking sands 

And would not dash me with their ragged sides, 

Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, 

Might in thy palace perish Margaret. 

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, 

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, 

I stood upon the hatches in the storm, 

And when the dusky sky began to rob 

My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view, 

I took a costly jewel from my neck, 

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, 

And threw it towards thy land: the sea received it, 

And so I wish’d thy body might my heart: 

And even with this I lost fair England’s view 

And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart 

And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles, 


ACT IIl. 


For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast. 

How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue, 

The agent of thy foul inconstancy, 

To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did 

When he to madding Dido would unfold 

His father’s acts commenced in burning Troy ! 
Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like 
' Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret! {him ? 
For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. 


Enter Warwick, Salisbury, and 
many Commons. 
War. It is reported, mighty sovereign, 
That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder’d 
By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means. 
The commons, like an angry hive of bees 
That want their leader, scatter up and down 
And eare not who they sting in his revenge. 
Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny, 
Until they hear the order of his death. [true ; 
King. That he is dead, good Warwick, ’t is too 
But how he died God knows, not Henry: 
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse, 
And comment then upon his sudden death. 
War. That shall Ido, my liege. Stay, Salisbury, 
With the rude multitude till I return. [ Hit. 
King. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my 
thoughts, 
My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul 
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life! 
If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, 
For judgment only doth belong to thee. 
Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips 
With twenty thousand kisses and to drain 
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears, 
To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk 
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling : 
But all in vain are these mean obsequies ; 
And to survey his dead and earthy image, 
What were it but to make my sorrow greater ? 


Noise within. 


Re-enter Warwick and others, bearing .Glou- 
cester’s body on a bed. 


Uae cone hither, gracious sovereign, view this 
ody. 
King. That is to see how deep my grave is made; 
For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, 
For seeing him I see my life in death. 
War. As surely as my soul intends to live 
With that dread King that took our state upon him 
To free us from his father’s wrathful curse, 
I do believe that violent hands were laid 
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. 
Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with asolemn tongue! 
What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow ? 
War. See how the blood is settled in his face. 
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, 
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless, 
Being all descended to the labouring heart ; 
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 
Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy ; 
Which with the heart there cools and ne’er returneth 
To blush and beautify the cheek again. 
But see, his face is black and full of blood, 
His eye-balls further out than when he lived 
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man; _ [gling; 
His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretched with strug- 
His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d 
And tugg’d for life and was by strength subdued : 
Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking ; 
His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged, 
Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodged. 
It cannot be but he was murder’d here ; 
The least of all these signs were probable. [death ? 
Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to 
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection ; 
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY 


VI. SCENETTI, 


War. But both of you were vow’d Duke Humph- 
rey’s foes, 
And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep: 
’T is like you would not feast him like a friend; 
And ’tis well seen he found an enemy. 

Queen. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen 
As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death. 

War. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh 
And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, - 

But will suspect ’t was he that made the slaughter ? 
Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest, 

But may imagine how the bird was dead, 
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? 
Even so suspicious is this tragedy. [your knife ? 

Queen. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s 
Is Beaufort term’d a kite? Where are his talons ? 

Suf. I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men; 
But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, 
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart 
That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge. 
Say, if thou darest, proud Lord of Warwickshire, 
That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death. 

[Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others. 

War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk 

dare him ? 

Queen. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit 
Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, 

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. 

War. Madam, be still; with reverence may I say; 
For every word you speak in his behalf 
Is slander to your royal dignity. 

Suf. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour! 
If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much, 

Thy mother took into her blameful bed 

Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock 

Was graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art 
And never of the Nevils’ noble race. 

War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee 
And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, 
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, 
And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild, 
I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee 
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech 
And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st, 
That thou thyself wast born in bastardy ; 

And after all this fearful homage done, 
Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, 
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men! 

Suf. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, 
If from this presence thou darest go with me. 

War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence: 
Unworthy though thou art, Ill cope with thee 
And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost. 

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick. 
King. What stronger breastplate than a heart un- 
tainted! 
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, 
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
[A noise within. 
Queen. What noise is this ? 


Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their 
weapons drawn. 


King. Why. how now, lords! your wrathful 
weapons drawn 
Here in our presence! dare you be so bold ? 
Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here ? 
Suf. The traitorous Warwick with the men of 
Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. [Bury 
Sal. [To the Commons, entering] Sirs, stand apart ; 
the king shall know your mind. 
Dread lord, the commons send you word by me, 
Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death, 
Or banished fair England’s territories, 
They will by violence tear him from your palace 
And torture him with grievous lingering death. 


423 


ACT III. 


They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died; 
They say, in him they fear your highness’ death; 
And mere instinct of love and loyalty, 
Free from a stubborn opposite intent, 
As being thought to contradict your liking, 
Makes them thus forward in his banishment. 
They say, in care of your most royal person, 
That if your highness should intend to sleep 
And charge that no man should disturb your rest 
In pain of your dislike or pain of death, 
Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict, 
Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue, 
That slily glided towards your majesty, 
It were but necessary you were waked, 
Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber, 
The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal; 
And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, 
That they will guard you, whether you will or no, 
From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is, 
With whose envenomed and fatal sting, 
Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, 
They say, is shamefully bereft of life. 
Commons. [ Within] An answer from the king, my 
Lord of Salisbury! 
Suf.’T is like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds, 
Could send such message to their sovereign: 
But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d, 
To show how quaint an orator you are: 
But all the honour Salisbury hath won 
Is, that he was the lord ambassador 
Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king. 
Commons. [ Within] An answer from the king, or 
we will all break in! 
King. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me, 
I thank them for their tender loving care; 
And had I not been cited so by them, 
Yet did I purpose as they do entreat ; 
For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy 
Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means: 
And therefore, by His majesty I swear, 
Whose far unworthy deputy I am, 
He shall not breathe infection in this air 
But three days longer, on the pain of death. 
[Exit Salisbury. 
Rea O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk ! 
ing. Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk! 
No more, I say: if thou dost plead for him, 
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. 
Had I but said, I would have kept my word, 
But when I swear, it is irrevocable. 
If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st found 
On any ground that I am ruler of, 
The world shall not be ransom for thy life. 
Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me; 
I have great matters to impart to thee. 
[Hxeunt all but Queen and Suffolk. 
Queen. Mischance and sorrow go along with you! 
Heart’s discontent and sour affliction 
Be playfellows to keep you company ! 
There ’s two of you; the devil make a third! 
And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps! 
Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execrations 
And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. [wretch! 
Queen. Fie, coward woman and _ soft-hearted 
Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ? 
Suf. A plague upon them! wherefore should I 
curse them ? 
Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan, 
I would invent as bitter-searching terms, 
As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, 
Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth, 
With full as many signs of deadly hate, 
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave: 
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; 
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint ; 
Mine hair be fix’d on end, as one distract; 
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban: 


424 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY Vi een e te 


And even now my burthen’d heart would break, 
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink! 
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste! 
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees! 
Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks! 
Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings! 
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss, 
And boding screech-owls make the concert full! 
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell — 

Queen. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st 

thyself ; 

And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass, 
Or like an overcharged gun, recoil, 
And turn the force of them upon thyself. 

Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave ? 
Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from, 
Well could I curse away a winter’s night, 

Though standing naked on a mountain top, 
Where biting cold would never let grass grow, 
And think it but a minute spent in sport. 

Queen. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy 
That I may dew it with my mournful tears; [hand, 
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place, . 
To wash away my woful monuments. 

O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, 

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal, 

Through nen a thousand sighs are breathed for 
thee! 

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; 

*T is but surmised whiles thou art standing by, 

As one that surfeits thinking on a want. 

I will repeal thee, or, be well assured, 

Adventure to be banished myself: 

And banished I am, if but from thee. 

Go; speak not to me; even now be gone. 

O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemn’d 

Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, 

Loather a hundred times to part than die. 

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee! 

Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished ; 
Once.by the king, and three times thrice by thee. 
*T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence; 

A wilderness is populous enough, 

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company: 

For where thou art, there is the world itself, 
With every several pleasure in the world, 
And where thou art not, desolation. 

I can no more: live thou to joy thy life; 
Myself no joy in nought but that thou livest. 


Enter Vaux. 


Sot Whither goes Vaux so fast ? what news, I 
aux. To signify unto his majesty [prithee ? 
That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death; 
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, 
That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air, 
Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth. 
Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost 
Were by his side; sometime he calls the king 
And whispers to his pillow as to him 
The secrets of his overcharged soul: 
And I am sent to tell his majesty 
That even now he cries aloud for him. 

Queen. Go tell this heavy message to the king. 

[ Hxit Vaue. 
Ay me! what is this world! what news are these! 
But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss, 
Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure ? 
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, 
And with the southern clouds contend in tears, 
Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows ? 
Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is 
coming ; 

If thou be found by me, thou art but dead. 

Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live; 
And in thy sight to die, what were it else 
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap ? 


ACT IV. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI 


SCENE I. 


Here could I breathe my soul into the air, 
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe 
Dying with mother’s dug between its lips: 
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad 
And ery out for thee to close up mine eyes, 
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth; 
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, 
Or I should breathe it so into thy body, 
And then it lived in sweet Elysium. 
To die by thee were but to die in jest; 
From thee to die were torture more than death: 
O, let me stay, befall what may befall! 
Queen. Away! though parting be a fretful corro- 
sive, 
It is applied to a deathful wound. 
To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee; 
For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe, 
Il] have an Iris that shall find thee out. 
Suf. I go. 
ween. And take my heart with thee. 
Suf. A jewel, lock’d into the wofull’st cask 
That ever did contain a thing of worth. 
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: 
This way fall I to death. 
Queen. This way for me. 
[ Hxeunt severally. 


SCENE III.—A bedchamber. 
Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to the 
Cardinal in bed. 


King. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to 
thy sovereign. 


Car. If thou be’st death, Ill give thee England’s 
Enough to purchase such another island, [treasure, 
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. 

King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, 

Where death’s approach is seen so terrible ! 

War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. 

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. 
Died he not in his bed? where should he die ? 

Can I make men live, whether they will or no? 

O, torture me no more! I will confess. 

Alive again ? then show me where he is: 

Ill give a thousand pound to look upon him. 

He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. 

Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright, 

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. 

Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary 

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. 
King. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, 

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! 

O, beat away the busy meddling fiend 

That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul 

And from his bosom purge this black despair! 
War. hint how the pangs of death do make him 

erin! 

Sal. Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably. 

King. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be! 
Lord cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss, 
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. 

He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him! 
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. 
King. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. 

Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; 

And let us all to meditation. [ Exeunt. 


Va OG BA Ba Ve 


SCENE I.— The coast of Kent. 


Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Cap- 
tain, a Master, a Master’s Mate, Walter Whitmore, 
and others ; with them Suffolk, and others, prisoners. 


Cap. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day 
Is crept into the bosom of the sea; 
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades 
That drag the tragic melancholy night ; 
Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings, 
Clip dead men’s graves and from their misty jaws 
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. 
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize; 
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, 
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, 
Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore. 
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee; 
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this; 
The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. [know. 
First Gent. What is my ransom, master? let me 
Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your 
head. [yours. 
Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes 
Cap. What, think you much to pay two thousand 
crowns, 
And bear the name and port of gentlemen ? 
Cut both the villains’ throats; for die you shall: 
The lives of those which we have lost in fight 
Be counterpoised with such a petty sum! 
First Gent. I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare 
my life. [straight. 
Sec. Gent. And so will I and write home for it 
Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, 
And therefore to revenge it, shalt thoudie; [To Suf. 
And so should these, if I might have my will. 
Cap. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live. 
Suf. Look on my George; I am a gentleman: 
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. 


Whit. AndsoamI; my nameis Walter Whitmore. 

How now! why start’st thou? what, doth death 

affright ? [death. 

Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is 

A cunning man did calculate my birth 

And told me that by water I should die: 

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ; 

Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded. 
Whit. Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not: 

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name, 

But with our sword we wiped away the blot; 

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, 

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced, 

And I proclaim’d a coward through the world! 
Suf. Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince, 

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole. 
Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags! 
Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke: 

Jove sometime went disguised, and why not I? 
Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. 
Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood, 

The honourable blood of Lancaster, 

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. 

Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup ? 

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule 

And thought thee happy when I shook my head ? 

How often hast thou waited at my cup, 

Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board, 

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret ? 

Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n, 

Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride; 

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood 

And duly waited for my coming forth ? 

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf 

And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. | 
Whit. Speak captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? 
Cap. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. 
Suf. Base slave,thy words are blunt and soart thew 


425 


ACT IV. 


Cap. Convey him hence and on our long-boat’s side 
Strike off his head. 


5 Yes, Pole. 

Ou]. 

Cop. Pool! Sir Pool! lord! 

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt 

Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. 

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth 

For swallowing the treasure of the realm: 

Thy lips that kiss’d the queen shall sweep the 

ground; [death 

And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s 

Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, 

Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again: 

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell, 

For daring to affy a mighty lord 

Unto the daughter of a worthless king, 

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. 

By devilish policy art thou grown great 

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged 

With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart. 

By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France, 

The false revolting Normans thorough thee 

Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy 

Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts 

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. 

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, 

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, 

As hating thee, are rising up in arms: 

And now the house of York, thrust from the crown 

By shameful murder of a guiltless king 

And lofty proud encroaching tyranny, 

Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours 

Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine, 

Under the which is writ ‘ Invitis nubibus.’ 

The commons here in Kent are up in arms: 

And, to conclude, reproach and beggary 

Is crept into the palace of our king, 

And all by thee. Away! convey him hence. 

Suf. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder 
Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges! 

Small things make base men proud: this villain 

Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more _ [here, 

Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. 

Drones suck not eagles’ blood but rob bee-hives: 

It is impossible that I should die 

By such a lowly vassal as thyself. 

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me: 

I go of message from the queen to France; 

I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel. 
Cap. Walter,— [death. 
Whit. Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy 
Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus; it isthee I fear. 

hit. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I 
leave thee. 

What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop ? 
First Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak 

him fair. 

Suf. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough, 
Used to command, untaught to plead for favour. 
Far be it we should honour such as these 
With humble suit: no, rather let my head 
Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any 
Save to the God of heaven and to my king; 

And sooner dance upon a bloody pole 

Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom. 

True nobility is exempt from fear: 

More can I bear than you dare execute. 

Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. 

ae . Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, 

That this my death may never be forgot ! 

Great men oft die by vile bezonians: 

A Roman sworder and banditto slave 

Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand 

Stabb’d Julius Cesar; savage islanders 

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. 

[Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk. 
426. 


Thou darest not, for thy own. 


Pole! 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. scene 11. 


Cap. And as for these whose ransom we have set, 
It is our pleasure one of them depart: 
Therefore come you with us and let him go. 
[Exeunt all but the First Gentleman. 


fe-enter Whitmore with Suffolk’s body. 


Whit. There let his head and lifeless body lie, 
Until the queen his mistress bury it. [ Exit, 
First Gent. O barbarous and bloody spectacle! 

His body will I bear unto the king: 
If he revenge it not, yet will his friends ; 
So will the queen, that living held him dear. 
[ Exit with the body. 


SCENE II.— Blackheath. 


Enter George Bevis and John Holland. 


Bevis. Come, and get thee a sword, though made 
of a lath: they have been up these two days. 

Holl. They have the more need to sleep now, then. 

Bevis. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means 
to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a 
new nap upon it. 

Holl. So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, 
I say it was never merry world in England since 
gentlemen came up. 

Bevis. O miserable age! virtue is not regarded 
in handicrafts-men. [aprons. 

Holl. The nobility think scorn to go in leather 

Bevis. Nay, more, the king’s council are no good 
workmen. 

Holl. True; and yet it is said, labour in thy vo- 
cation; which is as much to say as, let the magis- 
trates be labouring men; and therefore should we 
be magistrates. 

Bevis. Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better 
sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. 

Holl. I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s 
son, the tanner of Wingham,— 

Bevis. He shall have the skin of our enemies, to 
make dog’s-leather of. 

Holl. And Dick the Butcher,— 

Bevis. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and 
iniquity’s throat cut like a calf. 

Holl. And Smith the weaver,— 

Bevis. Argo, their thread of life is spun. 

Holl. Come, come, let ’s fall in with them. 


Drum. Enter Cade, Dick Butcher, Smith the 
Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers, 


Cade. We John Cade, so termed of our supposed 
father,— [herrings. 

Dick. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of 

Cade. For our enemies shall fall before us, in- 
spired with the spirit of putting down kings and 
princes,— Command silence. 

Dick. Silence! 

Cade. My father was a Mortimer,— 

Dick. [Aside] He was an honest man, and a good 

Cade. My mother a Plantagenet,— [bricklayer. 

Dick. [Aside] I knew her well; she was a midwife. 

Cade. My wife descended of the Lacies,— 

Dick. [Aside] She was, indeed, a pedler’s daughter, 
and sold many laces. 

Smith. [Aside] But now of late, not able to travel 
with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home. 
Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable house. 

Dick. [Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is hon- 
ourable; and there was he born, under a hedge, for 
his father had never a house but the cage. 

Cade. Valiant I am. [valiant. 

Smith. [Aside] A’ must needs; for beggary is 

Cade. I am able to endure much. 

Dick. [Aside] No question of that; for I have 
seen him whipped three market-days together. 

Cade. I fear neither sword nor fire. 

Smith. [Aside] He need not fear the sword; for 
his coat is of proof. 


ie 


ACT IV. 


Dick. [Aside] But methinks he should stand in 
Awe of fire, being burnt i’ the hand for stealing of 
sheep. 

Cade. Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, 
and vows reformation. There shall be in England 
seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny: the three- 
hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make 
it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be 
in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfry go to 
grass: and when I am king, as king I will be,— 

All. God save your majesty ! 

Cade. I thank you, good people: there shall be 
no money; allshall eat and drink on my score; and 
I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may 
agree like brothers and worship me their lord. 

Dick. The first thing we do, lets kill all the law- 
yers. 

Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a la- 
mentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb 
should be made parchment ? that parchment, being 
scribbled o’er, should undo aman? Some say the 
bee stings: but I say, ’tis the bee’s wax; for I did 
but seal once to a us and I was never mine own 
man since. How now! who’s there? 


Enter some, bringing forward the Clerk of Chatham. 

Smith. The clerk of Chatham: he can write and 
read and cast accompt. 

Cade. O monstrous! 

Smith. We took him setting of boys’ copies. 

Cade. Here’s a villain! 

Smith. Has a book in his pocket with red letters 

Cade. Nay, then, he is a conjurer. [in ’t. 

Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and write 
court-hand. 

Cade. I am sorry for ’t: the man is a proper man, 
of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall 
not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee: 
what is thy name? 

Clerk. Emmanuel. 

Dick. They use to write it on the top of letters: 
*t will go hard with you. 

Cade. Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy 
name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an hon- 
est plain-dealing man? | 

Clerk. Sir, 1 thank God, I have been so well 
brought up that I can write my name. 

All. He hath confessed: away with him! he’sa 
villain and a traitor. 

Cade. Away with him, I say! hang him with his 
pen and ink-horn about his neck. 

[ Hxit one with the Clerk. 


Enter Michael. 

Mich. Where’s our general ? 

Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow. 

Mich. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and 
his brother are hard by, with the king’s forces. 

Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or Ill fell thee down. 
He shall be encountered with a man as good as 
himself: he is but a knight, is a’ ? 

Mich. No. 

Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a knight 
presently. [/tneels] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. 
[ Rises] Now have at him! 


Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and his Brother, 
with drum and soldiers. 


Staf. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent, 
Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down; 
Home to your cottages, forsake this groom: 

The king is merciful, if you revolt. 

Bro. But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood, 
If you go forward; therefore yield, or die. 

Cade. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not : 
It is to you, good people, that I speak, 

Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign ; 
For I am rightful heir unto the crown. 


Dit Gv Ap OR oh LING oie Nay: 


Vd. 


Staf. Villain, thy father was a plasterer ; 
And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not ? 

Cade. And Adam was a gardener. 

Bro. And what of that ? {March, 

Cade. Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of 
Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he 

Staf. Ay, sir. [not ? 

Cade. By her he had two children at one birth. 

Bro. That’s false. 

Cade. Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis 
The elder of them, being put to nurse, [true: 
Was by a beggar-woman stolen away ; 

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, 
Became a bricklayer when he came to age: 
His son am I; deny it, if you can. 

Dick. Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be king. 

Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s 
house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify 
it; therefore deny it not. 

Staf. And will youcredit this base drudge’s words, 
That speaks he knows not what ? 

All. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone. 

Bro. Manse} the Duke of York hath taught 

you this. 

Cade. [Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself. 
Go to, sirrah, tell the king from me, that, for his 
father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys 
went to span-counter for French crowns, I am con- 
tent he shall reign; but Ill be protector over him. 

Dick. And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord 
Say’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine. 

Cade. And good reason; for thereby is England 
mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my 
puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that 
that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and 
made it an eunuch: and more than that, he can 
speak French; and therefore he is a traitor, 

Staf. O gross and miserable ignorance! 

Cade. Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen 
are our enemies; go to, then, [ask but this: can he 
that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good 
counsellor, or no ? 

All. No, no; and therefore we ’ll have his head. 

Bro. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, 
Assail them with the army of the king. 

Sah Herald, away; and throughout every town 
Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade; 
That those which fly before the battle ends 
May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight, 

Be hang’d up for example at their doors: 
And you that be the king’s friends, follow me. 
[Hxeunt the two Staffords, and soldiers. 

Cade. And you that love the commons, follow me. 

Now show yourselves men; ’t is for liberty. 

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman: 

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon ; 

For they are thrifty honest men and such 

As would, but that they dare not, take our parts. 

Dick. They are all in order and march toward us. 

Cade. But then are we in order when we are most 
out of order. Come, march forward. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. 


SCENE III. -— Another part of Blackheath. 


Alarums to the fight, wherein both the Staffords are 
slain. Enter Cade and the rest. 


Cade. Where ’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford ? 

Dick. Here, sir. 

Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, 
and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in 
thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I 
reward thee, the Lent shall be as long again as it is; 
and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred 

Dick. I desire no more. [lacking one. 

Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. 
This monument of the victory will I bear [putting 
on Sir Humphrey’s brigandine]; and the bodies shall 
be dragged at my horse heels till I do come to Lon- 
< 


427 


ACT IV. SECOND PART OF 


don, where we will have the mayor’s sword borne 
before us. 

Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, break 
open the gaols and let out the prisoners. 

Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let’s 
march towards London. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— London. The palace. 


Enter the King with a supplication, and the Queen with 
Suffolk’s head, the Duke of Buckingham and the 
Lord Say. 


Queen. Oft have [heard that grief softens the mind 

And makes it fearful and degenerate ; 
Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. 
But who can cease to weep and look on this ? 
Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast: 
But where ’s the body that I should embrace ? 

Buck. What answer makes your grace to the 
rebels’ supplication ? 

King. 1711 send some holy bishop to entreat; 

For God forbid so many simple souls 
Should perish by the sword! And I myself, 
Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, 
Will parley with Jack Cade their general: 
But stay, Ill read it over once again. 

ueen. Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely 
Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me, [face 
And could it not enforce them to relent, 
That were unworthy to behold the same? 

King. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have 

thy head. 

Say. Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. 

King. How now, madam! 

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death ? 
I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, 
Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for me. 

Queen. No, my love, I should not mourn, but die 

for thee. 
Enter a Messenger. 

King. How now! what news? why comest thou 

in such haste ? 

Mess. The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord! 
Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, 
Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house, 

And calls your grace usurper openly 

And vows to crown himself in Westminster. 

His army is a ragged multitude 

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless: 

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death 
Hath given them heart and courage to proceed: 
All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, 

They call false caterpillars and intend their death. 

King. O graceless men! they know not what they 

do. 

Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth, 
Until a power be raised to put them down. 

Queen. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, 
These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased ! 

King. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee; 
Therefore away with us to Killingworth. 

Say. So might your grace’s person be in danger. 
The sight of me is odious in their eyes; 

And therefore in this city will I stay 
And live alone as secret as I may.’ 


Enter another Messenger. 


Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge: 
The citizens fly and forsake their houses: 
The rascal people, thirsting after prey, 
Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear 
To spoil the city and your royal court. 
Buck. Then linger not, my lord; away, take 
horse. [cour us. 
King. Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will suc- 
pte My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased. 
arse he my lord: trust not the Kentish 
rebels. 


428 


KING HENRY Vi. scene vit. 


Buck. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray’d. 
Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence, 
And therefore am I bold and resolute. [Exeunt. 


SCENE V.— London. The Tower. 


Enter Lord Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then 
enter two or three Citizens below. 


Scales. How now! is Jack Cade slain ? 

First Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for 
they have won the bridge, killing all those that with- 
stand them: the lord mayor craves aid of your 
honour from the Tower to defend the city from ~ 
the rebels. 

Scales. Such aid as I can spare you shall command ; 
But I am troubled here with them myself; 

The rebels have assay’d to win the Tower. 

But get you to Smithfield and gather head, 

And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe; 

Fight for your king, your country and your lives; 
And so, farewell, for I must hence again. [Haeunt. 


SCENE VI.— London. Cannon Sireet. 


Enter Jack Cade and the rest, and strikes his staff 
on London-stone. 


Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And 
here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and com- 
mand that, of the city’s cost, the pissing-conduit 
run nothing but claret wine this first year of our 
reign. And now henceforward it shall be treason 
for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. 


Enter a Soldier, running. 


Sold. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! 

Cade. Knock him down there. [They kill him. 

Smith. If this fellow be wise, he’ll] never call ye 
Jack Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning. 

Dick. My lord, there’s an army gathered together 
in Smithfield. 

Cade. Come, then, let’s go fight with them: but 
first, go and set London bridge on fire; and, if you 
can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away. 

[| Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII.— London. Smithfield. 


Alarums. Matthew Goffe is slain, and all the rest. 
Then enter Jack Cade, with his company. 


Cade. So, sirs: now go some and pull down the 
Savoy ; others to the inns of court ; down with them 
Dick. I have a suit unto your lordship. jall. 
Cade. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that 


word. 

Dick. Only that the laws of England may come 
out of your mouth. 

Holl. [Aside] Mass, ’t will be sore law, then; for 
he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’t is 
not whole yet. 

Smith. [Aside] Nay, John, it will be stinking law; 
for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. 

Cade. I have thought upon it, it shall be so. 
Away, burn all the records of the realm: my mouth 
shall be the parliament of England. 

Holl. [Aside] Then we are like to have biting 
statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out. [common. 

Cade. And henceforward all things shall be in 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize! here’s the Lord 
Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made 
us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to 
the pound, the last subsidy. 


Enter George Bevis, with the Lord Say. 


Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. 
Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! 
now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction 


\| 
IK 
ys 
| i 
; 
3 : 
SZ 
4 


: 
4 
1) 
! 


| 


Ps 


ACT IV. 


regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for 
giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, 
the dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee 
by these presence, even the presence of Lord Morti- 
mer, that I am the besom that must sweep the 
court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast 
most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm 
in erecting a grammar school: and whereas, before, 
- our forefathers had no other books but the score 
and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, 
and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, 
thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to 
thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually 
talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable 
words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. 
Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor 
men before them about matters they were not able 
to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison ; 
and because they could not read, thou hast hanged 
them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have 
been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a 
foot-cloth, dost thou not ? 

Say. What of that ? 

Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse 
wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in 
their hose and doublets. 

Dick. And work in their shirt too; as myself, 
for example, that am a butcher. 

Say. You men of Kent,— 

Dick. .What say you of Kent? [gens.’ 

Say. Nothing but this; ’tis ‘bona terra, mala 

Cade. Away with him, away with him! he speaks 
Latin. [will. 

Say. Hear me but speak, and bear me where you 
Kent, in the Commentaries Cesar writ, 

Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle: 

Sweet is the country, because full of riches; 

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; 

Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. 

I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy, 

Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. 

Justice with favour have I always done; 

Prayers and tears have moved me, gifts could never. 

When have I aught exacted at your hands, 

But to maintain the king, the realm and you? 

Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks, 

Because my book preferr’d me to the king, 

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, 

Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven, 

Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits, 

You cannot but forbear to murder me: 

This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings 

For your behoof,— [field ? 
Cade. Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in the 
Say. Great men have reaching hands: oft have I 

struck 

Those that I never saw and struck them dead. 

Geo. O monstrous coward! what, to come behind 
folks ? [good. 

Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for your 

Cade. Give him a box o’ the ear and that will 
make ’em red again. 

Say. Long sitting to determine poor men’s causes 
Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. 

Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then and 
the help of hatchet. 

Dick. Why dost thou quiver, man ? 

Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. 

Cade. Nay, he nods at us, as who should say, I “ll 
be even with you: I'll see if his head will stand 
steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and be- 
head him. 

Say. Tell me wherein have I offended most ? 
Have I affected wealth or honour? speak. 

Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold ? 

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold ? 

Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death ? 
These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding, 


Se eA OO LN GH vis kor VL, 


SCENE VIII. 


This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. 
O, let me live! 

Cade. [Aside] I feel remorse in myself with his 
words; but Ill bridle it: he shall die, an it be 
but for pleading so well for his life. Away with 
him! he has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks 
not 0’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and 
strike off his head presently; and then break into 
his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and 
strike off his head, and bring them both upon two 
poles hither. 

All. It shall be done. [prayers, 

Say. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your 
God should be so obdurate as yourselves, 
How would it fare with your departed souls ? 
And therefore yet relent, and save my life. 

Cade. Away with him! and do as I command ye. 

[Hxeunt some with Lord Say. 

The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a 
head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; 
there shall not a maid be married, but she shall 
pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it: men 
shall hold of mein capite; and we charge and com- 
mand that their wives be as free as heart can wish 
or tongue can tell. 

Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside 
and take up commodities upon our bills ? 

Cade. Marry, presently. 

All. O, brave! 


Re-enter one with the heads. 


Cade. But is not this braver? Let them kiss 
one another, for they loved well when they were 
alive. Now part them again, lest they consult 
about the giving up of some more towns in France. 
Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night: for 
with these borne before us, instead of maces, will 
we ride through the streets and at every corner 
have them kiss. Away! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VIII.— Southwark. 


Enter Cade and all his rab- 
blement. 


Cade. Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus’ Cor- 
ner! killand knock down! throw them into Thames! 
[Sound a parley.| What noise is this I hear? Dare 
any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I 
command them kill! 


Enter Buckingham and old Clifford, attended. 


Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will dis- 
turb thee: 

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king 
Unto the commons whom thou hast misled; 
And here pronounce free pardon to them all 
That will forsake thee and go home in peace. 

Clif. What say ye, countrymen ? will ye relent, 
And yield to mercy whilst ’tis offer’d you; 
Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths ? 
Who loves the king and will embrace his pardon, 
Fling up his cap, and say ‘ God save his majesty! ’ 
Who hateth him and honours not his father, 
Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, 
Shake he his weapon at us and pass by. 

All. God save the king! God save the king! 

Cade. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye 
so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe 
him ? will you needs be hanged with your pardons 
about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke 
through London gates, that you should leave me 
at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye 
would never have given out these arms till you had 
recovered your ancient freedom: but you are all 
recreants and dastards, and delight to live in 
slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs 
with burthens, take your houses over your heads, 
ravish your wives and daughters before your faces: 


429 


Alarum and retreat. 


AGT, LVi 


for me, I will make shift for one; and so, God’s 
curse light upon you all! 

All. Well follow Cade, we ’ll follow Cade! 

Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, 

That thus you do exclaim you ’l] go with him ? 
Will he conduct you through the heart of France, 
And make the meanest of you earls and dukes ? 
Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to; 

Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil, 

Unless by robbing of your friends and us. 

Were ’t not a shame, that whilst you live at jar, 
The fearful French, whom you late vanquished, 
Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you ? 
Methinks already in this civil broil 

I see them sording it in London streets, 

Crying ‘ Villiago!’ unto all they meet. 

Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry 
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy. 
To France, to France,and get what you have lost; 
Spare England, for it is your native coast: 

Henry hath money, you are strong and manly; 
God on our side, doubt not of victory. 

All. A Clifford! a Clifford! we ’ll follow the king 
and Clifford. 

Cade. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and 
fro as this multitude ? Thename of Henry the Fifth 
hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes them 
leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads to- 
gether to surprise me. My sword make way for me, 
for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and 
hell, have through the very middest of you! and heav- 
ens and honour be witness that no want of resolution 
in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious 
treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. [Hvit. 

Buck. What, is he fled ? Go some, and follow him; 
And he that brings his head unto the king 
Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward. 

[Hxeunt some of them. 
Follow me, soldiers: we’ll devise a mean 
To reconcile you all unto the king. 


SCENE IX.— Kenilworth Castle. 


Sound trumpets. Enter King, Queen, and Som- 
erset, on the terrace. 


King. Was ever king that joy’d an earthly throne, 
And could command no more content than I ? 
No sooner was I crept out of my cradle 
But I was made a king, at nine months old. 
Was never subject long’d to be a king 
As I do long and wish to be a subject. 


Enter Buckingham and old Clifford. 


Buck. Health and glad tidings to your majesty! 
King. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade sur- 
Or is he but retired to make him strong? [prised ? 


[ Hxeunt. 


Enter, below, multitudes, with halters about their necks. 
Clif. hee is fled, my lord, and all his powers do 
yield ; 
And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, 
Expect your highness’ doom, of life or death. 
King. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates, 
To entertain my vows of thanks and praise! 
Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives 
And show’d how well you love your prince and 
country : 
Continue still in this so good a mind, 
And Henry, though he be infortunate, 
Assure yourselves, will never be unkind: 
And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, 
I do dismiss you to your several countries. 
All, God save the king! God save the king! 


Enter a Messenger, 


Mess. Please it your grace to be advertised 
The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, 
And with a puissant and a mighty power 


430 


SECOND PART OF KING HENEY VI. 


SCENE X. 


Of gallowglasses and stout kerns 
Is marching hitherward in proud array, 
And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, 
His arms are only to remove from thee 
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. 
King. Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and 
York distress’d ; 
Like to a ship that, having ’scaped a tempest, 
Is straightway calm’d and boarded with a pirate: 
But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed ; 
And now is York in arms to second him. 
I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, 
And ask him what’s the reason of these arms. 
Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower; 
And, Somerset, we will commit thee hither, 
Until his army be dismiss’d from him. 
Som. My lord, 
Ill yield myself to prison willingly, 
Or unto death, to do my country good. 
King. In any case, be not too rough in terms; 
For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language. 
Buck. I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal 
As all things shall redound unto your good. 
King. Come, wife, let ’s in, and learn to govern 
better ; 
For yet may England curse my wretched reign. 
[Flourish. Haxeunt. 


SCENE X.— Kent. Iden’s garden. 


Enter Cade. 


Cade. Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have 
a sword, and yet am ready to famish! These five 
days have I hid me in these woods and durst not 
peep out, for all the country is laidfor me; but now 
am I so hungry that if I might have a lease of my 
life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. 
Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this 
garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet 
another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s 
stomach this hot weather. And I think this word 
‘sallet? was born to do me good: for many a time, 
but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a 
brown bill: and many a time, when I have been dry 
and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of 
a quart pot to drink in; and now the word ‘ sallet ’ 
must serve me to feed on. 


Enter Iden. 


Iden. Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court, 
And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? 
This small inheritance my father left me 
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. 
I seek not to wax great by others’ waning, 
Or gather wealth, I care not, with what envy: 
Sufliceth that I have maintains my state 
And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. 
Cade. Here ’s the lord of the soil come to seize me 
for astray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. 
Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand 
crowns of the king by carrying my head to him: but 
Ill make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow 
my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. 
iden. Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be, 
I know thee not; why, then, should I betray thee? 
Is ’t not enough to break into my garden, 
And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds, - 
Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner, 
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms ? 
Cade. Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that 
ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on 
me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, 
come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave 
you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may 
never eat grass more. [stands, 
Iden. Nay. it shall ne’er be said, while England 
That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, 
Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man. 


ACHE V:. 


Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, 

See if thou canst outface me with thy looks: 

Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser ; 

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist, 

Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon ; 

My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast; 

And if mine arm be heaved in the air, 

Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth. 

As for words, whose greatness answers words, 

Let this my sword report what speech forbears. 
Cade. By my valour, the most complete cham- 

pion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the 

edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in 

chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I be- 

seech God on my knees thou mayst be turned to 

hobnails. [Here they fight. Cade falls. 
O, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain 

me: let ten thousand devils come against me, and 

give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’ld 

defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth 

a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, 

because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE I. 


Iden. Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous 
traitor ? 
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed, 
And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead: 
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point; 
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat, 
To emblaze the honour that thy master got. 

Cade. Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. 
Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and 
exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that 
never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by 
valour. [ Dies. 

iden. How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be 

my judge. 
Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee; 
And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, 
So wish 1, I might thrust thy soul to hell. 
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels 
Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave, 
And there cut off thy most ungracious head ; 
Which I will bear in triumph to the king, 


Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. [Hzit. 


Gan!) VV. 


SCENE I.— Melds between Dartford and Black- 
heath. 


Hinter York, and his army of Irish, with drum and 
colours. 


York. From Ireland thus comes York to claim 
. his right, 
And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head : 
Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright, 
To entertain great England’s lawful king. 
Ah! sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear? 
Let them obey that know not how to rule; 
This hand was made to handle nought but gold. 
I cannot give due action to my words, 
Except a sword or sceptre balance it: 
A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, 
On which 171] toss the flower-de-luce of France. 


Enter Buckingham. 


Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me ? 
The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble. 

Buck. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee 

well. [greeting. 

York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy 
Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure ? 

Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege, 
To know the reason of these arms in peace ; 

Or why thou, being a subject as I am, 

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, 
Should raise so great a power without his leave, 
Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. 

York. [Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so 
O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, [great: 
Iam so angry at these abject terms; 

And now, like Ajax Telamonius, 

On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. 

I am far better born than is the king, 

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts: 
But I must make fair weather yet awhile, 

Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.— 
Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, 

That I have given no answer all this while; 
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. 
The cause why I have brought this army hither 
Is to remove proud Somerset from the king, 
Seditious to his grace and to the state. 

Buck. That is too much presumption on thy part: 
But if thy arms be to no other end, 

The king hath yielded unto thy demand: 
The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. 


York. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner ? 
Buck. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. 
York. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. 
Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves; 
Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field, 
You shall have pay and every thing you wish. 
And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, 
Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons, 
As pledges ot my fealty and love; 
I'll send them all as willing as I live: 
Lands, goods, horse, armour, any thing I have, 
Is his to use, so Somerset may die. 
Buck. York, I commend this kind submission: 
We twain will go into his highness’ tent. 


Enter King and Attendants. 


King. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to 
That thus he marcheth with thee armin arm? [us, 
York. In all submission and humility 
York doth present himself unto your highness. 
King. Then what intends these forces thou dost 
bring ? 
York. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence. 
And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade, 
Who since I heard to be discomfited. 


Enter Iden, with Cade’s head. 


Iden. If one so rude and of so mean condition 
May pass into the presence of a king, 

Lo, I present your grace a traitor’s head, 
The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. 

King. The head of Cade! Great God, how just 
O, let me view his visage, being dead, [art Thou! 
That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. 
Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him ? 

Iden. I was, an’t like your majesty. 

King. How art thou call’d? and what is thy de- 

Iden. Alexander Iden, that’s my name; [gree? 
A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king. 

Buck. So please it you, my lord, ’t were not amiss 
He were created knight for his good service. 

King. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a 
We give thee for reward a thousand marks, [knight. 
And will that thou henceforth attend on us. 

Iden. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, 
And never live but true unto his liege! [ [tises. 


Enter Queen and Somerset. 


King. See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the 
Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke. [queen: 


431 


ACT V. 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. 


SCENE II. 


Queen. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his 
But boldly stand and front him to his face. [head, 

York. How now! is Somerset at liberty ? 

Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison’d thoughts, 
And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. 

Shall I endure the sight of Somerset ? 

False king! why hast thou broken faith with me, 
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ? 

King did I call thee? no, thou art not king, 

Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, 

Which darest not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. 
That head of thine doth not become a crown; 
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff, 

And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. 

That gold must round engirt these brows of mine, 
Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear, 

Is able with the change to kill and cure. 

Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up 

And with the same to act controlling laws. 

Give place: by heaven, thou shalt rule no more 
O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler. 

Som. O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York, 
Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown: 
Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace. 

York. Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask 
If they can brook I bow a knee to man. [of these, 
Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail: 

[ Hxit Attendant. 
I know, ere they will have me go to ward, 
They 71] pawn their swords for my enfranchisement. 

Queen. Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain, 
To say if that the bastard boys of York 
Shall be the surety for their traitor father. 

[Hxit Buckingham. 

York. O blood-besotted Neapolitan, 

Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge! 
The sons of York, thy betters in their birth, 
Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those 
That for my surety will refuse the boys! 


Enter Edward and Richard. 


See where they come: Ill warrant they ’ll make it 
good. 


Enter old Clifford and his Son. 


ueen. And here comes Clifford to deny their bail. 
lif. Health and all happiness to my lord the king! 
[ Kneels. 
York. I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with 
Nay, do not fright us with an angry look: [thee? 
We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again ; 
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. 
Clif. This is my king, York, I do not mistake; 
But thou mistakest me much to think I do: 
To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad ? 
King. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious 
humour 
Makes him oppose himself against his king. 
Clif. He is a traitor; let him to the Tower, 
And chop away that factious pate of his. 
Queen. He is arrested, but will not obey ; 
His sons, he says, shall give their words for him. 
York. Will you not, sons ? 
Edw. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. 
Aad ad if words will not, then our weapons 
shall. 
Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here! 
York. Look in a glass, and call thy image so: 
I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. 
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, 
That with the very shaking of their chains 
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs: 
Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. 


Enter the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury. 


Clif. Are these thy bears? well bait thy bears 
to death, 


432 


And manacle the bear-ward in their chains, 
If thou darest bring them to the baiting place. 

Rich. Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur 
Run back and bite, because he was withheld, 
Who, being suffer’d with the bear’s fell paw, 

Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs and cried: 
And such a piece of service will you do, 
If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. 

Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, 
As crooked in thy manners as thy shape! 

York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. 

Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn your- 

selves. [bow ? 

King. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to 
Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, 

Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son! 
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, 
And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles ? 

O, where is faith ? O, where is loyalty ? 

If it be banish’d from the frosty head, 

Where shall it find a harbour in the earth ? 
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, 
And shame thine honourable age with blood ? 
Why art thou old, and want’st experience ? 
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it ? 
For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me 
That bows unto the grave with mickle age. 

Sal. My lord, I have consider’d with myself 
The title of this most renowned duke; 

And in my conscience do repute his grace 
The rightful heir to England’s royal seat. 

King. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me ? 

Sal. I have. [an oath ? 

King. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such 

Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, 

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. 

Who can be bound by any solemn vow 

To do a murderous deed, to rob a man, 

To force a spotless virgin’s chastity, 

To reave the orphan of his patrimony, 

To wring the widow from her custom’d right, 
And have no other reason for this wrong 

But that he was bound by a solemn oath ? 

Queen. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. 

King. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. 

York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou 
I am resolved for death or dignity. {hast, 

Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. 

War. You were best to go to bed and dream again, 
To keep thee from the tempest of the field. 

Olif. Iam resolved to bear a greater storm 
Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; 

And that Ill write upon thy burgonet, 

Might I but know thee by thy household badge. 
ar. Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest, 

The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff, 

This day I ll wear aloft my burgonet, 

AS on a mountain top the cedar shows 

That Keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, 

Even to affright thee with the view thereof. 

Clif. And from thy burgonet Ill rend thy bear 
And tread it under foot. with all contempt, 
Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. 

Y. Clif. And so to arms, victorious father, 

To quell the rebels and their complices. 

Rich. Fie! charity, for shame! speak not in spite, 
For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. 

Y. Clif. Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou 

canst tell. . 
Rich. If not in heaven, you ’ll surely sup in hell. 
[Exeunt severally. 


SCENE II. — Saint Alban’s. 


Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick. 


War. Clifford of Cumberland, ’t is Warwick calls: 
And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, 


ACT V. 


Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum 
And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, 

Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me: 
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland, 
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. 


Enter York. 


How now, my noble lord! what, all afoot ? 
York. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed, 
But match to match I have encounter’d him 
And made a prey for carrion kites and crows 
Even of the bonny beast he loved so well. 


Enter old Clifford. 


War. Of one or both of us the time is come. 
Whe Hold, Warwick, seek thee out some other 
chase, 
For I myself must hunt this deer to death. 
War. Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou 
fight’st. 
As I intend, Clifford, to. thrive to-day, 
It aes my soul to leave thee unassail’d. [Hvitt. 
Jlif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost 
thou pause ? 
York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, 
But that thou art so fast mine enemy. 
Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and 
esteem, 
But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason. 
York. So let it help me now against thy sword 
As I in justice and true right express it. 
Clif. My soul and body on the action both! 
York. A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly. 
[They fight, and Clifford falls. 
Clif. La fin couronne les ceuvres. Dies. 
York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou 
art still. 
Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will! [Hvit. 


Enter young Clifford. 


Y. Clif. Shame and confusion! all is on the rout; 
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 
Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell, 
Whom angry heavens do make their minister, 
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part 
Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. 

He that is truly dedicate to war 
Hath no self-love, nor he that loves himself 
Hath not essentially but by circumstance 
The name of valour. [Seeing his dead father. 
O, let the vile world end, 
And the premised flames of the last day 
Knit earth and heaven together! 
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, 
Particularities and petty sounds 
To cease! Wast thou ordain’d, dear father, 
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve 
The silver livery of advised age, 
And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus 
To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight 
My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine, 
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; 
No more will I their babes: tears virginal 
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire, 
And beauty that the tyrant oft reclaims 
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. 
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: 
Meet I an infant of the house of York, 
Into as many gobbets will I cut it 
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did: 
In cruelty will I seek out my fame. 
Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house: 
As did Aineas old Anchises bear, 
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders; 
But then Aineas bare a living load, 
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. 
[Exit, bearing off his father. 
28 


SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VL: scens ttt. 


Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset 
is killed. 


Rich. So, lie thou there; 
For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign, 
The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset 
Hath made the wizard famous in his death. 
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: 
Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [ Exit. 


Fight: excursions. Enter King, Queen, and others. 


Queen. Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, 

away | 

King. Can we outrun the heavens? good Mar- 

garet, stay. 

Queen. What are you made of? you’ll nor fight 
Now is it manhood, wisdom and defence, [nor fly: 
To give the enemy way, and to secure us 
By what we can, which can no more but fly. 

[Alarum afar off. 
If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom 
Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape, 
As well we may, if not through your neglect, 
We shall to London get, where you are loved 
And where this breach now in our fortunes made 
May readily be stopp’d. 


Re-enter young Clifford. 


Y. Clif. But that my heart’s on future mischief 
I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly: [set, 
But fly you must; uncurable discomfit 
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. 
Away, for your relief! and we will live 
To see their day and them our fortune give: 
Away, my lord, away! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Fields near St. Alban’s. 


Alarum. Retreat. Enter York, Richard, War- 
wick, and Soldiers, with drum and colours. 


York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, 
That winter lion, who in rage forgets 
Aged contusions and all brush of time, 
And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, 
Repairs him with occasion? This happy day 
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, 
If Salisbury be lost. 

Rich. My noble father, 
Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, 
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off, 
Persuaded him from any further act: 
But still, where danger was, still there I met him; 
And like rich hangings in a homely house, 
So was his will in his old feeble body. 
But, noble as he is, look where he comes. 


Enter Salisbury. 


Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought 
to-day ; 
By the ae so did we all. I thank you, Richard: 
God knows how long it is I have to live; 
And it hath pleased him that three times to-day 
You have defended me from imminent death. 
Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: 
’T is not enough our foes are this time fled, 
Being opposites of such repairing nature. 
York. I know our safety is to follow them ; 
For, as I hear, the king is fled to London, 
To call a present court of parliament. 
Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. 
What says Lord Warwick ? shall we after them? 
War. After them! nay, before them, if we can. 
Now, by my faith, lords, ’t was a glorious day: 
Saint Alban’s battle won by famous York 
Shall be eternized in all age to come. 
Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all: 
And more such days as these to us befall! [Hveunt. 


433 


WEN 
SOs 
Sy 


THE THIRD PART OF 


KING HENRY THE SIXTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


King Henry the Sixth. 

Edward, Prince of Wales, his son. 

Lewis XI. King of France. 

Duke of Somerset. 

Duke of Exeter. 

Earl of Oxford. 

Earl of Northumberland. 

Earl of Westmoreland. 

Lord Clifford. 

Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York. 

Edward, Earl of March, afterwards | 
King Edward IV., 

Edmund, Earl of Rutland, 

George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, 

Richard, afterwards Duke of Glou- 
cester, 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Marquess of Montague. 

Earl of Warwick. 

Earl of Pembroke. 


+ his sons. 


Lord Hastings. 

Lord Stafford. 

an bomen ec od \ uncles to the Duke of York. 
Henry, Earl of Richmond, a youth. 

Lord Rivers, brother to Lady Grey. 

Sir William Stanley. 

Sir John Montgomery. 

Sir John Somerville. 

Tutor to Rutland. Mayor of York. 
Lieutenant of the Tower. A Nobleman. 

Two Keepers. A Huntsman. 

A Son that has killed his father. 

A Father that has killed his son. 

Queen Margaret. 

Lady Grey, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. 
Bona, sister to the French Queen. 


Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, &c. 
SCENE — England and France. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVII.] 


Dans O40 Cyan Os 


SCENE I.— London. The Parliament-house. 


Alarum. Enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, 
Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers. 


War. I wonder how the king escaped our hands. 
York. While we pursued the horsemen of the 
He slily stole away and left his men: [north, 
Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, 
Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, 
Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself, 
Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast, 
Charged our main battle’s front, and breaking in 
Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. 
Edw. Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Bucking- 
Is either slain or wounded dangerously ; {[ham, 
I cleft his beaver with a downright blow: 
That this is true, father, behold his blood. [blood, 
Mont. And, brother, here ’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s 
Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d. 
Rich. Speak thou for me and tell them what I did. 
[Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head. 
York. Richard hath best deserved of all my sons. 
But is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset ? 
Ni ar . Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt! 
Ttich. Thus do [hope to shake King Henry’s head. 
War. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, 
Before I see thee seated in that throne 
Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, 
1 vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. 
This is the palace of the fearful king, 
And this the regal seat: possess it, York; 
For this is thine and not King Henry’s heirs’. 
York. Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will; 
For hither we have broken in by force. 


434 


Norf. We'll all assist you; he that flies shall die. 
York. Thanks, gentle Norfolk: stay by me, my 
lords ; 
And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. 
They go up. 
War. And when the king comes, offer him no 
violence, 
Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. [ment, 
York. The queen this day here holds her parlia- 
But little thinks we shall be of her council: 
By words or blows here let us win our right. 
Rich. Arm’das we are, let ’s stay within this house. 
War. The bloody parliament shall this be call’d, 
Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, 
And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice 
Hath made us by-words to our enemies. 
York. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute; 
I mean to take possession of my right. 
War. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best, 
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, 
Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells. 
I’ plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares: 
Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown. 


Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumber- 
land, Westmoreland, Exeter, and the rest. 


K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, 
Even in the chair of state: belike he means, 
Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer, 
To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. 

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father, : 

And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both haye yvow’d 
revenge : 

On him, his sons, his favourites and his friends. 


ACT I. 


THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI 


SCENE I. 


North. If I be not, heavens be revenged on me! 

Clif. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in 
steel. [down: 

West. What, shall we suffer this ? let ’s pluck him 

My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. 

K. Hen. Be patient, gentle Earlof Westmoreland. 
Clif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he: 

He durst not sit there, had your father lived. 

My gracious lord, here in the parliament 

Let us assail the family of York. 

North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so. 
KK. Hen. Ab, know you not the city favours them, 

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck ? 

Exe. But when the duke is slain, they 711 quickly 
fly. [heart, 
KK. Hen. Far be the thought of this from Henry’s 

To make a shambles of the parliament-house! 

Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words and threats 

Shall be the war that Henry means to use. 

Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne, 

And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet ; 

Iam thy sovereign. 

York. I am thine. fof York. 
Exe. For shame, come down: he made thee Duke 
York. ’T was my inheritance, as the earldom was. 
Exe. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. 
War. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown 

In following this usurping Henry. 

Clif. Whom should he follow but his natural king ? 
War. True, Clifford; and that’s Richard Duke 
of York. [throne ? 
KK. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my 
York. It must and shall be so: content thyself. 
War. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king. 
West. He is. both king and Duke of Lancaster; 

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. 
War. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget 

That we are those which chased you from the field 

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread 

March’d through the city to the palace gates. 
North. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief ; 

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. 
West. Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons, 

Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I ’1l have more lives 

Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins. 
Clif. Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words, 

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger 

As shall revenge his death before I stir. [threats ! 
War. Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless 
York. Will you we show our title to the crown ? 

if not, our swords shall plead it in the field. 

K. Hen. What title hast thou, traitor, to the 
crown? 

Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York; 

Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March: 

I am the son of Henry the Fifth, 

Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop 

And seized upon their towns and provinces. 

War. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. 
KK. Hen. The lord protector lost it, and not I: 

When I was crown’d I was but nine months old. 
Stich. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, 

you lose. 

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head. 
Edw. Sweet father, do so; set it on your head. 
Mont. Good brother, as thou lovest and honour- 

est arms, 

Lets fight it out and not stand cavilling thus. 
ich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the king 
York. Sons, peace! [will fly. 
K. Hen. Peace, thou! and give King Henry leave 

to speak. [lords ; 
War. Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, 

And be you silent and attentive too, 

For he that interrupts him shall not live. [throne, 
Kk. Hen. Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly 

Wherein my grandsire and my father sat ? 


No: first shall war unpeople this my realm; 
Ay, and their colours, often borne in France, 
‘And now in England to our heart’s great sorrow, 
Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords > 
My title’s good, and better far than his. 
War. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king. 
4. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the 
crown. 
York. ’T was by rebellion against his king. 
kx. Hen. [Aside] I know not what to say; my 
title ’s weak.— 
Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir ? 
York. What then ? 
ds. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful king; 
For Richard, in the view of many lords, 
Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth, 
Whose heir my father was, and I am his. 
York. He rose against him, being his sovereign, 
And made him to resign his crown perforce. 
War. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d, 
Think you ’t were prejudicial to his crown ? 
Hxe. No; for he could not so resign his crown 
But that the next heir should succeed and reign. 
KK. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter ? 
He. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. 
York. ms) whisper you, my lords, and answer 
no 
Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. 
aiG Te All will revolt from me, and turn ~ 
o him. 
North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st, 
Think not that Henry shall be so deposed. 
War. Deposed he shall be, in despite of all. 
North. Thou art deceived: ’tis not thy southern 


power, 
Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, 
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud, 
Can set the duke up in despite of me. 
Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong, 
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence: 
May that ground gape and swallow me alive, 
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father! 
K. Hen. O Clifford, how thy words revive my 
heart ! 
York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. 
What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords ? 
War. Do right unto this princely Duke of York, 
Or I will fill the house with armed men, 
And over the chair of state, where now he sits, 
Write up his title with usurping blood. 
[He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers 
show themselves. 
KK. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one 
Let me for this my life-time reign as king. [word: 
York. Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, 
And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou livest. 
King. Iam content: Richard Plantagenet, 
Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. 
St What wrong is this unto the prince yourson! 
ar. What good is this to England and himself! 
West. Base, fearful and despairing Henry! 
oe How hast thou injured both thyself and us! 
est. I cannot stay to hear these articles. 
North. Nor I. 
Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these 
news. [king, 
West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate 
In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. 
North. Be thou a prey unto the house of York, 
And die in bands for this unmanly deed! 
Clif. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, 
Or live in peace abandon’d and despised ! 
[Exeunt North., Cliff., and West. 
War. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. 
Hue. They seek revenge and therefore will not 
K. Hen. Ah, Exeter! [yield. 
War. Why should you sigh, my lord ? 


435 


ACT I. 


THIRD PART OF HAING Vii he owe 


SCENE II. 


K. Hen. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my 
Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. [son, 
But be it as it may: I here entail 
The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever; 
Conditionally, that here thou take an oath 
To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live, 

To honour me as thy king and sovereign, 
And neither by treason nor hostility 
To seek to put me down and reign thyself. 

York. This oath I willingly take and will perform. 

War. Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, em- 

brace him. [ward sons! 

K. Hen. And long live thou and these thy for- 

York. Now York and Lancaster are reconciled. 

Exe. Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes! 

[Sennet. Here they come down. 

York. Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my 

castle. 

War. And I’ll keep London with my soldiers. 

Norf, And I to Norfolk with my followers. 

Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I came. 

[Exeunt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, 
Montague, their Soldiers, and Attendants. 
K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, tothe court. 


Enter Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales. 


Exe. Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray 
Ill steal away. [her anger: 
AK. Hen. Exeter, so will I. 
Q. Mar. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. 
kK. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. 
Q. Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes ? 
Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid, 
And never seen thee, never borne thee son, 
Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father! 
Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus ? 
Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I, 
Or felt that pain which I did for him once, 
Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood, _ [there, 
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood 
Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir 
And disinherited thine only son. 
Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me: 
If you be king, why should not I succeed? _ [son: 
A. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet 
The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforced me. 
Q. Mar. Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt 
be forced ? 
I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! 
Thou hast undone thyself, thy son and me; 
And given unto the house of York such head 
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. 
To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, 
What is it, but to make thy sepulchre 
And creep into it far before thy time ? 
Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais; 
Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas; 
The duke is made protector of the realm; 
And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds 
The trembling lamb environed with wolves. 
Had I been there, which am a silly woman, 
The soldiers should have toss’d me on their pikes 
Before I would have granted to that act. 
But thou preferr’st thy life before thine honour: 
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself 
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, 
Until that act of parliament be repeal’d 
Whereby my son is disinherited. 
The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours 
Will follow mine, if once they see them spread ; 
And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace 
And utter ruin of the house of York. 
Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let ’s away ; 
Our army is ready; come, we ’ll after them. 
K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. 
Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already: get 
thee gone. 


436 


KK Silas Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with 
me f 
. Mar. Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies. 
rince. When I return with victory from the field 
Ill see your grace: till then I 71) follow her. 
Mar. Come, son, away; we may not linger thus. 
[Hxeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince. 
K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me and to her son, 
Hath made her break out into terms of rage! 
Revenged may she be on that hateful duke, 
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, 
Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle 
Tire on the flesh of me and of my son! 
The loss of those three lords torments my heart: 
I’ll write unto them and entreat them fair. 
Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger. 
Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. 


[Exeunt.. 
SCENE II. — Sandal Castle. 


Enter Richard, Edward, and Montague. 


Rich. Brother,though I be youngest, give me leave. 
Edw. No, I can better play the orator. 
Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible. 


Enter the Duke of York. 


York. Why, how now, sons and brother! at a 

What is your quarrel? how began it first? [strife? 
Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. 
York. About what ? [us ; 
Rich. About that which concerns your grace and 

The crown of England, father, which is yours. 
York. Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead. 
Rich. Your right depends not on his life or death. 
Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: 

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe, 

It will outrun you, father, in the end. 
York. I took an oath that he should quietly reign. 
Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: 

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. 
Rich. No; God forbid your grace should be for- 
York. I shall be, if I claim by open war. [sworn. 
Rich. 1711 prove the contrary, if you ’ll hear me 

speak. 

York, Thou canst not, son; it is impossible. 
Rich. An oath is of no moment, being not took 

Before a true and lawful magistrate, 

That hath authority over him that swears: 

Henry had none, but did usurp the place; 

Then, seeing ’t was he that made you to depose, 

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. 

Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think 

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown; 

Within whose circuit is Elysium 

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. 

Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest 

Until the white rose that I wear be dyed 

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart. 
York. Richard, enough; I will be king, or die. 

Brother, thou shalt to London presently, 

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. 

Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk, 

And tell him privily of our intent. 

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, 

With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise: 

In them I trust; for they are soldiers, 

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. 

While you are thus employ’d, what resteth more, 

But that I seek occasion how to rise, 

And yet the king not privy to my drift, 

Nor any of the house of Lancaster ? 


Enter a Messenger. 
But, stay: what news? Why comest thou in such 
post ? [lords. 
Gabr. The queen with all the northern earls and. 
Intend here to besiege you in your castle: 


Sis: 


PEP PR AL OF 


Att 1. 


KING HENEY, VI. 


SCENE IV. 


She is hard by with twenty thousand men; 
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. 
York. Ay, with my sword. What! think’st thou 
that we fear them ? 
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me; 
My brother Montague shall post to London: 
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, 
Whom we have left protectors of the king, 
With powerful policy strengthen themselves, 
And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths. 
Mont. Brother, I go; I’l] win them, fear it not: 
And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [vit. 


Enter Sir John Mortimerand Sir Hugh Mortimer. 


York. Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine 
uncles, 

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; 

The army of the queen mean to besiege us. _ [field. 
Sir John. She shall not need; we’l] meet her in the 
York. What, with five thousand men ? 

Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need: 

A woman’s general; what should we fear? 

[A march afar off. 
Edw. I hear their drums: let’s set our men in 
order, 

And issue forth and bid them battle straight. 
York. Five men to twenty! though the odds be 

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. [great, 

Many a battle have I won in France, 

When as the enemy hath been ten to one: 

Why should I not now have the like success ? 

[Alarum. Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Field of battle betwixt Sandal Castle 
and Wakefield. 


Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor. 


Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands ? 
Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes! 


Enter Clifford and Soldiers. 


Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy 
As for the brat of this accursed duke, [life. 
Whose father slew my father, he shall die. 

Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company. 

Clif. Soldiers, away with him! 

Tut. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, 
Lest thou be hated both of God and man! 

[Exit, dragged off by Soldiers. 

Clif. How now! is he dead already ? or is it fear 
That makes him close his eyes? Ill open them. 

Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch 
That trembles under his devouring paws; 

And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey, 

And so he comes, to rend his limbs asunder. 

Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 

And not with such a cruel threatening look. 

Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die. 

J am too mean a subject for thy wrath: 

Be thou revenged on men, and let me live. [blood 

Clif. In vain thou speak’st, poor boy ; my father’s 
Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should 

enter. ‘ 

Fut. Then let my father’s blood open it again: 
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. [thine 

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and 
Were not revenge sufficient for me; 

No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves 

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, 

It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. 

The sight of any of the house of York 

Is as a fury to torment my soul; 

And till I root out their accursed line 

And leave not one alive, I live in hell. 

Therefore— | [Lifting his hand. 
Rut. O, let me pray before I take my death! 

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! 


Clif. Such pity as my rapier’s point affords. 
dtd never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay 


me? 
Clif. Thy father hath. 
Rut. But *t was ere I was born. 
Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, ’ 
Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, 
He be as miserably slain as I. 
Ah, let me live in prison all my days; 
And when I give occasion of offence, 
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. 
Clif. No cause! 
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die. 
[Stabs him. 
Rut. Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuse! [Dies. 
Clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet ! 
And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade 
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, 
Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both. 


[ Exit 
SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. 


Alarum. Enter Richard, Duke of York. 


York. The army of the queen hath got the field: 
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; 
And all my followers to the eager foe 
Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind 
Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves. 
My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: 
But this I know, they have demean’d themselves 
Like men born to renown by life or death. 
Three times did Richard make a lane to me, 
And thrice cried ‘ Courage, father! fight it out!’ 
And full as oft came Edward to my side, 
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt 
In blood of those that had encounter’d him: 
And when the hardiest warriors did retire, 
Richard cried ‘ Charge! and give no foot of ground!’ 
And cried ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb! 
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre! ’ 
With this, we charged again: but, out, alas! 
We bodged again; as I have seen a swan 
With bootless labour swim against the tide 
And spend her strength with over-matching waves. 

[A short alarum within. 

Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue ; 
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury: 
And were I strong, I would not shun their fury: 
The sands are number’d that make up my life; 
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 


Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumber- 
land, the young Prince, and Soldiers. 


Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, 
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: 
I am your butt, and I abide your shot. 
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. 
Clif. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm, 
With downright payment, show’d unto my father. 
Now Phaéthon hath tumbled from his car, 
And made an evening at the noontide prick. 
York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth 
A bird that will revenge upon you all: 
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven, 
Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with. 
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear ? 
Clif. So cowards fight when they can fly no fur- 


ther ; 
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons ; 
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives, 
Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers. 
York. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, 
And in thy thought o’er-run my former time; 
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, 
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cow- 
ardice 
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this! 


437 


ACT I. 


TALE D* PAR POTS TINGE Nan 


SCENE IV. 


Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, 
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. 
Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand 
causes 
I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. 
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumber- 


and. 

North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much 
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart: 
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, 

For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, 
When he might spurn him with his foot away ? 
It is war’s prize to take all vantages ; 
And ten to one is no impeach of valour. 
[They lay hands on York, who struggles. 

Clif. Ay, ay,so strives the woodcock with the gin. 

North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. 

York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d 

booty ; 
So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d. 

North. What would your grace have done unto 

him now ? 

Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northum- 

berland, 

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here, 
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, 
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. 
What! was it you that would be England’s king ? 
Was ’t you that revell’d in our parliament, 
And made a preachment of your high descent ? 
Where are your mess of sons to back you now ? 
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? 
And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy, 
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice 
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? 
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? 
Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood 
That valiant Clifford, with his rapier’s point, 
Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; 
And if thine eyes can water for his death, 
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. 
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, 
I should lament thy miserable state. 
I prithee, grieve, to make me merry, York. 
What, hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrails 
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death ? 
Why art thou patient, man ? thou shouldst be mad; 
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. 
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. 
Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport: 
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. 
A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him: 
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. 

[Putting a paper crown on his head. 
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! 
Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair, 
And this is he was his adopted heir. 
But how is it that great Plantagenet 
Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? 
As I bethink me, you should not be king 
Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. 
And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory, 
And rob his temples of the diadem, 
Now in his life, against your holy oath ? 
O, tis a fault too too unpardonable! 
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head; 
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. 

Olif. That is my office, for my father’s sake. 

Q@. Mar. Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he 

makes. 

York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves 

of France, 
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! 
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex 
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, 
Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! 


438 


But that thy face is, visard-like, unchanging, 
Made impudent with use of evil deeds, 
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. 
To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived, 
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not 
shameless. 
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, 
Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, 
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. 
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult ? 
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen 
Unless the adage must be verified, . 
That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 
°T is beauty that doth oft make women proud; 
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small: 
°T is virtue that doth make them most admired; 
The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at: 
°T is government that makes them seem divine ; 
The want thereof makes thee abominable: 
Thou art as opposite to every good 
As the Antipodes are unto us, 
Or as the south to the septentrion. 
O tiger’s heart wrapt in a woman’s hide! 
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, 
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, 
And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face ? 
Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible; 
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. 
Bid’st thou me rage ? why, now thou hast thy wish: 
hi Adena ae oe me weep? why, now thou hast thy 
will: 
For raging wind blows up incessant showers, 
And when the rage allays, the rain begins. 
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies : 
And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 
’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false French- 
woman. 
North. Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so 
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. 
York. That face of his the hungry cannibals 
Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d 
with blood: 
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, 
O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. 
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears: 
This cloth thou dip’dst in blood of my sweet boy, 
And I with tears do wash the blood away. 
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this: 
And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, 
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; 
Yea even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, 
And say ‘ Alas, it was a piteous deed!’ 
There, take the crown, and, with the crown, my 
curse ; 
And in thy need such comfort come to thee 
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! 
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world: 
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! 
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, 
I should not for my life but weep with him, 
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. 
@. Mar. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northum- 
berland ? 
Think but upon the wrong he did us all, 
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. _ 
Clif. Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s 


death. [Stabbing him. 
@. Mar. And here’s to right our gentle-hearted 
king [Stabbing him. 


York. Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God! 
My soul flies through these wounds to see 


Thee. 1€s. 
Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York 


gates; 
So York may overlook the town of York. 


[Flourish. Hxeunt. 


a 


ACT II. PHT PAR Of 


LOIN Gill Ef INO IL: 


SCENE I, 


2s Nie WO) 


SCENE I.—A plain near Mortimer’s Cross in 
Herefordshire. 


Amarch, Enter Bdward, Richard, and their power. 
Edw. I wonder how our princely father ’scaped, 

Or whether he be ’scaped away or no 

From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit: 

Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news ; 

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; 

Or had he ’scaped, methinks we should have heard 

The happy tidings of his good escape. 

How fares my brother ? why is he so sad ? 
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolved 

Where our right valiant father is become. 

I saw him in the battle range about ; 

And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth. 

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop 

As doth a lion in a herd of neat; 

Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs, 

Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry, 

The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. 

So fared our father with his enemies ; 

So fled his enemies my warlike father: 

Methinks, ’t is prize enough to be his son. 

See how the morning opes her golden gates, 

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun! 

How well resembles it the prime of youth, 

Trimm/’d like a younker prancing to his love! 
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns ? 
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun ; 

Not separated with the racking clouds, 

But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. 

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, 

As if they vow’d some league inviolable: 

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. 

In this the heaven figures some event. _[heard of. 
Edw. Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never 

I think it cites us, brother, to the field, 

That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, 

Each one already blazing by our meeds, 

Should notwithstanding join our lights together 

And over-shine the earth as this the world. 

Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear 

Upon my target three fair-shining suns. 
Rich. Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave 

I speak it, 
You love the breeder better than the male. 


Enter a Messenger. 


But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell 

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue ? 
Mess. Ah, one that was a woful looker-on 

When as the noble Duke of York was slain, 

Your princely father and my loving lord! 
Edw. O, speak no more, for I have heard too much. 
Rich. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. 
Mess. Environed he was with many foes, 

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy 

Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. 

But Hercules himself must yield to odds; 

And many strokes, though with a little axe, 

Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak. 

By many hands your father was subdued ; 

But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm 

Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen, 

Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite, 

Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, 

The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks 

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood 

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: 

And after many scorns, many foul taunts, 

They took his head, and on the gates of York 

They set the same; and there it doth remain, 

The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d. 


Edw. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, 
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. 

O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain 
The flower of Europe for his chivalry ; 

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, 

For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee. 
Now my soul’s palace is become a prison: 

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body 
Might in the ground be closed up in rest! 

For never henceforth shall I joy again, 

Never, O never, shall I see more joy! 

Rich. I cannot weep; for all my body’s moisture 
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart : 
Norcan my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen ; 
For selfsame wind that I should speak withal 
Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, [quench. 
And burns me up with flames that tears would 
To weep is to make less the depth of grief: 

Tears then for babes; blows and revenge for me! 
Richard, I bear thy name; I ’ll venge thy death, 
Or die renowned by attempting it. [thee: 

Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with 
His dukedom and his chair with me is left. 

Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird, 
Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: 

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; 
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. 


March. Enter Warwick, Marquess of Mon- 
tague, and their army. 


War. How now, fair lords! What fare? what 

news abroad ? [count 

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should re- 
Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance 
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, 

The words wouldadd more anguish than the wounds. 
O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain! 

Edw. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet, 
Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption, 
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. 

War. Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears; 
And now, to add more measure to your woes, 

I come to tell you things sith then befall’n. 

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, 
Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp, 
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, 

Were brought me of your loss and his depart. 

I, then in London, keeper of the king, ; 
Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends, 
And very well appointed, as I thought, [queen, 
March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the 
Bearing the king in my behalf along; 

For by my scouts I was advertised 

That she was coming with a full intent 

To dash our late decree in parliament 
Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession. 
Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met, 

Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought + 
But whether ’t was the coldness of the king, 

Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen, 
That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen ; 
Or whether ’t was report of her success ; 

Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour, 
Who thunders to his captives blood and death, 

I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth, 
Their weapons like to lightning came and went ; 
Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight, 

Or like an idle thresher witha flail, 

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. 
I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, 

With promise of high pay and great rewards: 

But all in vain; they had no heart to fight, 

And we in them no hope to win the day ; 

So that we fled; the king unto the queen ; 


439 


LATED PAL TVR 


Lord George your brother, Norfolk and myself, 

In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you; 
For in the marches here we heard you were, 
Making another head to fight again. [wick ? 

Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle War- 
And when came George from Burgundy to England? 

ets: Some six miles off the duke is with the sol- 

iers ; : 
And for your brother, he was lately sent 
From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy, 
With aid of soldiers to this needful war. [fied : 

Rich. ’T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick 
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, 

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire. [hear ; 

War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou 
For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine 
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head, 
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, 

Were he as famous and as bold in war 

As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer. 
ftich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me 

T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak. [not: 

But in this troublous time what ’s to be done ? 

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, 

And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns, 

Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads ? 

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes 

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ? 

If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords. [out ; 

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you 
And therefore comes my brother Montague. 
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, 
With Clifford and the haught Northumberland, 
And of their feather many moe proud birds, 

Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. 

He swore consent to your succession, 

His oath enrolled in the parliament ; 

And now to London all the crew are gone, 

To frustrate both his oath and what beside 

May make against the house of Lancaster. 

Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong: 
Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself, 

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, 
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, 
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, 
Why, Via! to London will we march amain, 

And once. again bestride our foaming steeds, 

And once again cry ‘Charge upon our foes! ’ 

But never once again turn back and fly. [speak : 

Rich. Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick 
Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day, 

That cries ‘ Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay. 

Hidw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; 
And when thou fail’st —as God forbid the hour! — 
Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend! 

War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: 
The next degree is England’s royal throne; 

For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d 
In every borough as we pass along; 

And he that throws not up his cap for joy 
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. 
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague, 
Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, 

But sound the trumpets, and about our task. 

ftich. 'Then, Clifford, were thy heart as. hard as 
As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, _[steel, 
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. 

Hdw. Then strike up drums: God and Saint 

George for us! 


AMR LE 


Enter a Messenger. 


War. How now! what news? 
Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, 
The queen is coming with a puissant host; 
And craves your company for speedy counsel. 
War. Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let’s 
away. Exeunt. 
440) 


KING SEE NE EW: 


SCENE II.— Before York. 


Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the 
Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, 
with drum and trumpets. 


. Mar. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town 
Yonder ’s the head of that arch-enemy [of York. 
That sought to be encompass’d with your crown: 
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord ? 

K. Hen. Ay,as the rocks cheer them that fear 
their wreck: 
To see this sight, it irks my very soul. 
Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault, 
Nor wittingly have [ infringed my vow. 
Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity 
And harmful pity must be laid aside. 
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? 
Not to the beast that would usurp their den. 
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ? 
Not his that spoils her young before her face. 
Who ’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting? 
Not he that sets his foot upon her back. 
The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, 
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. 
Ambitious York did level at thy crown, 
Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows: 
He, but a duke, would have his son a king, 
And raise his issue, like a loving sire; 
Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son, 
Didst yield consent to disinherit him, 
Which argued thee a most unloving father. 
Unreasonable creatures feed their young; 
And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes, 
Yet, in protection of their tender ones, 
Who hath not seen them, even with those wings 
Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, 
Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest, 
Offering their own lives in their young’s defence ? 
For shame, my liege, make them your precedent ! 
Were it not pity that this goodly boy 
Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault, 
And long hereafter say unto his child, 
‘What my great-grandfather and grandsire got 
My careless father fondly gave away’? 
Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; 
And let his manly face, which promiseth 
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart 
To hold thine own and leave thine own with him. 
K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator, 
Inferring arguments of mighty force. 
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear 
That things ill-got had ever bad success ? 
And happy always was it for that son 
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ? 
Ill leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; 
And would my father had left me no more! 
For all the rest is held at such a rate 
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep 
Than in possession any jot of pleasure. 
Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know 
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here! 
Q. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes 
are nigh, 
And this soft courage makes your followers faint. 
You promised knighthood to our forward son: 
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. . 
Edward, kneel down. 
K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; 
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right. 
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, 
I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, 
And in that quarrel use it to the death. ; 
Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince, 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness: 
For with a band of thirty thousand men 


SCENE II. 


ACT II. 


RaLe A an LOL KIN OG MEENA RL. 


SCENE III. 


Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York; 
And in the towns, as they do march along, 
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him: 
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. 
Clif. | would your highness would depart the field : 
The queen hath best success when you are absent. 
Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our 
fortune. [I ll stay. 
K. Hen. Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore 
North. Be it with resolution then to fight. 
Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords 
And hearten those that fight in your defence: 
Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry ‘ Saint 
George!’ 


March. Enter Kdward, George, Richard, War- 
wick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers. 


Edw. Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for 
And set thy diadem upon my head; [grace, 
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ? 

@. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting 
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms [boy! 
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king ? 

dw. I am his king, and he should bow his knee; 
I was adopted heir by his consent: 
Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, 
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown, 
Have caused him, by new act of parliament, 
To blot out me, and put his own son in. 

Clif. And reason too: 
Who should succeed the father but the son ? 

Rich. Are you there, butcher? O,Icannot speak! 

Clif. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, 
Or any he the proudest of thy sort. [it not ? 

Rich. ’T was you that kill’d young Rutland, was 

Olif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. 

Rich. For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight. 

War. What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield 

the crown? | 

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick ! 

dare you speak ? 
When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last, 
Your legs did better service than your hands. 

War. Then ’t was my turn to fly,and now ’tisthine. 

Clif. You said so much before, and yet you fled. 

War. ’T was not your valour, Clifford, drove me 

thence. [you stay. 

North. No, nor your manhood that durst make 

Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently. 
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain 
The execution of my big-swoln heart 
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. 

Clif. I slew thy father, call’st thou him a child ? 

tich. Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward, 
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; 
But ere sunset Il] make thee curse the deed. 

K. Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and 

hear me speak. [lips. 

% Mar. Defy them then, or else hold close thy 

. Hen. I prithee, give no limits to my tongue: 
Iam aking, and privileged to speak. [here 

Clif. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting 
Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still. 

Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword: 
By him that made us all, I am resolved 
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue. 

Hidw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no? 
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day, 
‘That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. 

War. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head ; 
For York in justice puts his armour on. fright, 

Prince. If that be right which Warwick says is 
There is no wrong, but everything is right. 

Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; 
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue. 

@. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire nor 
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic, 


Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, 
As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings. 
Rich. Iron of Naples hid with English gilt, 
Whose father bears the title of a king,— 
As if a channel should be eall’d the sea,— 
Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art ex- 
traught, 
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart ? 
Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand 
crowns, 
To make this shameless callet know herself. 
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, 
Although thy husband may be Menelaus; 
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d 
By that false woman, as this king by thee. 
His father revell’d in the heart of France, 
And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop; 
And had he match’d according to his state, 
He might have kept that glory to this day; 
But when he took a beggar to his bed, 
And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day, 
Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him, 
That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France, 
And heap’d sedition on his crown at home. 
For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride? 
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept; 
And we, in pity of the gentle king, 
Had slipp’d our claim until another age. _[spring, 
Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made thy 
And that thy summer bred us no increase, 
We set the axe to thy usurping root; 
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, 
Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike, 
Well never leave till we have hewn thee down, 
Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods. 
Edw. And, in this resolution, I defy thee; 
Not willing any longer conference, 
Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak. 
Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave! 
And either victory, or else a grave. 
Q. Mar. Stay, Edward. 
Edw. No, wrangling woman, we’l] no longer stay : 
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENH III. — A field of battie between Towton and 
Saxton, in Yorkshire. 


Alarum. Heacursions. Enter Warwick. 


War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race, 
I lay me down a little while to breathe; 
For strokes received, and many blows repaid, 
Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength, 
And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile. 


Enter Edward, running. 


Edw. Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle 
death ! 
For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded. 
War. How now, my lord! what hap? what hope 
? 
a eee Enter George. 
Geo. Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair ; 
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us: 
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly ? 
Edw. Bootiless is flight, they follow us with wings; 
And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.. 


Enter Richard. 


Rich. Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn 
thyself ? 
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, 
Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance ; 
And in the very pangs of death he cried, 
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, 
‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’ 


[dam; | So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 


441 


ACT II. 


THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI 


SCENE V. 


That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood, 
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost. [blood: 
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our 
I ll kill my horse, because I will not fly. 
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, 
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage; 
And look upon, as if the tragedy 
Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors ? 
Here on my knee I vow to God above, 
1’ll never pause again, never stand still, 
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine 
Or fortune given me measure of revenge. 
Edw. O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine; 
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! 
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face, 
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, 
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, 
Beseeching thee, 1f with thy will it stands 
That to my foes this body must be prey, 
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, 
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul! 
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again, 
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth. [Warwick, 
Rich. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle 
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: 
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe 
That winter should cut off our spring-time so. 
War. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, 
farewell. 
Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops, 
And give them leave to fly that will not stay ; 
And call them pillars that will stand to us; 
And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards 
As victors wear at the Olympian games: 
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts; 
For yet is hope of life and victory. 
Forslow no longer, make we hence amain. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—Another part of the field. 


Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford. 


Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: 
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, 

And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge, 
Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. 

Clif. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: 
This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York; 
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; 
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death 
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother 
To execute the like upon thyself ; 

And so, have at thee! . 
[They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies. 

Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; 
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt. 


SCENE V.—Another part of the field. 


Alarum. Enter King Henry alone. 


King. This battle fares like to the morning’s war, 
When dying clouds contend with growing light, 
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, 
Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea 
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; 
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea 
Forced to retire by fury of the wind: 
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind; 
Now one the better, then another best; 

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered : 

So is the equal poise of this fell war. 

Here on this molehill will I sit me down. 

To whom God will, there be the victory! 

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both 
They prosper best of all when I am thence. 


442 


Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so; 
For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 
O God! methinks it were a happy life, 

To be no better than a homely swain; 

To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 
Thereby to see the minutes how they run, 
How many make the hour full complete; 

How many hours bring about the day ; 

How many days will finish up the year; 

How many years a mortal man may live. 
When this is known, then to divide the times: 
So many hours must I tend my flock ; 

So many hours must I take my rest; 

So many hours must I contemplate; 

So many hours must I sport myself; 

So many days my ewes have been with young; 
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; 

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: 

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, 
Pass’d over to the end they were created, 
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely! 
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade 
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, 
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy 

To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery ? 
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. 

And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds, 
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, 
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 

Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, 

His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 

His body couched in a curious bed, 

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. 


Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging 
in the dead body. 


Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 
This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, 
May be possessed with some store of crowns ; 
And I, that haply take them from him now, 

May yet ere night yield both my life and them 
To some man else, as this dead man doth me. 
Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face, 
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d. 
O heavy times, begetting such events! 

From London by the king was I press’d forth ; 
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man, 
Came on the part of York, press’d by his master; 
And I, who at his hands received my life, 
Have by my hands of life bereaved him. 
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did! 

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee! 

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; 
And no more words till they have flow’d their fill. 
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! 

Whiles lions war and battle for their dens, 

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. 

Weep, wretched man, I ’ll aid thee tear for tear; 
And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, [grief. 
Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharged with 


Enter a Father that has killed his son, bringing in the body. 


Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, 
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; 
For I have bought it with an hundred blows. 
But let me see: is this our foeman’s face ? 
Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son! 
Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, 
Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise, 
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, 
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! 
O, pity, God, this miserable age! 
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, 
Erroneous, mutinous and unnatural, 


ANP East 


This deadly quarrel daily doth beget! 
O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, 
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! [grief ! 
K. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common 
O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! 
O, pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! 
The red rose and the white are on his face, 
The fatal colours of our striving houses: 
The one his purple blood right well resembles ; 
The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth: 
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish ; 
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. 
Son. How will my mother for a father’s death 
Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied ! 
Fath. How will my wife for slaughter of my son 
Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied! [chances 
kK. Hen. How will the country for these woful 
Misthink the king and not be satisfied ! 
Son. Was ever son so rued a father’s death ? 
Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d his son ? 
Kt. Hen. Was ever king so grieved for subjects’ woe? 
Much is your sorrow; mine ten times so much. 
Son. I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my 
fill. | Hxit with the body. 
Fath. These arms of mine shall be thy winding- 
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, [sheet; 
For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go; 
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; 
And so obsequious will thy father be, 
Even for the loss of thee, having no more, 
As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 
Ill bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, 
For I have murdered where I should not kill. 
[ Hxit with the body. 
K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone with 
Here sits a king more woful than you are. ___[care, 


Alarums: excursions. Hnter Queen Margaret, the 
Prince, and Exeter. 


Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled, 
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull: 
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. 

Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick 

post amain: 

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds 
Having the fearful flying hare in sight, 
With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath, 
And bloody steel grasp’d in their ireful hands, 
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain. 

Exe. Away! for vengeance comes along with them: 
Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed ; 
Or else come after: I ’ll away before. [ter : 

K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exe- 
Not that I fear to stay, but love to go 
Whither the queen intends. Forward; away! 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.— Another part of the field. 


A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded. 


Olif. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, 
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. 
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow 
More than my body’s parting with my soul! 
My love and fear glued many friends to thee; 
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts. 
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York, 
The common people swarm like summer flies ; 
And whither tiy the gnats but to the sun ? 
And who shines now but Henry’s enemies ? 
O Phebus, hadst thou never given consent 
That Phaéthon should check thy fiery steeds, 
Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth ! 
And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do, 
Or as thy father and his father did, 
Giving no ground unto the house of York, 
They never then had sprung like summer flies ; 


PEALE DRE POR TING VENEROL. 


SCENE VI. 


I and ten thousand in this luckless realm 

Had left no mourning widows for our death ; 

And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. 

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air ? 

And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity ? 

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds; 

No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight : 

The foe is merciless, and will not pity ; 

For at their hands I have deserved no pity. 

The air hath got into my deadly wounds, 

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint. 

Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; 

I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast. 
(He faints. 


Alarumand retreat. Enter Edward, George, Rich- 
ard, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers. 


Edw. Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids 
us pause, 
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. 
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen, 
That led calm Henry, though he were a king, 
As doth a sail, fill’?d with a fretting gust, 
Command an argosy to stem the waves. 
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them ? 
War. No, ’tis impossible he should escape ; 
For, though before his face I speak the words, 
Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave: 
And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. 
[Clifford groans, and dies. 
Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy 
leave ? fing. 
Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death’s depart- 
Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle ’s ended, 
If friend or foe, let him be gently used. [ford ; 
Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clif- 
Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch 
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, 
But set his murdering knife unto the root 
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, 
I mean our princely father, Duke of York. [head, 
War. From off the gates of York fetch down the 
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there; 
Instead whereof let this supply the room: 
Measure for measure must be answered. [house, 
Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our 
That nothing sung but death to us and ours: 
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, 
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak. 
War. I think his understanding is bereft. 


; speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? 


Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, 
And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. 
Rich. O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth: 
*T is but his policy to counterfeit, 
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts 
Which in the time of death he gave our father. 
Geo. If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words. 
Rich. Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace. 
Edw. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence. 
War. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. 
Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. 
Rich. Thoudidst love York, and Iam son to York. 
Edw. Thou pitied’st Rutland; I will pity thee. 
Geo. Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you 
now ? [wast wont. 
War. They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou 
Rich. What, not an oath? nay, then the world 
goes hard 


| . . . 
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. 


I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul, 

If this right hand would buy two hours’ life, 

That I in all despite might rail at him, {blood 

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing 

Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst 

York and young Rutland could not satisfy. [head, 
War. Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s 


443 


THIRD PART OF 


And rear it in the place your father’s stands, 

And now to London with triumphant march, 
There to be crowned England’s royal king: 

From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, 
And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen: 

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together ; 
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread 
The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again ; 

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, 

Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. 
First will I see the coronation ; 

And then to Brittany Ill cross the sea, 

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. 


ACT IIT. 


RING “HENRY Vi @eeen ee 


Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; 
For in thy shoulder do I build my seat, 
And never will I undertake the thing 
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. 
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester, 
And George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself, 
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. 

Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of 

Gloucester ; 

For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous. 

War. Tut, that’s a foolish observation : 
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London, 
To see these honours in possession. [ Hxeunt. 


ven i Read Ba byl fe 


SCENE I.— A forest inthe north of England. 


Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands. 


First Keep. Under this thick-grown brake we ’ll 
shroud ourselves ; 
For through this laund anon the deer will come; 
And in this covert will we make our stand, 
Culling the principal of all the deer. 
Sec. KKeep. 1’ll stay above the hill, so both may 
shoot. [cross-bow 
First Keep. That cannot be; the noise of thy 
Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. 
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best: 
And, for the time shall not seem tedious, 
I’ tell thee what befel me on a day 
In this self-place where now we mean to stand. 
Sec. Keep. Here comes a man; let’s stay till he 
be past. 
Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book. 
KK. ee From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure 
ove, 
To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. 
No, Harry, Harry, ’t is no land of thine; 
Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee, 
Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed: 
No bending knee will call thee Czesar now, 
No humble suitors press to speak for right, 
No, not a man comes for redress of thee; 
For how can I help them, and not myself ? 
Hirst Keep. Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a 
keeper’s fee: 
This is the quondam king; let ’s seize upon him. 
K. Hen. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, 
For wise men say it is the wisest course. [him. 
Sec. Keep. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon 
First Keep. Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little 
more. [for aid; 

KK. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France 

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick 

Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s sister 

To wife for Edward: if this news be true, 

Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; 

For Warwick is a subtle orator, 

And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. 

By this account then Margaret may win him; 

Jor she’s a woman to be pitied much: 

Her sighs will make a battery in his breast; 

Her tears will pierce into a marble heart ; 

The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn; 

And Nero will be tainted with remorse, 

To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. 

Ay, but she’s come to beg, Warwick, to give; 

She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry, 

He, on his right, asking a wife for Edward. 

She weeps, and says her Henry is deposed; 

He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d; 

That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more; 


444 


Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, 
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, 

And in conclusion wins the king from her, 

With promise of his sister, and what else, 

To strengthen and support King Edward’s place. 
O Margaret, thus ’t will be; and thou, poor soul, 
Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn ! 

Sec. Keep. Say, what art thou that talk’st of kings 

and queens ? [born to: 

Ik. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I was 
A man at least, for less I should not be; » 

And men may talk of kings, and why not I? 

Siigen ie Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a 

ing. 

K. Hen. Why,soIam, in mind; and that ’s enough. 

Sec. Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is thy 

crown ? 

kK. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my head; 
Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones, 

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content: 
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. [content, 

Sec. Keep. Well, if you be a king crown’d with 
Your crown content and you must be contented 
To go along with us; for, as we think, 

You are the king King Edward hath deposed ; 
And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance 
Will apprehend you as his enemy. 

ik. Hen. But did you never swear, and break an 

oath ? [now. 

Sec. Keep. No, never such an oath; nor will not 

K. Hen. Where did you dwell when I was King 

of England ? [remain. 

Sec. Keep. Here in this country, where we now 

kK. Hen. I was anointed king at nine months old; 
My father and my grandfather were kings, 

And you were sworn true subjects unto me: 
And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths? 

First Keep. No; 

For we were subjects but while you were king. 

K. Hen. Why,am I dead ? do I not breathe a man? 
Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! 
Look, as I blow this feather from my face, 

And as the air blows it to me again, 
Obeying with my wind when I do blow, 
And yielding to another when it blows, 
Commanded always by the greater gust; 
Such is the lightness of you common men. 
But do not break your oaths; for of that sin 
My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. 
Go where you will, the king shall be commanded; 
And be you kings, command, and 1 ’ll obey. 
First Keep. We are true subjects to the king, 
King Edward. 

K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry, 

If he were seated as King Edward is. [the king’s, 

First Keep. We charge you, in God’s name, and 
To go with us unto the officers. [be obey’d: 

KK. Hen. Ip God’s name, lead; your king’s name 


ACT III. 


And what God will, that let your king perform ; 
And what he will, | humbly yield unto. ([Hveunt. 


SCENE II. — London. 


Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and 
Lady Grey. 
K, i Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s 
e 
This lady’s husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, 
His lands then seized on by the conqueror : 
Her suit is now to repossess those lands; 
Which we in justice cannot well deny, 
Because in quarrel of the house of York 
The worthy gentleman did lose his life. 
‘ Glou. Your highness shall do well to grant her 
It were dishonour to deny it her. [suit ; 

KK. Edw. It were no less; but yet I’ll make a 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Yea, is it so? [pause. 
I see the lady hath a thing to grant, 

Before the king will grant her humble suit. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] He knows the game: how 

true he keeps the wind! 

Glow. [Aside to Clar.] Silence! 

KK. Edw. Widow, we will consider of your suit; 
And come some other time to know our mind. 

L. Grey. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay: 
May it please your highness to resolve me now; 
And what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, widow? then I’ll war- 

rant you all your lands, 
An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. 
Fight closer, or, good faith, you ’ll catch a blow. 
ar. [Aside to Glou.] I fear her not, unless she 
chance to fall. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] God forbid that! for hell 

take vantages. 

KK. Edw. How many children hast thou, widow ? 

tell me. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] I think he means to beg a 

child of her. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Nay, whip me then: he’ll 

rather give her two. 

LL. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] You shall have four, if 

you ‘Il be ruled by him. 

kx. Hdw. ’T were pity they should lose their fa- 

ther’s lands. 

L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. 

kK. Edw. Lords, give us leave: I'll try this wid- 

ow’s wit. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] Ay, good leave have you; 

for you will have leave, 
Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch. 
[Glou. and Clar. retire. 

KK. Edw. Now tell me, madame, do you love your 

children ? 

L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. 

KK. Edw. And would you not do much to do them 

ood ? [harm. 

LL. Grey. To do them good, I would sustain some 

K. Edw. Then get your husband’s lands, to do 

them good. 

L. Grey. Therefore I came unto your majesty. 

K. Hdw. I’ll tell you how these lands are to be 

ot. [service. 

L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your highness’ 

kK. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I give 

them ? [to do. 

L. Grey. What you command, that rests in me 

K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my boon. 

L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. 

K. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to 

ask. [commands. 

L. Grey. Why, then I will do what your grace 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] He plies her hard; and 

much rain wears the marble. 


The palace. 


PHL An POR KING HENRY V1. 


SCENE ITI, 


Clar. [Aside to Glou.] As red as fire! nay, then 
her wax must melt. {my task ? 
L. Grey. Why stops my lord? shall I not hear 
kK. Edw. An easy task; *tis but to love a king. 
L. Grey. That’s soon perform’d, because I am a 
subject. Lgive thee. 
Kk. Edw. Why, then, thy husband’s lands I freely 
L. Grey. I take my leave with many thousand 
thanks. 
Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The match is made; she 
seals it with a curtsy. [mean. 
K. Edw. But stay thee, ’tis the fruits of love I 
L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. 
KK. Edw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. 
What love, think’st thou, I sue so much to get ? 
L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, 
my prayers ; 
That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. 
KK. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean such 
love. [you did. 
L. Grey. Why, then you mean not as I thought 
KK. Edw. But now you partly may perceive my 
mind. . [ceive 
L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I per- 
Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. 
Ik. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. 
L. Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in 
prison. taal lands. 
K. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy hus- 
L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my 
For by that loss I will not purchase them. [dower; 
KX. Edw. Therein thou wrong’st thy children 
mightily. [and me. 
L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them 
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination 
Accords not with the sadness of my suit: 
Please you dismiss me, either with ‘ay’ or ‘ no.’ 
Kk. Hdw. Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request; 
No, if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand. 
L. Grey. Then,no, my lord. Mysuitisat an end. 
Glou. | Aside to Clar.] The widow likes him not, 
she knits her brows. 
OClar. [Aside to Glou.] He is the bluntest wooer in. 
Christendom. - [with modesty ; 
K. Edw. [Aside] Her looks do argue her replete 
Her words do show her wit incomparable; 
All her perfections challenge sovereignty : 
One way or other, she is for a king; 
And she shall be my love, or else my queen.— 
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen ? 


LL. Grey. "Tis better said than done, my gracious 
I am a subject fit to jest withal, [lord: 
But far unfit to be a sovereign. [thee 


ik. Hdw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to 

I speak no more than what my soul intends; 

And that is, to enjoy thee for my love. _ 

LD. Grey. And that is more than I will yield unto: 

I know I am too mean to be your queen, 

And yet too good to be your concubine. [queen. 
K. Edw. You cavil, widow: I did mean, my 
L. Grey. T will grieve your grace my sons should 

call you father. [thee mother. 
Kk. Edw. No more than when my daughters call 

Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children; 

And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor, 

Have other some: why, ’tis a happy thing 

To be the father unto many sons. 

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. 

Glou. [Aside to Clar.] The ghostly father now 
hath done his shrift. 

Clar. [Aside to Glou.] When he was made a 
shriver, ’t was for shift. 

K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we two 
have had. [sad. 

Glou. The widow likes it not, for she looks very 

K. Edw. Youll think it strange if I should 

Clar. To whom, my lord ? [marry her. 


445 


KING HENRY Vi. scenes Itt, 


ACTCIEL THIRD “PARLOR 
K. Edw. Why, Clarence, to myself. 
Glou. That would be ten days’ wonder at the 

least. 


Clar. That ’s a day longer than a wonder lasts. 

Glow. By so much is the wonder in extremes. 

K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you 
Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands. [both 


Enter a Nobleman. 


Nob. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken, 

And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. 
K. Edw. See that he be convey’d unto the Tower: 

And go we, brothers, to the man that took him, 

To question of his apprehension. 

Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably. 

[Hxeunt all but Gloucester. 

Glou. Ay, Edward will use women honourably. 

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all, 

That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring, 

To cross me from the golden time I look for! 

And yet, between my soul’s desire and me— 

The lustful Edward’s title buried — 

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, 

And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies, 

To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: 

A cold premeditation for my purpose! 

Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty ; 

Like one that stands upon a promontory, 

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, 

Saying, he ’ll lade it dry to have his way: 

So do I wish the crown, being so far off; 

And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; 

And so I say, I ’ll cut the causes off, 

Flattering me with impossibilities. 

My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much, 

Unless my hand and strength could equal them. 

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard ; 

What other pleasure can the world afford ? 

Ill make my heaven in a lady’s lap, 

And deck my body in gay ornaments, 

And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. 

O miserable thought! and more unlikely 

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! 

Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb: 

And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, 

She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, 

To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub; 

To make an envious mountain on my back, 

Where sits deformity to mock my body; 

To shape my legs of an unequal size ; 

To disproportion me in every part, 

Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp 

That carries no impression like the dam. 

And am I then a man to be beloved ? 

O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! 

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me, 

But to command, to check, to o’erbear such 

As are of better person than myself, 

Il] make my heaven to dream upon the crown, 

And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell, 

Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head 

Be round impaled with a glorious crown. 

And yet I know not how to get the crown, 

For many lives stand between me and home: 

And I,— like one lost in a thorny wood, 

That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns, 

Seeking a way and straying from the way; 

Not knowing how to find the open air, 

But toiling desperately to find it out,— 

Torment myself to catch the English crown: 

And from that torment I will free myself, 

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. 

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile 

And ery ‘ Content’ to that which grieves my heart, 

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 


446 


~ 


And frame my face to all occasions. 
T’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; 
Ill slay more gazers than the basilisk ; 

Ill play the orator as well as Nestor, 
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, 

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. 

I can add colours to the chameleon, 

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, 
And set the murderous Machiavel to school. 
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown ? 
Tut, were it farther off, I ll pluck it down. 


SCENE III.— France. 


Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his sister Bona, 
his Admiral, called Bourbon: Prince Edward, Queen 
Margaret, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and 
riseth up again. 

K. Lew. Fair queen of England, worthy Margaret, 

Sit down with us: it ill befits thy state 

And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis 

doth sit. [garet 
Q. Mar. No, mighty King of France: now Mar- 

Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve 

Where kings command. I was, I must confess, 

Great Albion’s queen in former golden days: 

But now mischance hath trod my title down, 

And with dishonour laid me on the ground; 

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, 

And to my humble seat conform myself. 
K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs 

this deep despair ? 
@.Mar. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with 
tears [cares. 

And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in 
K. Lew. Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself, 

And sit thee by our side: [Seats her by him] yield 

not thy neck 

To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind 

Still ride in triumph over all mischance. 

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; 

It shall be eased, if France can yield relief. [thoughts 
@. Mar. Those gracious words revive my drooping 

And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. 

Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, 

That Henry, sole possessor of my love, 

Is of a king become a banish’d man, 

And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn; 

While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York 

Usurps the regal title and the seat 

Of England’s true-anointed lawful king. 

This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, 

With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir, 

Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; 

And if thou fail us, all our hope is done: 

Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help; 

Our people and our peers are both misled, 

Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight, 

And,as thou seest,ourselves in heavy plight. [storm, 
Kk. Lew. Renowned queen, with patience, calm the 

While we bethink a means to break it off. [foe. 

. Mar. The more we stay, the stronger grows out 

. Lew. Themore I stay, the more I’1] succour thee. 

Q. Mar. O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow, 
And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow! 


Enter Warwick. 


K. Lew. What’s he approacheth boldly to om 
presence ? [friend. 
. Mar. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest 
x, Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings 
thee to France? [He descends. She ariseth. 
Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise; 
For this is he that moves both wind and tide. 
War. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, 
My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, 
I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, 


[ Exit. 
The King’s palace. 


WET hl a ede 


First, to do greetings to thy royal person ; 
And then to crave a league of amity ; 
And lastly, to confirm that amity 
With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant 
That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, 
To England’s king in lawful marriage. 
Q. Mar. [Aside] If that go forward, Henry’s hope 
is done. [king’s behalf, 
War. [To Bona] And, gracious madam, in our 
I am commanded, with your leave and favour, 
Humbly to kiss your hand and with my tongue 
To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart ; 
Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears, 
Hath placed thy beauty’s image and thy virtue. 

. Mar. King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me 
Before you answer Warwick. Hisdemand [speak, 
Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love, 
But from deceit bred by necessity ; 

For how can tyrants safely govern home, 
Unless abroad they purchase great alliance ? 
To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice, 
That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, 
Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son. 
Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and mar- 
Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; [riage 
For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, 
Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. 
War. Injurious Margaret ! 
Prince. And why not queen ? 
War. Because thy father Henry did usurp; 
And thou no more art prince than she is queen. 
Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great Johnof Gaunt, 
Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; 
And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, 
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest ; 
And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, 
Who by his prowess conquered all France: 
From these our Henry lineally descends. [course, 
War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth dis- 
You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost 
All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten ? 
Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. 
But for the rest, you tell a pedigree 
Of threescore and two years; a silly time 
To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth. [liege, 
Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy 
Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years, 
And not bewray thy treason with a blush ? 
War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right, 
Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree ? 
For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king. 
Oxf. Call him my king by whose injurious doom 
My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, 
Was done to death ? and more than so, my father, 
Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years, 
When nature brought him to the door of death ? 
No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, 
This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. 
War. And I the house of York. (Oxford, 
Kk. Lew. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and 
Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside, 
While I use further conference with Warwick. 
[They stand aloof. 
@. Mar. Heavens grant that Warwick’s words 
bewitch him not! [conscience, 
K. Lew. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy 
Is Edward your true king? for I were loath 
To link with him that were not lawful chosen. 
War. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. 
kK. Lew. But is he gracious in the people’s eye ? 
War. The more that Henry was unfortunate. 
kK. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set aside, 
Tell me for truth the measure of his love 
Unto our sister Bona. 
War. Such it seems 
As may beseem a monarch like himself. 
Myself have often heard him say and swear 


AGTHiIt. 


FOLN GALEN EY OV L 


SCENE III. 


That this his love was an eternal plant, 
Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground, 
The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun, 
Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, 
Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. 
Kk. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. 
Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine: 
[To War.] Yet I confess that often ere this day, 
When [ have heard your king’s desert recounted, 
Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. 
K. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shali 
be Edward’s ; 
And now forthwith shall articles be drawn 
Touching the jointure that your king must make, 
Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised. 
Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness 
That Bona shall be wife to the English king. 
Prince. To Edward, but not to the English king. 
Q. Mar. Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device 
By this alliance to make void my suit: 
Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend. 
i, Lew. And stillis friend to him and Margaret: 
But if your title to the crown be weak, 
AS may appear by Edward’s good success, 
Then ’tis but reason that I be released 
From giving aid which late I promised. 
Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand 
That your estate requires and mine can yield. 
War. Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease, 
Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. 
And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, 
You have a father able to maintain you; 
And better ’t were you troubled him than France. 
Q. Mar. Peace, impudent and shameless War- 
wick, peace, 
Proud setter up and puller down of kings! 
I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears, 
Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold 
Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love; 
For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. 
[Post blows a horn within. 
K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. 


Enter a Post. 


Post. [To War.] My lord ambassador, these let- 
ters are for you, 
Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague: 
[To Lewis] These from our king unto your majesty : 
[To Margaret] And, madam, these for you; from 
whom I know not. 
[They all read their letters. 
Oxf. I like it well that our fair queen and mistress 
Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. 
Prince. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps, as he were 
I hope all’s for the best. [nettled : 
K. Lew. Warwick, what are thy news ? and yours, 
fair queen ? } oys. 
. Mar. Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped 
ar. Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent. 
K. Lew. What! has your king married the Lady 
And now, to soothe your forgery and his, [Grey +r 
Sends me a paper to persuade me patience ? 
Is this the alliance that he seeks with France ? 
Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner ? 
. Mar. I told your majesty as much before: 
This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty. 
War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of 
And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, [heaven. 
That 1 am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s, 
No more my king, for he dishonours me, 
But most himself, if he could see his shame. 
Did I forget that by the house of York 
My father came untimely to his death? _ 
Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece ? 
Did I impale him with the regal crown ? 
Did I put Henry from his native right ? 
And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame ? 


447 


VHT RD RA ee 


Shame on himself! for my desert is honour: 
And to repair my honour lost for him, 
I here renounce him and return to Henry. 
My noble queen, let former grudges pass, 
And henceforth I am thy true servitor: 
I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona 
And replant Henry in his former state. 
Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn’d my 
hate to love: 
And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 
And joy that thou becomest King Henry’s friend. 
War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, 
That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us 
With some few bands of chosen soldiers, 
I ll undertake to land them on our coast 
And force the tyrant from his seat by war. 
°T is not his new-made bride shall succour him: 
And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, 
He’s very likely now to fall from him, 
For matching more for wanton lust than honour, 
Or than for strength and safety of our country. 
Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged 
But by thy help to this distressed queen ? [live, 
Q. Mar. Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry 
Unless thou rescue him from foul despair ? 
Bona. My quarreland this English queen’s are one. 
War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. 
A. Lew. And mine with hers, and thine, and Mar- 
Therefore at last I firmly am resolved [garet’s. 
You shall have aid. 
). Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. 
. Lew. Then, England’s messenger, return in 
And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, __[post, 
That Lewis of France is sending over masquers 
To revel it with him and his new bride: 
Thou seest what ’s past, go fear thy king withal. 
Bona. Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower 
I?ll wear the willow garland for hissake. [shortly, 
Q. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid 
And I am ready to put armour on. 


AGT st Vs. 


KING AEN EY OV 


[aside, | But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery. 


SCENE I. 


—— 


War. Tell him from me that he hath done me 


wrong, 
And therefore I ll uncrown him ere ’t be long. 
There ’s thy reward: be gone. [Hxit Post. 

A. Lew. But, Warwick, 
Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, 

Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle ; 
And, as occasion serves, this noble queen 

And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. 
Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt, 
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty ? 

War. This shall assure my constant loyalty, 
That if our queen and this young prince agree, 

Ill join mine eldest daughter and my joy 
To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. 

Q. Mar. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your 
Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, [motion. 
Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick; 
And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable, 

That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine. [it; 

Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves 
And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. 

He gives his hand to Warwick. 
kk. Lew. Why stay wenow? ‘These soldiers shall 
be levied, 
And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, 
Shalt waft them over with our royal fleet. 
I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance, 
For mocking marriage with a dame of France. 
[ Hxeunt all but Warwick. 

War. I came from Edward as ambassador, 

But I return his sworn and mortal foe: 

Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me, 
But dreadful war shall answer his demand. 

Had he none else to make a stale but me? 

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. 

I was the chief that raised him to the crown, 

And [I?ll be chief to bring him down again: 

Not that I pity Henry’s misery, 

[ Exit. 


AO Tan Vie 


SCENE I.—London. The palace. 


Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, and 
Montague. 


Glou. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think 
Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey? [you 
Hath not our brother made a worthy choice? 

Clar. Alas, you know, ’tis far from hence to 

France; 

How could he stay till Warwick made return ? 
Som. My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the 
Glou. And his well-chosen bride. [king. 
Clar. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. 


Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended ; Lady Grey, 
as Queen; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and others. 


K. Hdw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you 
our choice, 
That you stand pensive, as half malcontent ? 
Clar. As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of 
Warwick, 
Which are so weak of courage and in judgment 
That they ’ll take no offence at our abuse. [cause, 
K. Edw. Suppose they take offence without a 
They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward, 
Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my will. 
Glou. And shall have your will, because our king : 
Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. 
kK. Edw. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended 
Glou. Not I: [too ? 
No, God forbid that I should wish them sever’d 


448 


Whom God hath joined together; ay, and *t were 
To sunder them that yoke so well together. _[pity 
Kk. Edw. Setting your scorns and your mislike 
Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey [aside, 
Should not become my wife and England’s queen. 
And you too, Somerset and Montague, 
Speak freely what you think. 
Clar. Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis 
Becomes your enemy, for mocking him 
About the marriage of the Lady Bona. 
Glou. And Warwick, doing what you gave in 
Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. [charge, 
Kk. Edw. What if both Lewis and Warwick be 
By such invention as I can devise ? [appeased 
Mont. Yet, to have join’d with France in such 


alliance 
Would more have strengthen’d this our common- 
wealth [riage. 


*Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred mar- 
Hast. Why, knows not Montague that of itself 
England is safe, if true within itself ? 
Mont. But the safer when ’t is backed with France. 
Hast. "Tis better using France than trusting 
France: 
Let us be back’d with God and with the seas 
Which He hath given for fence impregnable, 
And with their helps only defend ourselves; 
In them and in ourselves our safety lies. 
Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings well de- 


serves 
To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. 


ACT IV. 


K. ‘ea: what of that? it was my will and 
grant ; 
And for this once my will shall stand for law. 

Glou. And yet methinks your grace hath not done 
To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales [well, 
Unto the brother of your loving bride; 

She better would have fitted me or Clarence: 
But in your bride you bury brotherhood. [heir 

Olar. Or else you would not have bestow’d the 
Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son, 

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. 

kK. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence! is it for a wife 
That thou art malcontent ? I will provide thee. 

Clar. In choosing for yourself, you show’d your 

judgment, 
Which being shallow, you shall give me leave 
To play the broker in mine own behalf; 
And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. 

K. Edw. Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king, 
And not be tied unto his brother’s will. 

Q. Eliza. My lords, before it pleased his majesty 
To raise my state to title of a queen, 

Do me but right, and you must all confess 

That I was not ignoble of descent ; 

And meaner than myself have had like fortune. 

But as this title honours me and mine, 

So your dislike, to whom I would be pleasing, 

Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. 
ik. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their 

frowns: 

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, 

So long as Edward is thy constant friend, 

And their true sovereign, whom they must obey ? 

Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too, 

Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; 

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe, 

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. 

Glou. I hear, yet say not much, but think the 

more. [ Aside. 
Enter a Post. 

K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters or what 
From France ? [news 

Post. My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words, 
But such as I, without your special pardon, 

Dare not relate. 

kK. Edw. Goto, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief, 
Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. 
What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters ? 

Post. At my depart, these were his very words: 
‘Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king, 

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers 
To revel it with him and his new bride.’ [Henry. 
kK. Edw. Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me 
But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ? 
Post. These were her words, utter’d with mild 
disdain : 
‘Tell him, in hope he’l] prove a widower shortly, 
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’ 

kK. Edw. I blame not her, she could say little less; 
She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen ? 
For I have heard that she was there in place. 

Post. ‘Tell him,’ quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds 
And I am ready to put armour on.’ [are done, 
K. Edw. Belike she minds to play the Amazon. 

But what said Warwick to these injuries ? 

Post. He, more incensed against your majesty 
Than all the rest, discharged me with these words: 
‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, 
And therefore I 711 uncrown him ere’t be long.’ 

kx. Edw. Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so 

proud words ? 
Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d : 
They shall have wars and pay for their presumption. 
But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret ? 
Post. Ay, gracious sovereign ; they are so link’d 
in friendship, [daughter. 
That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s 


29 


Peat pa ron ITING LANEY Vd. 


SCENE II. 


Clar. Belike the elder; Clarence will have the 
younger. 
Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast, 
For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter ; 
That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage 
I may not prove inferior to yourself. , 
You that love me and Warwick, follow me. 
[Exit Clarence, and Somerset follows. 
Glou. [Aside.| Not I: 
My thoughts aim at a further matter; I 
a not for the love of Edward, but the crown. 
. Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to 
Warwick! 
Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen ; 
And haste is needful in this desperate case. 
Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf 
Go levy men, and make prepare for war; 
They are already, or quickly will be landed: 
Myself in person will straight follow you. 
[Hxeunt Pembroke and Stafford. 
But, ere I go, Hastings. and Montague, 
Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest, 
Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance: 
Tell me if you love Warwick more than me? 
If it be so, then both depart to him; 
I rather wish you foes than hollow friends: 
But if you mind to hold your true obedience, 
Give me assurance with some friendly vow, 
That I may never have you in suspect. 
Mont. So God help Montague as he proves true! 
Hast. And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause! 
i. Hdw. Now, brother Richard, will you stand 
by us? [you. 
Glow. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand 
kK. Edw. Why, so! then am I sure of victory. 
Now therefore let us hence; and lose no hour, 
Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— A plain in Warwickshire. 


Enter Warwick and Oxford, with French soldiers, 


War. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; 
The common people by numbers swarm to us. 


Enter Clarence and Somerset. 


But see where Somerset and Clarence comes! 
Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends ? 
Clar. Fear not that, my lord. 
War. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto War- 
wick; 
And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice 
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 
Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love; 
Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother, 
Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings: 
But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall 
be thine. 
And now what rests but, in night’s coverture, 
Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d, 
His soldiers lurking in the towns about, 
And but attended by a simple guard, 
We may surprise and take him at our pleasure ? 
Our scouts have found the adventure very easy: 
That as Ulysses and stout Diomede 
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents, 
And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, 
So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle, 
At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard 
And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, 
For I intend but only to surprise him. 
You that will follow me to this attempt, 
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader. 
They all cry, ‘Henry!’ 
Why, then, let ’s on our way in silent sort: ; 
For Warwick and his friends, God and_Saint 
George! [| Hxeunt. 


449 


THIRD” PART TOL 


SCENE III.— Edward’s camp, near Warwick. 


Enter three Watchmen, to guard the King’s tent. 


First Watch. Come on, my masters, each man 
take his stand: 

The king by this is set him down to sleep. 

Second Watch. What, will he not to peat ? [vow 
“irst Watch. Why,no; for he hath made a solemn 

Never to lie and take his natural rest 

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d. [day, 
Second Watch. To-morrow then belike shall be the 

If Warwick be so near as men report. [is that 
Third Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman 

That with the king here resteth in his tent ? 

First Watch. Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s 
chiefest friend. [king 
Third Watch. O,isitso? But why commands the 

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him, 

While he himself keeps in the cold field ? 

Second Watch. "Tis the more honour, because 
more dangerous. [quietness ; 
Third Watch. Ay, but give me worship and 

I like it better than a dangerous honour. 

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 

’T is to be doubted he would waken him. [passage. 
First Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up his 
Second Watch. Ay, wherefore else guard we his 

royal tent, 

But to defend his person from night-foes ? 


ACT IV. 


Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, 
and French Soldiers, silent all. 


War. This is his tent; and see where stand his 
guard. 
Courage, my masters! honour now or never! 
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. 
First Watch. Who goes there ? 
Second Watch. Stay, or thou diest! 

[Warwick and the rest cry all, ‘Warwick! 
Warwick!’ and set upon the Guard, who 
fly, crying, ‘Arm! arm!’ Warwick and. the 
‘A est following them. 


The drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-enter War- 
wick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing the King out 
in his gown, sitting ina chair. Richard and Hastings 
jly over the stage. 


Som. What are they that fly there ? 


War. Richard and Hastings: let them go; here is 
The duke. [parted, 

kK, Edw. The duke! Why, Warwick, when we 
Thou call’dst me king. 

War. Ay, but the case is alter’d: 


When you disgraced me in my embassade. 
Then I degraded you from being king. 
And come now to create you Duke of York. 
Alas! how should you govern any kingdom, 
That know not how to use ambassadors, 
Nor how to be contented with one wife, 
Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, 
Nor how to study for the people’s welfare, 
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies? [too? 
K. Edw. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here 
Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. 
_ Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance, 
Of thee thyself and all thy complices, 
Edward will always bear himself as king: 
Though fortune’s malice overthrow my state, 
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. 
War. Then, for his mind,be Edward England’s 
king: | Takes off his crown. 
But Henry now shall wear the English crown, 
And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow. 
My Lord of Somerset, at my request, 
See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d 
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. 
When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, 


450 


| It boots not to resist both wind and tide. 


KIN G VLE NG OVS, 


Ill follow you, and tell what answer 
Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. 
Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. 
[They lead him out forcibly. 
K, Edw. What fates impose, that men must needs 
[abide ; 
[ Hxit, guarded. 
Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to do 
But march to London with our soldiers ? [do ; 
War. Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to 
To free King Henry from imprisonment 
And see him seated in the regal throne. 


SCENE IV.—London. The palace. 


Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers. 

Riv. neoee what makes you in this sudden 

chan 

Q. Eliz. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn 
What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward ? 

Riv. What! loss of some pitch’d ‘battle against 

— Warwick ? 

@. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal person. 

Riv. Then is my sovereign slain ? 

Q. Hliz. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner, 
Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard 
Or by his foe surprised at unawares: 

And, as I further have to understand, 
Is new committed to the Bishop of York, 
Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe. 

Riv. These news I must confess are full of grief; 
Yet, gracious madame, bear it as you may: 
Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day. 

Q. Hliz. Till then fair hope must hinder life’s 
And J the rather wean me from despair [decay. 
For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb: — 
This is it that makes me bridle passion 
And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross; 
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear 
And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, 

Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown — 
King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English crown. 

Riv. But, madame, where is Warwick then be- 

come ? [London, 

Q. Hliz. I am inform’d that he comes towards 
To set the crown once more on Henry’s head: 
Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends must 
But, to prevent the tyrant’s violence,— [down, 
For trust not him that hath once broken faith,— 
Ill hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, 

To save at least the heir of Edward’s right: 

There shall I rest secure from force and fraud. 
Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fiy: 
If Warwick take us we are sure to die. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—A park near Middleham Castle in 
Yorkshire. 


SCENE V. 


[ Hxeunt. 


Enter Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and Sir | 
William Stanley. 


Glou. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William 
Leave off to wonder why I drew youhither, [Stanley, 
Into this chiefest thicket of the park. | brother, 
Thus stands the case: you know our king, my 
Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands 
He hath good usage and great liberty, 

And, often but attended with weak guard, 

Comes hunting this way to disport himself. 

I have advertised him by secret means 

That if about this hour he make this way 

Under the colour of his usual game, 

He shall here find his friends with horse and men 
To set him free from his captivity. 


Enter King Edward and a Huntsman with him. 


Hunt. This way, my lord; for this way lies the 
game. 


eh. reer aay 


my SS 


is" en atlas 2 eer ee ee Ee ee eee 


ee ae 


is . . 


ACT IV. 


Ix. Edw. Nay, this way, man: see where the hunts- 
men stand. [rest, 
Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the 
Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer ? 
Glou. Brother, the time and case requireth haste: 
Your horse stands ready at the park-corner. 
K. Edw. But whither shall we then ? 
Hast. To Lynn, my lord, 
And ship from thence to Flanders. [meaning. 
Glou. Well guess’d, believe me; for that was my 
K. Edw. Stanley, 1 will requite thy forwardness. 
Glou. But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to 
talk. [go along ? 
kK. Edw. Huntsman; what say’st thou ? wilt thou 
Hunt. Better do so than tarry and be hang’d. 
Glow. Come then, away; let ’s ha’ no more ado. 
kK. Edw. Bishop, farewell; shield thee from War- 
wick’s frown ; 
And pray that I may repossess the crown. [Exeunt. 


SCENE VI.—London. The Tower. 


Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clarence, Warwick, 
Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and 
Lieutenant of the Tower. 


i. Hen. Master Lieutenant, now that God and 
Have shaken Edward from the regalseat, [friends 
And turn’d my captive state to liberty, 


My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, 


At our enlargement what are thy due fees ? 
Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of their 
sovereigns ; ; 
But if an humble prayer may prevail, 
I then crave pardon of your majesty. 

kK. Hen. For what, lieutenant? for well using me? 
Nay, be thou sure Ill well requite thy kindness, 
For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; 
Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds 
Conceive when after many moody thoughts 
At last by notes of household harmony 
They quite forget their loss of liberty. 

But, Warwick, after God, thou set’st me free, 
And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; 

He was the author, thou the instrument. 
Therefore, that I may conquer fortune’s spite 

By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, 
And that the people of this blessed land 

May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars, 
Warwick, although my head still wear the crown, 
I here resign my government to thee, 

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. 

War. Your grace hath still been famed for vir- 
And now may seem as wise as virtuous, [tuous; 
By spying and avoiding fortune’s malice, 

For few men rightly temper with the stars: 
Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace, 
For choosing me when Clarence is in place. 

Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, 
To whom the heavens in thy nativity 
Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown, 

As likely to be blest in peace and war; 
And therefore I yield thee my free consent. 
War. And I choose Clarence only for protector. 
ik. Hen. Warwick and Clarence, give me both 
your hands: [hearts, 

Now join your hands, and with your hands your 
That no dissension hinder government: 
I make you both protectors of this land, 
While I myself will lead a private life 
And in devotion spend my latter days, 
To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. 

War. What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s 


- will? [sent ; 
Clar. That he consents, if Warwick yield con- 
For on thy fortune I repose myself. [content : 


War. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be 
We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow 


Ee ar am OO ON Ge ALE IN A in V1. 


SCENE VII. 


To Henry’s body, and supply his place; 

I mean, in bearing weight of government, 

While he enjoys the honour and his ease. 

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful 
Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor, 


- And all his lands and goods be confiscate. 


Clar. What else? and that succession be de- 
termined. [part. 
War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his 
Ik. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief affairs, 
Let me entreat, for I command no more, 
That Margaret your queen and my son Edward 
Be sent for, to return from France with speed; 
For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear 
My joy of liberty is half eclipsed. [speed. 
Olar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all 
Kk. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that, 
Of whom you seem to have so tender care ? 
Som. My liege, it is young Henry, earl of Rich- 
mond. 
KK. Hen. Come hither, England’s hope. [Lays his 
hand on his head.| If secret powers 
Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts, 
This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. 
His looks are full of peaceful majesty, 
His head by nature framed to wear a crown, 
His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself 
Likely in time to bless a regal throne. 
Make much of him, my lords, for this is he 
Must help you more than you are hurt by me. 


Enter a Post. 


War. What news, my friend ? 

Post. That Edward is escaped from your brother, 
And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. 

War. Unsavoury news! but how made he escape ? 

Post. He was convey’d by Richard Duke of Glou- 
And the Lord Hastings, who attended him _ [cester 
In secret ambush on the forest side 
And from the bishop’s huntsmen rescued him; 
For hunting was his daily exercise. 

War. My brother was too careless of his charge. 
But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide 
A salve for any sore that may betide. 

[Exeunt all but Somerset, Richmond, and Oxford. 

Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s ; 
For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, 
And we shall have more wars before ’t be long. 
As Henry’s late presaging prophecy [mond, 
Did glad my heart with hope of this young Rich- 
So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts 
What may befall him, to his harm and ours: 
Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, 
Forthwith we 71] send him hence to Brittany, 
Till storms be past of civil enmity. 

Oxf. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, 
’T is like that Richmond with the rest shall down. 

Som. It shall be so; he shall to Brittany. 
Come, therefore, let ’s about it speedily. [Exeunt. 


SCENE VII. — Before York. 


Enter King Edward, Gloucester, 
Hastings, and Soldiers. 


K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, 
; and the rest, 
Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends, 
And says that once more I shall interchange 
My waned state for Henry’s regal crown. 
Well have we pass’d and now repass’d the seas 
And brought desired help from Burgundy : 
What then remains, we being thus arrived 
From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, 
But that we enter, as into ourdukedom? __ [this; 
Glow. The gates made fast! Brother, I like not 
For many men that stumble at the threshold 
Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 


451 


Flourish. 


ACT IV. 


K. Edw. Tush, man, abodements must not now 
affright us: 
By fair or foul means we must enter in, 
For hither will our friends repair to us. [them. 
Hast. My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon 


Enter, on the walls, the Mayor of York, and his Brethren. 


May. My lords, we were forewarned of your 
coming, 
And shut the gates for safety of ourselves; 
For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. [king, 
kK. Edw. But, master mayor, if Henry be your 
Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York. 
May. True, my good lord; I know you for no less. 
K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my 
As being well content with that alone. [dukedom, 
Glou. [Aside] But when the fox hath once got 
in his nose, 
He ’ll soon find means to make the body follow. 


Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in a 


doubt ? 
Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends. 
May. Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be 
open’d. [They descend. 
Glou. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded ! 
Hast. ae good old man would fain that all were 
well, 
So ’t were not ’long of him; but being enter’d, 
I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade 
Both him and all his brothers unto reason. 


Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below. 


Kk. Edw. So, master mayor: these gates must not 
But in the night or in the time of war. [be shut 
What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys; 

[Takes his keys. 
For Edward will defend the town and thee, 
And all those friends that deign to follow me. 


March. Enter Montgomery, with drum and soldiers. 


Glou. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, 
Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived. [in arms? 
K. Edw. Welcome, Sir John! But why come you 
Mont. To help King Edward in his time of storm, 
As every loyal subject ought to do. [forget 
kK, Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now 
Our title to the crown and only claim 
Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. 
Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence again: 
I came to serve a king and not a duke. 
Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. 
[The drum begins to march. 
K, Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile, and we’ll 
debate 
By what safe means the crown may be recover’d. 
Mont. What talk you of debating ? in few words, 
If you ’ll not here proclaim yourself our king, 
I'll leave you to your fortune and be gone. 
To keep them back that come to succour you: 
Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title ? 
Glou. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice 
points ? [our claim: 
K. Edw. When we grow stronger; then we ’l] make 
Till then, *tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. 
Hast. ere with scrupulous wit! now arms must 
rule. 
Glou. And fearless minds climb soonest unto 
crowns. 
Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand; 
The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. 
K. Edw. Then be it as yeu will; for ’t is my right, 
And Henry but usurps the diadem. [self ; 
Mont. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like him- 
And now will I be Edward’s champion. [claim’d: 
Hast. Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here pro- 
Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation. 
[ Flourish. 


452 


THIRD: PART OF “KINGY ALN iA 


SCENE VIII. 


Sold. Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, 
king of England and France, and lord of Ireland, &e, 
Mont. And whosoe’er gainsays King Edward’s 
By this I challenge him to single fight. [right, 
[Throws down his gauntlet. 

All. Long live Edward the Fourth! 


K. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery; and thanks: 


unto you all: 

If fortune serve me, I ’ll requite this kindness. 

Now, for this night, let ’s harbour here in York; 

And when the morning sun shall raise his car 

Above the border of this horizon, 

We’ll forward towards Warwick and his mates 3 

For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. 

Ah, froward Clarence! how eyil it beseems thee, 

To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother ! 

Yet, as we may, we 71] meet both thee and Warwick. 

Come on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day, 

And, that once gotten, doubt not of large i : 
weunt. 


SCENE VIII. — London. 


Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Mon- 
tague, Clarence, Exeter, and Oxford. 


The palace, 


War. What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia, ~ 


With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, 
Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas, 
And with his troops doth march amain to London; 
And many giddy people flock to him. 
Kk. Hen. Let’s levy men, and beat him back again, 
OClar. A little fire is quickly trodden out; 
Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench. 
War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, 
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; 
Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence, 
Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk and in Kent, 
The knights and gentlemen to come with thee: 
Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, 
Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find 
Men well inclined to hear what thou command’st: 
And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, 
In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. 
My sovereign, with the loving citizens, 
Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 
Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs, 
Shall rest in London till we come to him. 
Fair lords, take leave and stand not to reply. 
Farewell, my sovereign, 
St aie Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true 
ope. 
Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand. 
Ky Hen, Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortu< 
nate! 
Mont. Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave. 
Oxf. And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu. 
Kk. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, 
And all at once, once more a happy farewell. 
War. Farewell, sweet lords: let ’s meet at Coven- 
try. [Hzeunt all but King Henry and Eeeter. 
K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest awhile. 
Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship ? 
Methinks the power that Edward hath in field 
Should not be able to encounter mine. 
Exe. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. 
K. Hen. That’s not my fear; my meed hath got 
me fame: 
I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands, 
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; 
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, 
My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs, 
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears; 
I have not been desirous of their wealth, 
Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies, 
Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d: 
Then why should they love Edward more than me ? 
No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace: 


ee De ee eg 


ACT VV. 


And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, 
The lamb will never cease to follow him. 
[Shout within, ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster! ’ 
Exe. Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these ! 


Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers. 


KK, Hdw. Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear 
him hence; 
And once again proclaim us king of England. 
You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow: 
Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry, 


Drei? pie Ll Ol KIN GOR ENR VL 


SCENE f. 


And swell so much the higher by their ebb. 
Hence with him to the Tower; let him not speak. 
| Exeunt some with King Henry. 
And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, 
Where peremptory Warwick now remains: 
The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, » 
Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. 
Glou. Away betimes, before his forces join, 
And take the great-grown traitor unawares: 
Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry. 
[ Hxeunt. 


vse nd Dili Vas 


SCENE I.— Coventry. 


Enter Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two 
Messengers, and others upon the walls. 
War. Where is the post that came from valiant 
Oxford ? 
How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow ? 
First Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching 
hitherward. 
War. How far off is our brother Montague ? 
Where is the post that came from Montague ? 
i Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant 
roop. 


Enter Sir John Somerville. 


War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? 
And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now ? 
Som. At Southam I did leave him with his forces, 
And do expect him here some two hours hence. 
[Drum heard. 
' War. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum. 
Som. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies: 
The drum your honor hears marcheth from War- 
wick. [friends. 
War. Who should that be? belike, unlook’d-for 
Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly 
know. | 


March: flourish. Enter King Edward, Glou- 
cester, and Soldiers. 


nS, po. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a 

parle. 

Glou. See how the surly Warwick mans the wall! 

War. O unbid spite! is sportful Edward come ? 
Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced, 
That we could hear no news of his repair? [gates, 

K. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city 
Speak gentle words and humbly bend thy knee, 
Call Edward king and at his hands beg mercy ? 
And he shall pardon thee these outrages. 

War. Nay,rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, 
Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down, 
Call Warwick patron and be penitent ? 

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. 

Glou. I thought, at least, he would have said the 
Or did he make the jest against his will? __[king; 

War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift? 

Glou. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give: 
I'll do thee service for so good a gift. 

War. ’T was I that gave the kingdom to thy 

brother. [wick’s gift. 

K, Edw. Why then ’tis mine, if but by War- 

War. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: 
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; 
And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject. 

K. Edw. But Warwick’s king is Edward’s pris- 
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: [oner: 
What is the body when the head is off ? 

Glou. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, 
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, 


The king was slily finger’d from the deck! 
You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace, 
And, ten to one, you 711 meet him in the Tower. 
K. Edw. ’Tisevenso; yet youare Warwick still. 
Glou. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel 
down, kneel down: 
Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools. 
War. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, 
And with the other fling it at thy face, 
Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. 
K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide 
thy friend, 
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, 
Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off, 
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood, 
‘Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.’ 


Enter Oxford, with drum and colours. 


War. Ocheerful colours! see where Oxford comes! 
Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster ! 
[He and his forces enter the city. 
Glou. The gates are open, let us enter too. 
kk. Edw. So other foes may set upon our backs. 
Stand we in good array; for they no doubt 
Will issue out again and bid us battle: 
If not, the city being but of small defence, 
We ’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same. 
War. O, welcome; Oxford! for we want thy help. 


Enter Montague, with drum and colours. 


Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster! 
He and his yee enter the city. 
Glou. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this 
treason 
Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. 
K. Edw. The harder match’d, the greater victory : 
My mind presageth happy gain and conquest. 


Enter Somerset, with drum and colours. 


Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! 
[He and his forces enter the city. 
Glou. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, 
Have sold their lives unto the house of York; 
And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. 


Enter Clarence, with drum and colours. 


War. And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps 
Of force enough to bid his brother battle; [along, 
With whom an upright zeal to right prevails 
More than the nature of a brother’s love! 

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call. 

Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this 

means ? [Taking his red rose out of his hat 
Look here, I throw my infamy at thee: 
I will not ruinate my father’s house, 
Who gave his blood to lime the stones together, 
Andset up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, Warwick. 
That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, 
To bend the fatal instruments of war 
Against his brother and his lawful king ? 


453 


ACT V. THIRD PARTSEOT 


Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath: 
To keep that oath were more impiety 
Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrificed his daughter. 
I am so sorry for my trespass made 
That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands, 
I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe, 
With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee — 
As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad — 
To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. 
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, 
And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. 
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends: 
And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults, 
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. 
Kk, Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more 
beloved, 
Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate. 
Glo. Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like. 
War. O passing traitor, perjured and unjust ! 
K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the 
town and fight ? 
Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears ? 
War. Alas, I am not coop’d here for defence! 
I will away towards Barnet presently, 
And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou darest. 
kK. Hdw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads 
the way. 
Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory! 
[Hxeunt King Edward and his company. 
March. Woirusse and his company follow. 


SCENH II.— A field of battle near Barnet. 


Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward, 
bringing forth Warwick wounded. 


kK. Edw. So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our 
For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all. [fear; 
Now, Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, 
That Warwick’s bones may keep thine me 
4Ahm 
War. Ah, whoisnigh ? come to me, friend or foe, 
And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick ? 
Why ask I that ? my mangled body shows, 
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, 
That I must yield my body to the earth 
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge, 
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, 
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 
Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree 
And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind. 
These tht that now are dimm’d with death’s black 
veil, 
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun, 
To search the secret treasons of the world: 
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood, 
Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres ; 
For who lived king, but I could dig his grave ? 
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow ? 
Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood! 
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, 
Even now forsake me, and of all my lands 
Is nothing left me but my body’s length. 
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? 
And, live we how we can, yet die we must. 


Enter Oxford and Somerset. 

Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we 
We might recover all our loss again: [are, 
The queen from France hath brought a puissant 

power: 
Even now we heard the news: ah, couldst thou fly! 

War. Why, then I would not fly. Ah, Montague, 
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand, 
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile! 

Thou lovest me not; for, brother, if thou didst, 
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood 


454 


KING HENRY VI. scene ty. 


That glues my lips and will not let me speak. 
Come quickly, Montague, or | am dead. [his last: 
Som. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed 
And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick 
And said ‘Commend me to my valiant brother.’ 
And more he would have said, and more he spoke, 
Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, 
That mought not be distinguish’d; but at last 
I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan, 
‘O, farewell, Warwick! ’ [yourselves ; 
War. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save 
For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in 
heaven. [ Dies. 
Oxf. Away, away, to meet the queen’s great 
power! [Here they bear away his body. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENH III.—Another part of the field. 


Flourish. Enter King Edward in triumph; with 
Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest. 


Kk. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward 
course, 
And we are graced with wreaths of victory. 
But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, 
I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud, 
That will encounter with our glorious sun, 
Ere he attain his easeful western bed: 
I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen 
Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast 
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. 

Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud 
And blow it to the source from whence it came: 
The very beams will dry those vapours up, 

For every cloud engenders not a storm. 

Glo. The queen is valued thirty thousand strong, 
And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: 

If she have time to breathe, be well assured ~ 
Her faction will be full as strong as ours. 

K. Edw. We are advertised by our loving friends 
That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury : 
We, having now the best at Barnet field, 

Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; 
And, as we march, our strength will be augmented 
In every county as we go along. 
Strike up the drum; cry ‘ Courage!’ and away. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Plains near Tewksbury. 


March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, 
Somerset, Oxford, and Soldiers. 


Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail 
their loss, 
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 
What though the mast be now blown overboard, 
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, 
And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood ? 
Yet lives our pilot still. Is ’t meet that he 
Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad 
With tearful eyes add water to the sea [much, 
And give more strength to that which hath too 
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock, 
Which industry and courage might have saved ? 
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this! 
Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that ? 
And Montague our topmast; what of him ? 
Our slaughter’d friends the tackles ; what of these ? 
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor ? 
And Somerset another goodly mast ? 
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ? 
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I 
For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge ? 
We will not from the helm to sit and weep, 
But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, 
From ide ti and rocks that threaten us with 
wreck. 


ACT V. 


PHA PARI ORV IOIDNG (HENRY VE 


SCENE V. 


As good to chide the waves as speak them fair. 
And what is Edward but a ruthless sea ? 

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit ? 

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock ? 

All these the enemies to our poor bark. 

Say you can swim; alas, ’tis but a while! 

Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink: 
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off, 

Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death. 

This speak I, lords, to let you understand, 

If case some one of you would fly from us, 

That there ’s no hoped-for mercy with the brothers 
More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. 
Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided 

*T were childish weakness to lament or fear. 

Prince. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit 
Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 
Infuse his breast with magnanimity 
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. 

I speak not this as doubting any here; 
For did I but suspect a fearful man, 

He should have leave to go away betimes, 
Lest in our need he might infect another 
And make him of like spirit to himself. 
If any such be here —as God forbid! — 
Let him depart before we need his help. 

Oxf. Women and children of so high a courage, 
And warriors faint! why, ’t were perpetual shame. 
O brave young prince! thy famous grandfather 
Doth live again in thee: long mayst thou live 
To bear his image and renew his glories! 

Som. And he that will not fight for such a hope, 
Go home to bed, and like the owl by day, 

If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at. 
Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset ; sweet Oxford, 
thanks. [else. 
Prince. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, 
Ready to fight; therefore be resolute. 
Oxf. I thought no less: it is his policy 
To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. 
Som. But he’s deceived; we are in readiness. 
@. Mar. This cheers my heart, to see your for- 
wardness. [budge. 
Oxf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not 


Flourish and march. Enter King Edward, Glou- 
cester, Clarence, and Soldiers. 


K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the 
thorny wood, 
Which, by the heavens’ assistanceand your strength, 
Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. 
I need not add more fuel to your fire, 
For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out: 
Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords! 
Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I 
should say 
My tears gainsay ; for every word I speak, 
Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. 
Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, 
Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp’d, 
His realm a slaughter-house, his.subjects slain, 
His statutes cancell’d and his treasure spent ; 
And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. 
You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords, 
Be valiant and give signal to the fight. 
[Alarum: Retreat: Hacursions. Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Another part of the field. 


Flourish. Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, 
and Soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and 
Somerset, prisoners. 


K. Edw. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. 
Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight : 


Lp ee) 


For Somerset, off with his guilty head. 

Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak. 
Oxf. For my part, I ll not trouble thee with words. 
Som. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. 

[Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded. 
@. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous world, 

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. ‘(Edward 
ik. EKdw. Is proclamation made, that who finds 

Shall have a high reward, and he his life ? 

Glow. Itis: and lo, where youthful Edward comes! 


Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward. 


KK. Edw. Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him 
What! canso young athorn begin to prick? [speak. 
Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make 
For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, 

And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to ? 

Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious 

York! 
Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth; 
Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, 
Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee, 
Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. 
g. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so resolved! 
lou. That you might still have worn the petticoat, 
And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster. 
Prince. Let Aisop fable in a winter’s night; 
His currish riddles sort not with this place. 

Glou. By heaven, brat, 171] plague ye for that 

word. [men. 

a. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to 

lou. For God’s sake, take away this captivescold. 

Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crookback 

rather. [tongue. 

K. Edw. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your 

Clar. Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert. 

Prince. I know my duty; you are all undutiful- 
Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George, 
And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all 
I am your better, traitors as ye are: 

And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine. 

K. Edw. Take that, thou likeness of this railer 

here. [Stabs him. 

Glou. Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy 

agony. [Stabs him. 
Cla. And there’s for twitting me with perjury. 


[Stabs him. 
. Mar. O, kill me too! 
lou. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill her. 
kK. Hdw. Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done 
too much. [words ? 
Glou. Why should she live, to fill the world with 
K. Edw. What, doth she swoon? use means for 
her recovery. 
Glou. Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother; 
Ill hence to London on a serious matter: 
Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. 
Clar. What? what ? 
Glou. The Tower, the Tower. [| Exit. 
Q. fs O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, 
bo 
Canst tod not speak? O traitors! murderers! 
They that stabb’d Cesar shed no blood at all, 
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, 
If this foul deed were by to equal it: 
He was a man; this, in respect, a child: 
And men ne’er spend their fury on a child. 
What ’s worse than murderer, that I may name it ? 
No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak: 
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. 
Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! 
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d! 
You have no children, butchers! if you had, 
The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse 
But if you ever chance to have a child, 
look in his youth to have him so cut off 
As,deathsmen, you haverid this sweet young prince! 


455 


OTT Ys TEL ED OP AT TOON 


K, Edw. Away with her; go, bear her hence per- 

force. [here; 

Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me 
Here sheathe thy sword, I’ pardon thee my death: 
What, wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou. 

Olar. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. 

@. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do 

thou do it. [do it ? 

Clar. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not 

Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself: 
’T was sin before, but now ’tis charity. 

What, wilt thou not ? Where is that devil’s butcher 
Hard-favour’d Richard ? Richard, where art thou 2 
Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed ; 
Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back. 

K. Edw. Away, say; I charge ye, bear her hence. 

q@. Mar. So come to you and yours, as to this 

prince! [Hwit, led out forcibly. 

K. Edw. Where’s Richard gone ? 

Clar. To London, all in post; and, as I guess, 
To make a bloody supper in the Tower. 

K. Edw. He’ssudden, if athing comes in his head. 
Now march we hence: discharge the common sort 
With pay and thanks, and let ’s away to London 
And see our gentle queen how well she fares: 

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. [ Heeunt. 


SCENE VI. — London. 


Enter King Henry and Gloucester, with the 
Lieutenant, on the walls. 


Glou. Good day, my lord. What, at your book 
so hard ? 
it, Hen. Ay, my good lord: —my lord, I should 
say rather; 
’T is sin to flatter; ‘ good’ was little better: 
‘Good Gloucester ’ and ‘ good devil’ were alike, 
And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘ good lord.’ 
Glou. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must con- 
fer. [Hxit Lieutenant. 
K. ok So flies the reckless shepherd from the 
wolf ; 
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece 
And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. 
What scene of death hath Roscius now to act ? 
Glou. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; 
The thief doth fear each bush an officer. 
tig, Hen. The bird that hath been limed in a bush, 
With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; 
And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird, 
Have now the fatal object in my eye [kill’d. 
Where my poor young was limed, was caught and 
Glow. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, 
That taught his son the office of a fowl! 
And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d. 
K. Hen. 1, Dedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; 
Thy father, Minos, that denied our course ; 
The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy 
Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea 
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. 
Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! 
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point 
Than can my ears that tragic history. 
But wherefore dost thou come ? is ’t for my life ? 
Glou. Think’st thou I am an executioner ? 
Kk. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art: 
If murdering innocents be executing, 
Why, then thou art an executioner. 
Glou. Thy son I kill’d for his presumption. 
K. Hen. Hadst thou been kill’d when first thou 
didst presume, 
Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine. | 
And thus I prophesy, that many a thousand, 
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, 
And many an old man’s sigh and many a widow’s, 
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye— 
Men for their sons, wives for their husbands, 


456 


The Tower. 


KING HENRY VI. scene vit. 


And orphans for their parents’ timeless death — 
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. 
The owl sbriek’d at thy birth,—an evil sign ; 
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; 
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees: 
The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top, 
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. 
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain, 
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope, 
To wit, an indigested and deformed lump, 
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. 
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, 
To signify thou camest to bite the world: 
And, if the rest be true which I have heard, 
Thou camest — 
Glou. 1711 hear no more: die, prophet, in thy 
speech : [Stabs him. 
For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.  [this. 
kK. Hen. Ay, and for much more slaughter after 
O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee! _[Dves. 
Glou. What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have 
mounted. 
See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death! 
O, may such purple tears be alway shed 
From those that wish the downfall of our house! 
If any spark of life be yet remaining, 
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither: 
[Stabs him again. 
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. 
Indeed, ’tis true that Henry told me of; 
For I have often heard my mother say 
I came into the world with my legs forward: 
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, 
And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right ? 
The midwife wonder’d and the women cried 
‘O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!’ 
And so I was; which plainly signified 
That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. 
Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so, 
Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it. 
I have no brother, [ am like no brother; 
And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine, 
Be resident in men like one another 
And not in me: I am myself alone. 
Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light: 
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee; 
For I will buz abroad such prophecies 
That Edward shall be fearful of his life, 
And then, to purge his fear, I ll be thy death. 
King Henry and the prince his son are gone: 
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, 
Counting myself but bad till I be best. 
I?ll throw thy body in another room 
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. 
| Hxit, with the body. 


SCENE VII.— London. 


Flourish. Enter King Edward, Queen Elizabeth, 
Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, a Nurse with the 
young Prince, and Attendants. 


K. Edw. Once more we sit in England’s royal 
Re-purchased with the blood of enemies. [throne, 
What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn, 
Have we mow’d down in tops of all their pride! 
Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d 
For hardy and undoubted champions; 

Two Clifftords, as the father and the son, 

And two Northumberlands; two brayer men 

Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound; 

With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and 
Montague, 

That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion 

And made the forest tremble when they roar’d. 

Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat 

And made our footstool of security. 


The palace. 


ACT V. TD EPA RL AOL 


LNG Ce NN iy 


SCENE VII. 


Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. 
Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself 
Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night, 
Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat, 
That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace ; 
And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. 
Glou. [Aside] Ill blast his harvest, if your head 
were laid; 
For yet I am not look’d on in the world. 
‘This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave: 
And heave it shall some weight, or break my back: 
W ork thou the way,—and thou shalt execute. 
Kk. Edw. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely 
queen ; 
And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. 
Clar. The duty that I owe unto your majesty 
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. 
Q. Hliz. Thanks, noble Clarence ; worthy brother, 
thanks. 


Glou. And, that I love the tree from whence 
thou sprang’st, 
Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. 
[Aside] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master, 
And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm. 
Kk. Kdw. Now am I seated as my soul delights, 
Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. 
Clar. What will your grace have done with 
Margaret ? 
Reignier, her father, to the king of France 
Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem, 
And hither have they sent it for her ransom. 
KK. Kdw. Away with her, and watt her hence to 
France. 
And now what rests but that we spend the time 
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, 
Such as befits the pleasure of the court ? 
Sound drums and trumpets! farewell sour annoy ! 
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. [Hxewnt. 


Richard.—Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone: 
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, 
And this for Rutland ; both bound to revenge, 
Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. 
Clifford.—Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone: 
This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York: 
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland ; 
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death 
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother 
To execute the like upon thyself; 
And so, have at thee!—Acrt II., Scene iv. 


THE TRAGEDY OF 
KING RICHARD THE THIRD. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


King Edward the Fourth. 


Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards S0nR MAUR 


King Edward We King. 


Richard, Duke of York, 


George, Duke of Clarence, aes to 


Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards the King. 


King Richard IIL., 
A young son of Clarence. 
Henry, Earl of Richmond, afterwards King Henry VII. 
Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury. 
Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York. 
John Morton, Bishop of Ely. 
Duke of Buckingham. 
Duke of Norfolk. 
Earl of Surrey, his son. 
Earl Rivers, brother to Elizabeth. 
Marquis of Dorset and Lord Grey, sons to Eliza- 
beth. 
Earl of Oxford. 
Lord Hastings. 
Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby. 
Lord Lovel. 
Sir Thomas Vaughan. 


Sir Richard Ratcliff. 

Sir William Catesby. 

Sir James Tyrrel. 

Sir James Blount. 

Sir Walter Herbert. 

Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower. 

Christopher Urswick, a priest. Another Priest. 

Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending on the 
Lady Anne. 

Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire. 

Elizabeth, queen to King Edward IV. 

Margaret, widow of King Henry VI. 

Duchess of York, mother to King Edward IV. 

Lady Anne, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son 
to King Henry VI. ; afterwards married to Richard. 

A young Daughter of Clarence (Margaret Plan- 
tagenet). 


Ghosts of those murdered by Richard III., Lords and 
other Attendants ; a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, 


Murderers, Messengers, Soldiers, &c. 


SCENE — England. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LVil.] 


oa, <0) BA 


SCENE I.— London. A street. 


Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, solus. 


Glou. Now is the winter of our discontent 
Made glorious summer by this sun of York; 
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house 
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; 
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; 
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, 
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front; 
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; 
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty 
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; 
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion, 
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time 
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionable 
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; 
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
Have no delight to pass away the time, 
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun 
And descant on mine own deformity: 
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 


458 


To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 

I am determined to prove a villain 

And hate the idle pleasures of these days. 

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, 

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, 

To set my brother Clarence and the king 

In deadly hate the one against the other: 

And if King Edward be as true and just 

As Iam subtle, false and treacherous, 

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up, 
About a prophecy which says that G 

Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. [comes. 
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence 


Enter Clarence, guarded, and Brakenbury. 


Brother, good day: what means this armed guard 
That waits upon your grace ? 

Clar. His majesty, 
Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed 
This conduct to convey me to the Tower. 

Glou. Upon what cause ? 

Clar. Because my name is George. 

Glou. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours; 
He should, for that, commit your godfathers : 

O, belike his majesty hath some intent 
That you shall be new-christen’d in the Tower. 
But what ’s the matter, Clarence ? may I know ? 

Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest 
As yet I do not: but, as I can learn, 

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams: 
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, 


es 


hi 


= ——— 


KING RICHARD THE THIRD.—Act I., Scene ii. 


ee 


ACT I. 


And says a wizard told him that by G 

His issue disinherited should be; 

And, for my name of George begins with G, 

It follows in his thought that I am he. 

These, as I learn, and such like toys as these 

Have moved his highness to commit me now. 
Glow. Why, this it is, when men are ruled by 

women: 

*T is not the king that sends you to the Tower; 

My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’t is she 

That tempers him to this extremity. 

Was it not she and that good man of worship, 

Anthony Woodville, her brother there, 

That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, 

From whence this present day he is deliver’d ? 

We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. 

Clar. By heaven, I think there ’s no man is secure 
But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds 
That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. 
Heard ye not what an humble suppliant 
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery ? 

Glou. Humbly complaining to her deity 
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty. 

I’ll tell you what; I think it is our way, 

If we will keep in favour with the king, 

To be her men and wear her livery: 

The jealous o’erworn widow and herself, 

Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen, 
Are mighty gossips in this monarchy. 

Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me; 
His majesty hath straitly given in charge 
That no man shall have private conference, 


Of what degree soever, with his brother. 
- Glou. Even so; an’t please your worship, Brak-. 


You may partake of any thing we say: [enbury, 
We speak no treason, man: we say the king 
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen 
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; 
We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot, 
A cherry lip,a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue ; 
And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks: 
How say you, sir? can you deny all this? 
Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought 
to do. ° [thee, fellow, 
Glou. Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell 
He that doth naught with her, excepting one, 
Were best he do it secretly, alone. 
Brak. What one, my lord ? ; 
Glow. Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray 
me? [withal 
Brak. I beseech your grace to pardon me, and 
Forbear your conference with the noble duke. [obey. 
Clar. Weknowthy charge, Brakenbury, and will 
Glou. We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey. 
Brother, farewell: I will unto the king; 
And whatsoever you will employ me in, 
Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister, 
I will perform it to enfranchise you. 
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood 
Touches me deeper than you can imagine. 
Clar. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. 
Glou. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long; 
I will deliver you, or else lie for you: 
Meantime, have patience. 
Clar. I must perforce. Farewell. 
| [Hxeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard. 
Glou. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er re- 
Simple, plain Clarence! Ido love thee so,  [turn, 
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, 
If heaven will take the present at our hands. 
But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings ? 


Enter Lord Hastings. 


Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord ! 
Glow. As much unto my good lord chamberlain! 
Well are you welcome to the open air. 
How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment ? 


KUNG “RICHARD TIT. 


SCENE II, 


Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must: 
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks 
That were the cause of my imprisonment. 

Glou. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence 
For they that were your enemies are his, [too; 
And have prevail’d as much en him as you. 

Hast. More pity that the eagle should be mew’d, 
While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. 

Glou. What news abroad ? 

Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home; 
The king is sickly, weak and melancholy, 

And his physicians fear him mightily. 

Glou. Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed. 

O, he hath kept an evil diet long, 

And overmuch consumed his royal person: 

*T is very grievous to be thought upon. 

What, is he in his bed? 

Hast. He is. 
Glou. Go you before, and I will follow you. 

[Hxit Hastings. 

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die 

Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to heaven. 

Ill in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, 

With les well steel’d with weighty arguments; 

And, if I fail not in my deep intent, 

Clarence hath not another day to live: 

Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, 

And leave the world for me to bustle in! 

For then (ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter. 

What though I kill’d her husband and her father ? 

The readiest way to make the wench amends 

Is to become her husband and her father: 

The which will I; not all so much for love 

As for another secret close intent, 

By marrying her which I must reach unto. 

But yet I run before my horse to market: 

Clarence still breathes; Edward stilllivesand reigns: 

When they are gone, then must I count my ae 

it. 


SCENE II.— The same. Another street. 


Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, Gentlemen 
with halberds to guard it ; Lady Anne being the mourner. 


Anne. Set down, set down your honourable load, 

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, 

Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament 

The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. 

Poor key-cold figure of a holy king! 

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! 

Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood! 

Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, 

To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, 

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son, 

Stabb’d by the selfsame hand that made these 
wounds! 

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, 

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. 

Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes! 

Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it! 

Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence! 

More direful hap betide that hated wretch, 

That makes us wretched by the death of thee, 

Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, 

Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives! 

If ever he have child, abortive be it, 

Prodigious and untimely brought to light, 

Whose ugly and unnatural aspect 

May fright the hopeful mother at the view ; 

And that be heir to his unhappiness! 

If ever he have wife, let her be made 

As miserable by the death of him 

As I am made by my poor lord and thee! 

Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, 

Taken from Paul’s to be interred there ; 

And still, as you are weary of the weight, 

Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse. 


459 


ACTA, 


KINGS RICHARD VIL. 


SCENE II. 


Enter Gloucester. 


Glow. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it 
down. 
Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend, 

To stop devoted charitable deeds ? 

Glou. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint 

I?ll make a corse of him that disobeys. [Paul, 
Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. 
Glow. Unmanner’d dog! stand thou, when I com- 

mand: 

Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, 

Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot, 

And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. 
Anne. What, do you tremble ? are you all afraid ? 

Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal, 

And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. 

Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! 

Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, 

His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone. 
Glou. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. 
Anne. Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and 

trouble us not; 

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, 

Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. 

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, 

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. 

O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry’s wounds 

Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh! 

Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity ; 

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood 

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells; 

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, 

Provokes this deluge most unnatural. 

O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death! 

O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death! 

Hither heaven with lightning strike the murderer 

_ Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, [dead, 

As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood, 

Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered ! 
Glow. Lady, you know no rules of charity, 

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. 
Anne. Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor 

man: 

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. 
Glou. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. 
Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! 
Glou. More wonderful, when angels are so angry. 

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, 

Of these supposed evils, to give me leave, 

By circumstance, but to acquit myself. 

Anne. Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man, 

For these known evils, but to give me leave, 

By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. 

Glou. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me 

Some patient leisure to excuse myself. [have 
Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst 

No excuse current, but to hang thyself. [make 
Glou. By such despair, I should accuse myself. 
Anne. And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand 

excused ; 

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself, 

Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. 
Glou. Say that I slew them not ? 

Anne. Why, then they are not dead: 

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. 
Glou. I did not kill your husband. 

Anne. Why, then he is alive. 
Glow. Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s 

hand. [garet saw 
Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Mar- 

Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood: 

The which thou once didst bend against her breast, 

But that thy brothers beat aside the point. 

Glou. I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, 

Which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. 
Anne. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, 


460 


—_—— 


Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries: 

Didst thou not kill this king ? 

Glou. I grant ye. 
Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God 
grant me too 

Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed ! 

O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! ; 
Glou. The fitter for the King of heaven, that 

hath him. [come. 
Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never 
Glow. Let him thank me, that holp to send him 

For he was fitter for that place than earth. [thither; 
Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. 
Glou. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me 
Anne. Some dungeon. [name it. 
Glow. Your bed-chamber. 
Anne. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! 
Glou. So will it, madame, till I lie with you. 
Anne. I hope so. 

Glou. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, 

To leave this keen encounter of our wits, 

And fall somewhat into a slower method, 

Is not the causer of the timeless deaths 

Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, 

As blameful as the executioner ? [effect. 
Anne. Thou art the cause, and most accursed 
Glou. Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; 

Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep 

To undertake the death of all the world, 

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. 
Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, 
These nails should rend that beauty from my 

cheeks. [wreck ; 
Glou. These eyes could never endure sweet beauty’s 

You should not blemish it, if I stood by: 

As all the world is cheered by the sun, 

So I by that; it is my day, my life. 

Anne. Black night o’ershade thy day, and death 
thy life! [both, 
Glow. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art 
Anne. I would I were, to be revenged on thee. 
Glou. It is a quarrel most unnatural, 
To be revenged on him that loveth you. 
Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, 

To be revenged on him that slew my husband. 
Glow. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, 

Did it to help thee to a better husband. 

Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. 

Glou. He lives that loves thee better than he could. 

Anne. Name him. 

Glow. Plantagenet. 

Anne. Why, that was he. 

Glou. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. 

Anne. Where is he? 

Glou. Here. [She spitteth at him.] 
Why dost thou spit at me ? 

Anne. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! 

Glou. Never came poison from so sweet a place. 

Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. 

Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes. 

Glou. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. 

ee eRe they were basilisks, to strike thee 
ead! 

Glou. I would they were, that I might die at once; 

For now they kill me with a living death. 

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, 

Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops: 

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, 

No, when my father York and Edward wept, 

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made 

When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; 

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, 

Told the sad story of my father’s death, 

And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, 

That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks, 

Like trees bedash’d with rain: in that sad time 

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; 


ACD TI. 


And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, 
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weep- 
I never sued to friend nor enemy ; . [ing. 
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing 
But, now thy beauty is proposed my fee, [words; 
My proud heart sues and prompts my tongue to 
speak. [She looks scornfully at him. 
Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made 
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. 
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, 
Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ; 
Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom, 
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, 
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, 
And humbly beg the death upon my knee. 
[He lays his breast open: she offers at at 
with his sword. 
Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry, 
But ’t was thy beauty that provoked me. [Edward, 
Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young 
But ’t was thy heavenly face that set me on. 
| Here she lets fall the sword. 
Take up the sword again, or take up me. 

Anne. Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death, 
I will not be the executioner. 

Glou. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. 

Anne. I have already. 

Glou. Tush, that was in thy rage: 
Speak it again, and, even with the word, 

That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love, 
Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love; 
To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary. 

Anne. I would I knew thy heart. 

Glou. ’Tis figured in my tongue. 

Anne. I fear me both are false. 

Glou. Then never man was true. 

Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. 

Glou. Say, then, my peace is made. 

Anne. That shall you know hereafter. 

Glow. But shall I live in hope ? 

Anne. All men, I hope, live so. 

Glou. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. 

Anne. To take is not to give. 

Glou. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, 
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; 

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. 
And if thy poor devoted suppliant may 
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, 
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. 
Anne. What is it ? [designs 

Glow. That it would please thee leave these sad 
To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, 
And presently repair to Crosby Place; 

Where, after I have solemnly interr’d 

At Chertsey monastery this noble king, 
And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 
I will with all expedient duty see you: 

For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, 
Grant me this boon. 

Anne. With all my heart ; and much it joys me too, 
To see you are become so penitent. 

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. 

Glou. Bid me farewell. 

Anne. ”T is more than you deserve; 
But since you teach me how to flatter you, 
Imagine I have said farewell already. 

[Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley. 

Glou. Sirs, take up the corse. 

Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord ? 

Glou. No, to White-Friars; there attend my 

coming. [Hxeunt all but Gloucester. 
Was ever woman in this humour woo’d ? 
Was ever woman in this humour won ? 
I ll have her; but I will not keep her long. 
What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, 
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, 
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, 


KING RICHARD III 


SCENE III. 


The bleeding witness of her hatred by; [me, 
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against 
And I nothing to back my suit at all, 
But the plain devil and dissembling looks, 
ay yet to win her, all the world to nothing! 
a! 
Hath she forgot already that brave prince, 
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, 
Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? 
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 
Framed in the prodigality of nature, 
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, 
The spacious world cannot again afford: 
And will she yet debase her eyes on me, 
That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince, 
And made her widow to a woful bed ? 
On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety ? 
On me, that halt and am unshapen thus.? 
My dukedom to a beggarly denier, 
I do mistake my person all this while: 
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, 
Myself to be a marvellous proper man. 
I'l be at charges for a looking-glass, 
And entertain some score or two of tailors, 
To study fashions to adorn my body: 
Since I am crept in favour with myself, 
I will maintain it with some little cost. 
But first I’ turn yon fellow in his grave; 
And then return lamenting to my love. 
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, 
That I may see my shadow as I pass. | ait. 


SCENE III. — The palace. 


Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord 
Grey. 
Riv. Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt 
his majesty 
Will soon recover his accustom’d health. 

Grey. Inthat you brook it ill, it makes him worse: 
Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, 
And cheer his grace with quick and merry words. 

g Eliz. If he were dead, what would betide of 

iw. No other harm but lossofsuchalord. [me? 

. Eliz. The loss of such a lord includes all harm. 
rrey. The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly 

To be your comforter when he is gone. [son,. 

Q. Hliz. Oh, he is young, and his minority 
Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, 

A man that loves not me, nor none of you. 

Riv. Is it concluded he shall be protector ? 

Q. Eliz. It is determined, not concluded yet: 
But so it must be, if the king miscarry. 


Enter Buckingham and Derby. 


Grey. Here come the lords of Buckingham and 
Derby. 
Buck. Good time of day unto your royal grace! 
Der. God make your majesty joyful as you have 
been ! [of Derby, 
Q. Eliz. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord 
To your good prayers will scarcely say amen. 
Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife, 
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured 
I hate not you for her proud arrogance. 
Der. I do beseech you, either not believe 
The envious slanders of her false accusers ; 
Or, if she be accused in true report, 
Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds 
From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. 
Riv. Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby ? 
Der. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I 
Are come from visiting his majesty. 
@. Eliz. What likelihood of his amendment, lords? 
Buck. Madam, good hope ; his grace speaks cheer- 
fully. [with him? 
Q. Eliz. God grant him health! Did you confer 
461 


AMST AE. 


Buck. Madam, we did: he desires to make atone- 
ment 
Betwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, 
And betwixt them and my lord chamberlain ; 
And sent to warn them to his royal presence. [be: 
Q. Eliz. Would all were well! but that will never 
I fear our happiness is at the highest. 


Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset. 


Glou. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it: 

Who are they that complain unto the king, 
That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? 
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly 
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. 
Because I cannot flatter and speak fair, 

Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive and cog, 
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, 

I must be held a rancorous enemy. 

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm, 

But thus his simple truth must be abused 

By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks ? [grace ? 

Riv. To whom in all this presence speaks your 

Glou. 'To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. 
When have I injured thee ? when done thee wrong ? 
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction ? 

A plague upon you all! His royal person, — 
Whom God preserve better than you would wish ! — 
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, 

But you must trouble him with lewd complaints. 

Q. Hiiz. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the 
The king, of his own royal disposition, __[matter. 
And not provoked by any suitor else; 

Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred, 

Which in your outward actions shows itself 
Against my kindred, brothers, and myself, 
Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather 
The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it. 

Glou. I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad, 
That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch: 
Since every Jack became a gentleman, 

There ’s many a gentle person made a Jack. 
Q. Eliz. Come, come, we know your meaning, 
brother Gloucester ; 
You envy my advancement and my friends’: 
God grant we never may have need of you! _[you: 

Glou. Meantime, God grants that we have need of 
Our brother is imprison’d by your means, 

Myself disgraced, and the nobility 

Held in contempt; whilst many fair promotions 

Are daily given to ennoble those [noble. 

That scarce, some two days since, were worth a 
Q. Hliz. By Him that raised me to this careful 

height 

From that contented hap which I enjoy’d, 

I never did incense his majesty 

Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been 

An earnest advocate to plead for him. 

My lord, you do me shameful injury, 

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. 

Glou. You may deny that you were not the cause 
Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment. 

Riv. She may, my lord, for-— [not so ? 

Glou. She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows 
She may do more, sir, than denying that: 

She may help you to many fair preferments, 

And then deny her aiding hand therein, 

And lay those honours on your high deserts. 

What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she,— 
tiv. What, marry, may she ? 

Glou. What, marry, may she! marry with a king, 
A bachelor, a handsome stripling too: 

I wis your grandam had a worser match. [borne 

@. Eliz. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long 
Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs: 

By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty 
With those gross taunts I often have endured. 
I had rather be a country servant-maid 


462 


KING RICHARD IIL 


SCENE III, 


Than a great queen, with this condition, 
To be thus taunted, scorn’d, and baited at: 


Enter Queen Margaret, behind. 


Small joy have I in being England’s queen. [thee! 
@. Mar. And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech 

Thy honour, state and seat is due to me. [king ? 

lou. What! threat you me with telling of the 

Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said 

I will avouch in presence of the king: 

I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. 

’T is time to speak ; my pains are quite forgot. 

Q. Mar. Out, devil! I remember them too well: 
Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower, 
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. [king, 

Glou. Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband 
I was a pack-horse in his great aftairs ; 

A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, 

A liberal rewarder of his friends: 

To royalise his blood I spilt mine own. [thine. 
). Mar. Yea, and much better blood than his or 

Glou. In all which time you and your husband 
Were factious for the house of Lancaster; [Grey 
And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband 
In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain ? 

Let me put in your minds, if you forget, 
What you have been ere now, and what you are; 
Withal, what I have been, and what I am. 
. Mar. A murderous villain, and so still thou art. 
lou. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, War- 
wick; 
Yea, and forswore himself,— which Jesu pardon ! — 
. Mar. Which God revenge! 
lou. To fight on Edward’s party for the crown; 
And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew’d up. 
I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s; 
Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine: 
I am too childish-foolish for this world. [ world, 

Q. Mar. Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the 
Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is. 

Riv. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days 
Which here you urge to prove us enemies, 

We follow’d then our lord, our lawful king: 
So should we you, if you should be our king. 

Glou. If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar: 
Far be it from my heart, the thought of it! 

Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose 
You should enjoy, were you this country’s king, 
AS little joy may you suppose in me, 

That I enjoy, being the queen thereof. 

Q. Mar. A little joy enjoys the queen thereof; 
For I am she, and altogether joyless. 

I can no longer hold me patient. [ Advancing, 
Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out 

In sharing that which you have pill’d from me! 
Which of you trembles not that looks on me? 

If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, 
Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels ? 
O gentle villain, do not turn away! [my sight ? 

Glou. Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in 

Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast marr’d; 
That will I make before I let thee go. 

Glou. Wert thou not banished on pain of death ? 

Q. Mar. I was; but I do find more pain in ban-. 

ishment 
Than death can yield me here by my abode. 
A husband and a son thou owest to me; 
And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance: 
The sorrow that I have, by right is yours, 
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. 

Glou. The curse my noble father laid on thee, 

When thou didst crown his warlike brows with 
paper 

And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes, 

And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout 

Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland,— 

His curses, then from bitterness of soul 


ACT I. 


Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee; 

And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed. 

. Eliz. So just is God, to right the innocent. _ 
ast. O, ’t was the foulest deed to slay that babe, 

And the most merciless that e’er was heard of ! 
Riv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was re- 

ported. 
Dor. ‘No man but prophesied revenge for it. 
Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to 
see it. [came, 
Q. Mar. What were you snarling all before I 

Ready to catch each other by the throat, 

And turn you all your hatred now on me? 

Did Y ork’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven 

That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death, 

Their kingdom’s loss, my woful banishment, 

Could all but answer for that peevish brat ? 

Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven ? 

Why. then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick 

If not by war, by surfeit die your king, [curses ! 

As ours by murder, to make him a king! 

Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales, 

For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales, 

Die in his youth by like untimely violence! 

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, 

Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! 

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s loss; 

And see another, as I see thee now, 

Deck’d in thy rights, as thou are stall’d in mine! 

Long die thy happy days before thy death ; 

And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief, 

Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen! 

Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, 

And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son 

Was stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him, 

That none of you may live your natural age, 

But by some unlook’d accident cut off! [hag ! 
Glou. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d 
Q. Mar. And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou 

shalt hear me. 

If heaven have any grievous plague in store 

Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, 

O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, 

And then hurl down their indignation 

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace! 

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul! 

Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest, 

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ! 

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, 

Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream 

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils! 

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog! 

Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity 

The slave of nature and the son of hell! 

Thou slander of thy mother’s heavy womb! 

Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins! 

Thou rag of honour! thou detested — 

Glou. Margaret. 
Q. Mar. Richard! 
Glou. Ha! 

: : I call thee not. 

lou. I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought 

That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names. 
Q. Mar. Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply. 

O, let me make the period to my curse! 

Glou. ’T is done by me, and ends in ‘ Margaret.’ 
Q. Eliz. Thus have you breathed your curse 
against yourself. (fortune! 

. Mar. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my 

Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider, 

Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ? 

Fool, fool! thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself. 

The time wil! come when thou shalt wish for me 

To help thee curse that poisonous bunch-back’d 

toad. 
Hast. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, 

Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. 


ISIN GOL LOTEARD (DL 


SCENE III. 


Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you! you have all 
moved mine. [your duty. 
Riv. Were you well served, you would be taught 
Q. ae To serve me well, you all should do me 
u b] 
Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects: 
O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! 
Dor. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic. [pert: 
@).Mar. Peace, master marquess, you are mala- 
Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. 
QO, that your young nobility could judge 
What ’t were to lose it, and be miserable! 
They that stand high have many blasts to shake 


hem; 

And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces. 
Glou. Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, 

marquess. 

Dor. It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me. 

Glow. Yea,and much more: but I was born so high, 
Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, 

And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun. 

Q. Mar. And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas! 
Witness my son, now in the shade of death; 
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath 
Hath in eternal darkness folded up. 

Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest. 

O God, that seest it, do not suffer it; 

As it was won with blood, lost be it so! 

Buck. Have done! for shame, if not for charity. 

Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me: 
Uncharitably with me have you dealt, 

And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher’d. 

My charity is outrage, life my shame; 

And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage! 
Buck. Have done, have done. [hand, 
Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham, Ill kiss thy 

In sign of league and amity with thee: 

Now fair befal thee and thy noble house! 

Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, 

Nor thou within the compass of my curse. 

Buck. Nor no one here; for curses never pass 
The lips of those that breathe them in the air. 

Q. Mar. Ill not believe but they ascend the sky, 
And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace. 

O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! 

Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites, 

His venom tooth will rankle to the death: 

Have not to do with him, beware of him; 

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, 

And all their ministers attend on him. _[ingham ? 
Glou. What doth she say, my Lord of Buck- 
Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. 
Q. Mar. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle 

counsel ? 

And soothe the devil that I warn thee from? 

O, but remember this another day, 

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, 

And say poor Margaret was a prophetess ! 

Live each of you the subjects to his hate, 

And he to yours, and all of you to God’s! [| Hvit. 
Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her 

curses. [erty. 

Riv. And so doth mine: I muse why she’s at lib- 

Glou. I cannot blame her; by God’s holy mother, 
She hath had too much wrong; and I repent 
My part thereof that I have done to her. 

. Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge. 
lou. But you have all the vantage of her wrong. 

I was too hot to do somebody good, 

That is too cold in thinking of it now. 

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid ; 

He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains: 

God pardon them that are the cause of it! 
Riv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, 

To pray for them that have done scathe to us. 
Glou. So do I ever: [Aside] being well advised. 

For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself. 


463 


ACT I. 


Enter Catesby. 


Cates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you: 
And for your grace; and you, my noble lords. [us ? 
. Eliz. Catesby, wecome. Lords,will you go with 
iv. Madam, we will attend your grace. 
[ Hxeunt all but Gloucester. 
Glou. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. 
The secret mischiefs that I set abroach 
I lay unto the grievous charge of others. 
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness, 
I do beweep to many simple gulls; 
Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham ; 
And say it is the queen and her allies 
That stir the king against the duke my brother. 
Now, they believe it; and withal whet me 
To be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey : 
But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture, 
Tell them that God bids us do good for evil: 
And thus I clothe my naked villany 
With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; 
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. 


Enter two Murderers. 


But, soft! here come my executioners. 
How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates! 
Are you now going to dispatch this deed ? 
First Murd. We are, my lord; and come to have 
the warrant, 
That we may be admitted where he is. 
Glou. Well thought upon; I have it here about 
me. [ Gives the warrant. 
When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. 
But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, 
Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; 
For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. 
First Murd. Tush! 
Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; 
Talkers are no good doers: be assured 
We come to use our hands and not our tongues. 
Glou. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes 
drop tears: 
I like you, lads; about your business straight ; 
Go, go, dispatch. 
First Murd. We will, my noble lord. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—London. The Tower. 


Enter Clarence and Brakenbury. 


Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? 
Clar. O, I have pass’d a miserable night, 
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night, 
Though ’t were to buy a world of happy days, 
So full of dismal terror was the time! 
Brak. What was your dream? I long to hear 
you tell it. [ Tower, 
Clar. Methoughts that I had broken from the 
And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy; 
And, in my company, my brother Gloucester ; 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk (land, 
Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward Eng- 
And cited up a thousand fearful times, 
During the wars of York and Lancaster 
That had befall’n us. As we paced along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, [ing, 
Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in fall- 
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 
Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown! 
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! 
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes! 
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 
Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon ; 
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
464 


KING RICHARD III. 


SCENE IV. 


Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 

All seatter’d in the bottom of the sea: 

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and, in those holes 
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, 

As *t were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, 
Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by. 

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death 
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost: but still the enviou’ flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To seek the empty, vast and wandering air; 

But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? 

Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life, 
O, then began the tempest to my soul, 

Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger soul, 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ; 
Who cried aloud, ‘ What scourge for perjury 

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ? ’ 
And so he vanish’d: then came wandering by 

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 

Dabbled in blood; and he squeak’d out aloud, 
‘Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, 
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury ; 

Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!’ 
With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise 

I trembling waked, and for a season after 

Could not believe but that I was in hell, 

Such terrible impression made the dream. [you; 

Brak. No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted 
I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it. 

Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things, 
Which now bear evidence against my soul, 

For Edward’s sake; and see how he requites me! 
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, 
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, 
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone, . 
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! 
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me; 
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 
Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good 
rest! Clarence sleeps. 
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. 
Princes have but their titles for their ere 
An outward honour for an inward toil; 
And, for unfelt imagination, 
They often feel a world of restless cares: 
So that, betwixt their titles and low names, 
There ’s nothing differs but the outward fame. 


Enter the two Murderers. 


First Murd. Ho! who’s here ? [you hither ? 
Brak. In God’s name what are you, and how came 
First Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I 
came hither on my legs. 
Brak. Yea, are you so brief ? 
Sec. Murd. O sir, it is better to be brief than te- 
dious. Shew him our commission; talk no more. 
[Brakenbury reads tt. 
Brak. I am, in this, commanded to deliver 
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands: 
I will not reason what is meant hereby, 
Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. 
Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep: 
Ill to the king; and signify to him 
That thus I have resign’d my charge to you. 
First Murd. Do so, it is a point of wisdom: fare 
you well. [Exit Brakenbury. 


4 


Sec. Murd. What. shall we stab him as he sleeps ? 

First Murd. No; then he will say ’t was done cow- 
ardly, when he wakes. 

Sec. Murd. When he wakes! why, fool, he shall 
never wake till the judgment-day. [sleeping. 

First Murd. Why, then he will say we stabbed him 

Sec. Murd. The urging of that word ‘judgment’ 
hath bred a kind of remorse in me. 

First Murd. What, art thou afraid ? 

Sec. Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant for 
it; but to be damned for killing him, from which 
no warrant can defend us. 

First Murd. I thought thou hadst been resolute. 

Sec. Murd. So I am, to let him live. [him so. 

First Murd. Back to the Duke of Gloucester, tell 

Sec. Murd. I pray thee, stay a while: I hope my 
holy humour will change; ’t was wont to hold me 
but while one would tell twenty. 

First Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 

Sec. Murd. ’Faith, some certain dregs of con- 
science are yet within me. 

First Murd. Remember our reward, when the 
deed is done. [ward. 

Sec. Murd. ’Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the re- 

First Murd. Where is thy conscience now ? 

Sec. Murd. In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse. 

First Murd. So when he opens his purse to give 
us our reward, thy conscience flies out. 

Sec. Murd. Let it go; there’s few or none will 
entertain it. 

First Murd. How if it come to thee again ? 

Sec. Murd. I’ll not meddle with it: it is a dan- 
gerous thing: it makes a man a coward: a man 
cannot steal, but it accuseth him; he cannot swear, 
but it checks him; he cannot lie with his neigh- 
bour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis a blushing 
shamefast spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom; 
it fills one full of obstacles: it made me once re- 
store a purse of gold that I found; it beggars any 
man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and 
cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that 
means to live well endeavours to trust to himself 
and to live without it. 

First Murd..’Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, 
persuading me not to kill the duke. 

Sec. Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and be- 
lieve him not: he would insinuate with thee but to 
make thee sigh. 

First Murd. Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot 
prevail with me, I warrant thee. 

Sec. Murd. Spoke like a tall fellow that respects 
his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear ? 

First Murd. Take him over the costard with the 
hilts of thy sword, and then we will chop him in 
the malmsey-butt in the next room. 

Sec. Murd. O excellent device! make a sop of him. 

First Murd. Hark! he stirs: shall I strike ? 

Sec. Murd. No, first let ’s reason with him. [wine. 

Clar. Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of 

Sec. Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord, 


Clar. In God’s name, what art thou ? [anon. 
Sec. Murd. A man, as you are. 
Clar. But not, as I am, royal. 
Sec. Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal. [humble. 


Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are 

Sec. Murd. My voice is now the king’s, my looks 

mine own. 

Clar. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! 
Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale ? 
Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come? 

Both. To, to, to— 

Clar. To murder me ? 

Both. Ay, ay. 

_ Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, 
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. 
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you? [king. 


First Murd. Offended us you have not, but the. 


30 


FOING RICE AR DY LPT. 


i pe er cm ree, 


SCENE IV. 


Clar. I shall be reconciled to him again. [die. 
Sec. Murd. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to 
Clar. Are you call’d forth from out a world of men 

To slay the innocent? What is my offence ? 

Where are the evidence that do accuse me ? 

What lawful quest have given their verdict up 

Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounced 

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death ? 

Before I be convict by course of law, 

To threaten me with death is most unlawful. 

I charge you, as you hope to have redemption 

By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins, 

That you depart and lay no hands on me: 

The deed you undertake is damnable. 

First Murd. What we will do, we do upon com- 

mand. [king. 
Sec. Murd. And he that hath commanded is the 
Clar. Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings 

Hath in the tables of his law commanded 

That thou shalt do no murder: and wilt thou, then, 

Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man’s ? 

Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hands, 

To hurl upon their heads that break his law. 

Sec. Murd. And that same vengeance doth he 
hurl on thee, 

For false forswearing and for murder too: 

Thou didst receive the holy sacrament, 

To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster. 

Kirst Murd. And,likea traitor to the name of God, 

Didst aiea that vow; and with thy treacherous 

ade 

Unrip’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. 

Sec. Murd. Whom thou wert sworn to cherish 
and defend. [law to us, 
First Murd. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful 

When thou hast broke it in so dear degree ? 

Clar. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed ? 

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: 

Why, sirs, 

He sends ye not to murder me for this; 

For in this sin he is as deep as I. 

It God will be revenged for this deed, 

O, know you yet, he doth it publicly: 

Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm; 

He needs no indirect nor lawless course 

To cut off those that have offended him. lister, 
First Murd. Who made thee, then, a bloody min- 

When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, 

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee ? 
Clar. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage. 
Kirst Murd. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy 

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. _—_[fault, 
Clar. Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me; 

I am his brother, and I love him well. 

If you be hired for meed, go back again, 

And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, 

Who shall reward you better for my life 

Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 

Sec. Murd. You are deceived, your brother Glou- 
cester hates you. 
Clar. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear: 

Go you to him from me. . 
Both. Ay, So we will. [York 
Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father 

Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm, 

And charged us from his soul to love each other, 

He little thought of this divided friendship: 

Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep. 
First Murd. Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to 


weep. 
Clar. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. 
First Murd. Right, 
As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself: 
’T is he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee. 
OClar. It cannot be; for when I parted with him, 
He hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs, 
That he would labour my delivery. 


465 


ACT IT. 


Sec. Murd. Why,so he doth, now he delivers thee 
From this world’s thraldom to the joys of heaven. 
First Murd. Make peace with God, for you must 
die, my lord. 
Clar. Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, 
To counsel me to make my peace with God, 
And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind, 
That thou wilt war with God by murdering me? 
Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you on 
To do this deed will hate you for the deed. 
Sec. Murd. What shall we do ? 
Clar. Relent, and save your souls. 
First Murd. Relent! ’t iscowardly and womanish. 
Clar. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish. 
Which of you, if you were a prince’s son, 
Being pent from liberty, as I am now, 
If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, 
Would not entreat for life ? 
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks; 
O, if thine eye be not a flatterer, 
Come thou on my side, and entreat for me, 
As you would beg, were you in my distress: 
A begging prince what beggar pities not ? 


KING RICHARD III. 


SCENE I. 


Sec. Murd. Look behind you, my lord. 
First Murd. Take that, and that: if all this will 
not do, [Stabs hin. 
I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. 
| Nxt, with the body. 
Sec. Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately dis- 
patch’d! 
How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands 
Of this most grievous guilty murder done! 


Re-enter First Murderer. 


First Murd. How now! what mean’st thou, that 
thou help’st me not ? 
By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art! 
Sec. Murd. I would he knew that I had saved his 
brother ! 
Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say; 
For I repent me that the duke is slain. [ Hai. 
First Murd. So do not I: go, coward as thou art. 
Now must I hide his body in some hole, 
Until the duke take order for his burial: 
And when I have my meed, I must away; 
For this will out, and here I must not stay. 


NSC Dee 


SCENE I. — London. 
Enter King Edward sick, Queen Elizabeth, 


The palace. 
Flourish. 


Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and 


others. 


K. Hdw. Why,so: now have I done a good day’s 
You peers, continue this united league: [work: 
J every day expect an embassage 
From my Redeemer to redeem me hence; 

And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven, 
Since I have set my friends at peace on earth. 
Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand; 
Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. [hate; 

Riv. By heaven, my heart is purged from grudging 
And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love. 

Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like! 

kK. Hdw. Take heed you dally not before your 
Lest he that is the supreme King of kings _ [{king; 
Confound your hidden falsehood, and award 
Either of you to be the other’s end. 

Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love! 

Riv. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart! 

ik, Edw. Madam, yourself are not exempt in this, 
Nor your son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you: 

You have been factious one against the other. 
Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand; 
And what you do, do it unfeignedly. [member 

Q. Hliz. Here, Hastings; I will never more re- 
Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine! 

dx, Edw. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love 

lord marquess. 

Dor. This interchange of love, I here protest, 
Upon my part shall be unviolable. 

Hast. And so swear I, my lord. [They embrace. 

K. Hdw. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou 

this league 
With thy embracements to my wife’s allies, 
And make me happy in your unity. 

Buck. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate 
On you or yours [to the Queen], but with all duteous 
Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me _ [love 
With hate in those where I expect most love! 
When I have most need to employ a friend, 

And most assured that he is a friend, 
Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile, 
Be he unto me! this do I beg of God, 
When I am cold in zeal to you or yours. 
[They embrace. 
466 


K, Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, 
Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. 
There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, 
To make the perfect period of this peace. [duke. 
Buck. And, in good time, here comes the noble 


Enter Gloucester. 


Glou. Good morrow to my sovereign king and 
And, princely peers, a happy time of day! [queen ; 
. dw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. 
Brother, we have done deeds of charity ; 
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, 
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. 
Glou. A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege’ 
Amongst this princely heap, if any here, 
By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, 
Hold me a foe; 
If I unwittingly, or in my rage, 
Have aught committed that is hardly borne 
By any in this presence, I desire 
To reconcile me to his friendly peace: 
’T is death to me to be at enmity ; 
I hate it, and desire all good men’s love. 
First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, 
Which I will purchase with my duteous service; 
Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, 
If ever any grudge were lodged between us; 
Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you; 
That all without desert have frown’d on me; 
Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. 
I do not know that Englishman alive 
With whom my soul is any jot at odds 
More than the infant that is born to-night: 
I thank my God for my humility. 
Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter: 
I would to God all strifes were well compounded. 
My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty. 
To take our brother Clarence to your grace. 
Glou. Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this, 
To be so flouted in this royal presence ? 
Who knows not that the noble duke is dead ? 
[| Vhey all start. 
You do him injury to scorn his corse. 
Riv. Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is ? 
Q. Eliz. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! 
Buck. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest ? 
Dor. Ay, my good lord; and no one in this presence 
But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. 


ACT II. 


AVG LOT AK Darr 


SCENE II. 


K. Edw. Is Clarence dead? the order was re- 
versed. 

Glou. But he, poor soul, by your first order died , 
And that a winged Mercury did bear ; 
Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, 
That came too lag to see him buried. 
God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, 
Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood, 
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, 
And yet go current from suspicion ! 


Enter Derby. 


Der. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! 
ik. Edw. I pray thee, peace: my soul is full of 
SOrrow. 
Der. I will not rise, unless your highness grant. 
kK. Edw. Then speak at once what is it thou de- 
mand’st. 
Der. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life; 
Who slew to-day a righteous gentleman 
Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. [death, 
kK, Edw. Have La tongue to doom my brother’s 
And shall the same give pardon to a slave ? 
My brother slew no man; his fault was thought, 
And yet his punishment was cruel death. 
Who sued to me for him? who, in my rage, 
Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advised ? 
Who spake of brotherhood ? who spake of love ? 
Who told me how the poor soul did forsake 
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me ? 
Who told me, in the field by Tewksbury, 
When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, 
And said, ‘ Dear brother, live, and be a king’ ? 
Who told me, when we both lay in the field 
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me 
Even in his own garments, and gave himself, 
All thin and naked, to the numb cold night ? 
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath 
Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you 
Had so much grace to put it in my mind. 
But when your carters or your waiting-vassals 
Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced 
The precious image of our dear Redeemer, 
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; 
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you: 
But for my brother not a man would speak, 
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself 
For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all 
Have been beholding to him in his life; 
Yet none of you would once plead for his life. 
O God, I fear thy justice will take hold 
On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this! 
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Oh, poor 
Clarence! [Hxeunt some with King and Queen. 
Glou. This is the fruit of rashness! Mark’d you 
How that the guilty kindred of the queen [not 
Look’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death ? 
O, they did urge it still unto the king! 
God will revenge it. But come, let us in, 
To comfort Edward with our company. 
Buck. We wait upon your grace. 


SCENE II.— The palace. 


Enter the Duchess of York, with the two children 
of Clarence. 


Boy. Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead ? 
Duch. No, boy. [breast, 
Boy. Why do you wring your hands, and beat your 
And ery ‘O Clarence, my unhappy son!’ [head, 
Girl. Why do you look on us, and shake your 
And call us wretches, orphans, castaways, - 
If that our noble father be alive ? 
Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; 
I do lament the sickness of the king, 
As loath to lose him, not your father’s death ; 
It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost. 


[ Exeunt. 


Boy. Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. 
The king my uncle is to blame for this: 
God will revenge it; whom I will importune 
With daily prayers all to that effect. 
Girl. And so will I. [you well: 
Duch. Peace, children, peace! the king doth love 
Incapable and shallow innocents, 
You cannot guess who caused your father’s death. 
Boy. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Glou- 


Told me, the king, provoked by the queen, [cester 
Devised impeachments to imprison him: 
And when my uncle told me so, he wept, [cheek ; 


And hugg’d me in his arm, and kindly kiss’d my 
Bade me rely on him as on my father, 
And he would love me dearly as his child. 
Duch. Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle 
shapes, 
And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile! 
He is my son; yea, and therein my shame; 
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. 
Son. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam ? 
Duch. Ay, boy. 
Son. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this ? 


Enter Queen Elizabeth, with her hair about her 
ears; Rivers and Dorset after her. 


Q. Eliz. Oh, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, 
To chide my fortune, and torment myself ? 
I ll join with black despair against my soul, 
And to myself become an enemy. 
Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience ? 
Q. Hliz. To make an act of tragic violence: 
Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead. 
Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d ? 
Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone ? 
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, 


| That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s; 


Or, like obedient subjects, follow him 
To his new kingdom of perpetual rest. 
Duch. Ah,so much interest have I in thy sorrow 
As I had title in thy noble husband! 
I have bewept a worthy husband’s death, 
And lived by looking on his images: 
But now two mirrors of his princely semblance 
Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death, 
And I for comfort have but one false glass, 
Which grieves me when I see my shame in him. 
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother, 
And hast the comfort of thy children left thee: 
But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine 
arms, 
And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs, 
Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I, 
Thine being but a moiety of my grief, 
To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries! [death ; 
Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father’s 
How can we aid you with our kindred tears ? 
Girl. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d ; 
Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept ! 
@. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation ; 
IT am not barren to bring forth complaints: 
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, 
That I, being govern’d by the watery moon, 
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! 
Oh for my husband, for my dear lord Edward! 
Chil. Oh for our father, for our dear lord Clarence! 
Duch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and 
Clarence! [gone. 
Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward ? and he’s 
Chil. What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s 
gone. [gone. 
Duch. What stays had I but they ? and they are 
(). Eliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss! 
Chil. Were never orphans had so dear a loss! 
Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss! 
Alas, I am the mother of these moans! 
Their woes are parcell’d, mine are general. 
467 


MOT. Ti 


She for an Edward weeps, and so do I; 

I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she: 

These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I; 

I for an Edward weep, so do not they: 

. Alas, you three, on me, threefold distress’d, 

Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow’s nurse, 
And I will pamper it with lamentations. [pleased 

Dor. Comfort, dear mother: God is much dis- 
That you take with unthankfulness his doing: 

In comnion worldly things, ’tis call’d.ungrateful, 
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt 

Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent ; 
Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, 

For it requires the royal debt it lent you. 

Riv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, 
Of the young prince your son: send straight for him; 
Let him be crown’d; in him your comfort lives: 
Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave, 
And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. 


Enter Gloucester, Buckingham, Derby, 
Hastings, and Ratcliff. 


Glou. Madam, have comfort: all of us have cause 
To wail the dimming of our shining star ; 
But none can cure their harms by wailing them. 
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ; 
I did not see your grace: humbly on my knee 
I crave your blessing. [mind, 
Duch. God bless thee; and put meekness in thy 
Love, charity, obedience, and true duty ! [man ! 


Glou. [Aside] Amen ;'and make me diea good old 


That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing: 
I marvel why her grace did leave it out. ~ [peers, 

Buck. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing 
That bear this mutual heavy load of moan, 
Now cheer each other in each other’s love: 
Though we have spent our harvest of this king, 
We are to reap the harvest of his son. 
The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts, 
But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together, 
Must gently be preserved, cherish’d, and kept: 
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train, 
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d 
Hither to London, to be crown’d our king. 

Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord of 

Buckingham ? 

Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude, 

The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out ; 
Which would be so much the more dangerous, 

By how much theestate is green and yet ungovern’d: 
Where every horse bears his commanding rein, 
And may direct his course as please himself, 

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent, 

Jn my opinion, ought to be prevented. 

Glou. I hope the king made peace with all of us; 
And the compact is firm and true in me. 

Riv. And so in me; and so, I think, in all: 

Yet, since it is but green, it should be put 

To no apparent likelihood of breach, 

Which haply by much company might be urged: 
Therefore I say with noble Buckingham, 

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince. 

Hast. And so say I. ; 

Glow. Then be it so; and go we to determine 
Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. 
Madam, and you, my mother, will you go 
To give your censures in this weighty business ? 


oe ae With all our hearts. 


[Hxeunt all but Buckingham and Gloucester. 
Buck. My Lord, whoever journeys to the prince, 
For God’s sake, let not us two be behind; 
For, by the way, Ill sort occasion, 
As index to the story we late talk’d of, 
To part the queen’s proud kindred from the king. 
Glou. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, 
My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin, 


468 


KTN QVELOCHAR Dir 


SCENE IV. 


I, like a child, will go by thy direction. 
Towards Ludlow then, for we ’ll not stay behind. 
[ Kxewnt. 


SCENH III. —London. A. street. 


Enter two Citizens, meeting. 


ie Cit. Neighbour, well met: whither away so 
ast ? 
Sec. Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know myself: 
Hear you the news abroad ? 
First Cit. Ay, that the king is dead. 
Sec. Cit. Bad news, by ’r lady; seldom comes the 
better: 
I fear, I fear ’t will prove a troublous world. 


Enter another Citizen. 


Third Cit. Neighbours, God speed ! 

First Cit. Give you good morrow, sir. 

Third Cit. Doth this news hold of good King Ed- 

ward’s death ? [while! 

Sec. Cit. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the 

Third Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous 

world. [shall reign. 

First Cit. No, no; by God’s good grace his son 

Third Cit. Woe to that land that’s govern’d by 

a child! 

Sec. Cit. In him there is a hope of government, 
That in his nonage council under him, 

And in his full and ripen’d years himself, 

No doubt, shall then and till then govern well. 
First Cit. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth 

Was crown’d in Paris but at nine months old. 
Third Cit. Stood the state so? No, no, good 

friends, God wot; 

For then this land was famously enrich’d 

With politic grave counsel; then the king 

Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace. 

First Cit. Why, so hath this, both by the father 

and mother. [father, 

Third Cit. Better it were they all came by the 
Or by the father there were none at all; 

For emulation now, who shall be nearest, 

Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. 

O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester! 

And the queen’s sons and brothers haught and proud: 

And were they to be ruled, and not to rule, 

This sickly land might solace as before. 

First Cit. Come, come, we fear the worst; all 

shall be well. [their cloaks; 

Third Cit. When clouds appear, wise men put on 
When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand; 
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night ? 
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. 

All may be well; but, if God sort it so, 

’T is more than we deserve, or I expect. 

Sec. Cit. Truly, the souls of men are full of dread: 
Ye cannot reason almost with a man 
That looks not heavily and full of fear. 

Third Cit. Before the times of change, still is it 
By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust [so: 
Ensuing dangers; as, by proof, we see 
The waters swell’ before a boisterous storm. 

But leave it allto God. Whither away? 
Sec. Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the justices. 
Third Cit. And so was 1: Ill bear you company. 

| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— London. 


Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, 
Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York. 


Arch. Last night, I hear, they lay at Northamp- 
At Stony-Stratford will they be to-night: [ton; 
To-morrow, or next day, they willbe here. _ 

Duch. I long with all my heart to see the prince: 
I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. 


The palace. 


ee ee ee ee 


~ 


4 
\ oo a 


ONG Oe! hae ial @ is 


eI G PRT OMA KD TT. 


SCENE I. 


. Hliz. But I hear,no; they say myson of York 
Hath almost overta’en him in his growth. 
York. Ay, mother; but I would not have it so. 
Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. 
York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper, 
My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow [cester, 
More than my brother: ‘ Ay,’ quoth my uncle Glou- 
‘Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:’ 
And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, 
Because sweet flowers are Slowand weedsmakehaste. 
Duch. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not 
In him that did object the same to thee: [hold 
He was the wretched’st thing when he was young, 
So long a-growing and so leisurely, 
That, if this rule were true, he should be gracious. 
Arch. Why, madam, so, no doubt, he is. 
Duch. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt. 
York. Now, by my troth, if [had beenremember’d, 
I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout, 
To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine. 
Duch. How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let 
me hear it. 
York. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast 
That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old: 
°T was full two years ere I could get a tooth. 
Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. 
Duch. Upray thee, pretty Y ork, who told thee this ? 
York. Grandam, his nurse. [born. 
Duch. His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wert 
York. If ’t were not she, I cannot tell who told me. 
Q. Eliz. A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd. 
Arch. Good madam, be not angry with the child. 
Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Arch. Here comes a messenger. What news ? 
Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold. 
Q. Eliz. How fares the prince? 


Mess. Well, madam, and in health. 
Duch. What is thy news then ? [Pomfret, 
Mess. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to 

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. 
Duch. Who hath committed them ? 


Mess. The mighty dukes 
Gloucester and Buckingham. 
Q. Hliz. For what offence ? 


Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclosed ; 
Why or for what these nobles were committed 
Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady. 

Q. Eliz. Ay me, I see the downfall of our house! 
The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; 
Insulting tyranny begins to jet 
Upon the innocent and aweless throne: 

Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre! 
I see, as in a map, the end of all. 

Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, 

How many of you have mine eyes beheld! 

My husband lost his life to get the crown; 

And often up and down my sons were toss’d, 
For me to joy and weep their gain and loss: 

And being seated, and domestic broils 

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors, 
Make war upon themselves; blood against blood, 
Self against self: O, preposterous 

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen ; 

Or let me die, to look on death no more! 

Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. 
Madam, farewell. 

Duch. I’ go along with you. 

Q. Eliz. You have no cause. 

Arch. My gracious lady, go, 
And thither bear your treasure and your goods. 
For my part, Ill resign unto your grace 
The seal I keep: and so betide to me 
As well I tender you and all of yours! 

Come, Ill conduct you to the sanctuary. [Hzeunt. 


ACT 
SCENE I.— London. A street. 


The trumpets sound. Enter the young Prince, the Dukes 
of Gloucester and Buckingham, Cardinal Bour- 
chier, Catesby, and others. 


Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your 
chamber. [ereign : 
Glou. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sov- 
The weary way hath made you melancholy. 
Prince. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way 
Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy: 
I want more uncles here to welcome me. [years 
Glow. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your 
Hath not yet dived into the world’s deceit: 
Nor more can you distinguish of a man 
Than of his outward show; which, God he knows, 
Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. 
Those uncles which you want were dangerous ; 
Your grace attended to their sugar’d words, 
But look’d not on the poison of their hearts: 
God keep you from them, and from such false friends! 
Prince. God keep me from false friends! but they 
were none. [greet you. 
Glou. My lord, the mayor of London comes to 


Enter the Lord Mayor and his train. 
May. God bless your grace with health and happy 
days ! [you all. 

Prince. I thank you, good my lord; and thank 
I thought my mother, and my brother York, 
Would long ere this have met us on the way: 
Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not 
To tell us whether they will come or no! 


BASE 


Enter Lord Hastings. 


Buck. And, in good time, here comes the sweat- 
ing lord. [come ? 
Prince. Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother 

Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I, 
The queen your mother, and your brother York, 
Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince 
Would fain have come with me to meet your grace, 
But by his mother was perforce withheld. 

Buck. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course 
Is this of hers! Lord cardinal, will your grace 
Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York 
Unto his princely brother presently? _ 

If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him, 
And from her. jealous arms pluck him perforce. 

Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak ora- 
Can from his mother win the Duke of York, [tory 
Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate 
To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid 
We should infringe the holy privilege 
Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land 
Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. 

Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, 
Too ceremonious and traditional: 

Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, 

You break not sanctuary in seizing him. 

The benefit thereof is always granted 

To those whose dealings have deserved the place, 
And those who have the wit to claim the place: _ 
This prince hath neither claim’d it nor deserved it; 
And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it: 
Then, taking him from thence that is not there, 


469 


ACT III. 


You break no privilege nor charter there. 

Oft have I heard of sanctuary men ; 

But sanctuary children ne’er till now. _[once. 
Card. My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for 

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? 
Hast. 1 go, my lord. 

Prince. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you 

may. [Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings. 

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, 

Where shall we sojourn till our coronation ? 

Glou. Where it seems best unto your royal self. 
If I may counsel you, some day or two 
Your highness shall repose you at the Tower: [fit 
Then where you please, and shall be thought most 
For your best health and recreation. 

Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any place. 
Did Julius Cesar build that place, my lord ? 

Buck. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place; 
Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. 

Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported 
Successively from age to age, he built it ? 

Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. 

Prince. But say, my lord, it were not register’d, 
Methinks the truth should live from age to age, 
As ’t were retail’d to all posterity, 

Even to the general all-ending day. {live long. 
Glou. [Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never 
Prince. What say you, uncle? 

Glou. I say, without characters, fame lives long. 
Aside] Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity, 

I moralize two meanings in one word. 

Prince. That Julius Cesar was a famous man; 
With what his valour did enrich his wit, 

His wit set down to make his valour live: 

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror; 

For now he lives in fame, though not in life. 

I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, — 
Buck. What, my gracious lord ? 

Prince. An if I live until I be a man, 

Ill win our ancient right in France again, 

Or die a soldier, as I lived a king. ward spring. 
Glou. [Aside] Short summers lightly have a for- 


Enter young York, Hastings, and the Cardinal. 


Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke 
of York. [brother ? 
Prince. Richard of York! how fares our loving 
York. Well, my dread lord: so must I call you now. 
Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours: 
Too late he died that might have kept that title, 
Which by his death hath lost much majesty. 
Glou. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York ? 
York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord, 
You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: 
The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. 
Glou. He hath, my lord. 
York. And therefore is he idle ? 
Glou. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. 
York. Then is he more beholding to you than I. 
Glou. He may command me as my sovereign ; 
But you have power in me as in a kinsman. 
York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. 
Glou. My dagger, little cousin ? with all my heart. 
Prince. A beggar, brother ? 
York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give; 
And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. 
Glou. A greater gift than that Ill give my cousin. 
York. A greater gift! O,that’s the sword to it. 
Glou. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. 
York. O, then, I see, you will part but with light 
In weightier things you ’ll say a beggar nay. [gifts; 
Glow. It is too heavy for your grace to wear. 
York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. [lord ? 
Glou. What, would you have my weapon, little 
York. I would, that I might thank you as you 
Glou. How ? [call me. 
York. Little. 


470 


KING: RICHARD) TIL. 


SCENE I. 


Prince. My Lord of Y ork will still be cross in talk: 
Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him. 

York. You mean, to.bear me, not to bear with me: 
Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me; 
Because that I am little, like an ape, [ders. 
He thinks that you should bear me on your shoul- 

Buck. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons! 
To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, 

He prettily and aptly taunts himself: 
So cunning and so young is wonderful. 

Glou. My lord, will’t please you pass along ? 
Myself and my good cousin Buckingham 
Will to your mother, to entreat of her 
To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. 

York. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord ? 

Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. 

York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. 

Glou. Why, what should you fear ? 

York. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost: 
My grandam told me he was murder’d there. 

Prince. I fear no uncles dead. 

Glou. Nor none that live, I hope. 

Prince. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. 
But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart, 
Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. 

[A Sennet. Exeunt all but Gloucester , 
Buckingham and Catesby. 

Buck. Think you, my lord, this little prating 
Was not incensed by his subtle mother [York 
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? 

Glou. No doubt, no doubt: O, ’tis a parlous boy; 
Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable: 

He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe. 

Buck. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. 
Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend 
As closely to conceal what we impart: 

Thou know’st our reasons urged upon the way; 
What think’st thou? is it not an easy matter 
To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, 
For the instalment of this noble duke 

In the seat royal of this famous isle ? 

Cate. He for his father’s sake so loves the prince, 
That he will not be won to aught against him. 

Buck. What think’st thou, then, of Stanley ? what 

will he ? 

Cate. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. [by, 

Buck. Well,then,no more but this: go,gentle Cates- 
And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings, 
How he doth stand affected to our purpose; 

And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, 

To sit about the coronation. 

If thou dost find him tractable to us, ; 
Encourage him, and show him all our reasons: 

If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling, 

Be thou so too; and so break off your talk, 

And give us notice of his inclination: 

For we to-morrow hold divided councils, 

Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d. [Catesby, 

Glou. Commend me to Lord William: tell him, 
His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries 
To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret-castle ; 

And bid my friend, for joy of this good news, 
Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. 

Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business 

soundly. fmay. 

Cate. My good lords both, with all the heed L 

Glow. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we 

Cate. You shall, my lord. [sleep ? 

Glow. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us 

both. [ Hxit Catesby. 

Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we per- 

ceive 
Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots ? 

Glou. Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will 
And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me [do: 
The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables 


| Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d. 


ACT III. 


Buck. Vllclaim that promise at your grace’s hands. 
tlou. And look to have it yielded with all willing- 
Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards __[ness. 
We may digest our complots in some form. [EHzeunt. 


SCENE II.— Before Lord Hastings’ house. 


Enter a Messenger. 
What, ho! my lord! 
[ Within] Who knocks at the door ? 
A messenger from the Lord Stanley. 


Mess. 
Hast. 
Mess. 


Enter Lord Hastings. 


What is ’t o’clock ? 

Upon the stroke of four. [nights ? 
Hast. Cannot thy master sleep these tedious 
Mess. So it should seem by that I have to say. 

First, he commends him to your noble lordship. 
Hast. And then ? 

Mess. And then he sends you word 

He dreamt to-night the boar had razed his helm : 

Besides, he says there are two councils held; 

And that may be determined at the one 

Which may make you and him to rue at the other. 

Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure, 

If presently you will take horse with him, 

And with all speed post with him toward the north, 

To shun the danger that his soul divines. 

Hast. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord; 

Bid him not fear the separated councils: 

His honour and myself are at the one, 

And at the other is my servant Catesby ; 

Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us 

Whereof I shall not have intelligence. 

Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance: 

And for his dreams, I wonder he is so fond 

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers: 

To fly the boar before the boar pursues, 

Were to incense the boar to follow us 

And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. 

Go, bid thy master rise and come to me; 

And we will both together to the Tower, 

Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. 
Mess. My gracious lord, 1 ’ll tell him what you 


say. Exit. 
7 Enter Catesby. Leet 


Cate. Many good morrows to my noble lord! 

Hast. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stir- 

ring: 

What news, what news, in this our tottering state ? 
Cate. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord; 

And I believe ’t will never stand upright 

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. [crown ? 
Hast. How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the 
Cate. Ay, my good lord. [shoulders 
Hast. 1’ll have this crown of mine cut from my 

Ere I will see the crown so foul misplaced. 

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it ? 

Cate. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you for- 
Upon his party for the gain thereof : [ward 
And thereupon he sends you this good news, 

That this same very day your enemies, 

The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. 
Hast. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, 

Because they have been still mine enemies: 

But, that Ill give my voice on Richard’s side, 

To bar my master’s heirs in true descent, 

God knows I will not do it, to the death.  [mind! 
Cate. God keep your lordship in that gracious 
Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month 

hence, 

That they who brought me in my master’s hate, 

I live to look upon their tragedy. 

I tell thee, Catesby,— 

Cate. What, my lord ? 

Hast. Ere a fortnight make me elder, 

Ill send some packing that yet think not on it. 


Hast. 
Mess. 


KING BICHARD, Tit, 


SCENE II, 


Cate. ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, 
When men are unprepared and look not for it. 

Hast. O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out 
With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so ’t will do 
With some men else, who think themselves as safe 
As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear 
To princely Richard and to Buckingham,’ 

Cate. The princes both make high account of you; 
[Aside] For they account his head upon the bridge. 

Hast. I know they do; and I have well deserved it. 


Enter Lord Stanley. 


Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man? 
Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided ? 

Stan. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, 
You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, [Catesby: 
I do not like these several councils, I. 

Hast. My lord, 

I hold my life as dear as you do yours; 

And never in my life, I do protest, 

Was it more precious to me than ’tis now: 

Think you, but that I know our state secure, 

I would be so triumphant as I am? [London, 

Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from 
Were jocund, and supposed their state was sure, 
And they indeed had no cause to mistrust ; 

But yet, you see, how soon the day o’ercast. 

This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt: 

Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward! 

What, shall we toward the Tower ? the day is spent. 

Hast. Come, come, have with you. Wot you 

what, my lord ? 
To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded. [heads 

Stan. They, for their truth, might better wear their 
Than some that have accused them wear their hats. 
But come, my lord, let us away. 


Enter a Pursuivant. 


Hast. Go on before; I ’ll talk with this good fel- 
low. [Hxeunt Stanley and Catesby. 
How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee? 
Purs. The better that your lordship please to ask. 
Hast. I tell thee, man, ’t is better with me now 
Than when I met thee last where now we meet: 
Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, 
By the suggestion of the queen’s allies ; 
But now, I tell thee—keep it to thyself — 
This day those enemies are put to death, 
And I in better state than e’er I was. 
Purs. God hold it, to your honour’s good content! 
Hast. Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for 
me. [Throws him his purse. 
Purs. God save your lordship! | Hatt. 


Enter a Priest. 


Priest. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your 
honour. . __ [heart. 
Hast. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my 
I am in your debt for your last exercise ; 
Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. | 
| He whispers in his ear. 


Enter Buckingham. 


Buck. What, talking with a priest, lord chamber- 
lain ? 
Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest ; 
Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. 
Hast. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, 
Those men you talk of came into my mind. 
What, go you toward the Tower ? 
Buck. I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay: 
I shall return before your lordship thence. 
Hast. ’T is like enough, for I stay dinner there. 
Buck. [Aside] And supper too, although thou 
know’st it not. 
Come, will you go? 
Hast. Ill wait upon your lordship. 
471 


| Heeunt. 


ACT III. 


SCENE III. —Pomfret Castle. 


Enter Sir Richard Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying 
Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death. 


Rat. Come, bring forth the prisoners. 
Riv. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this: 
To-day shalt thou behold a subject die 
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. [you! 
Grey. God keep the prince from all the pack of 
A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. after. 
Vaug. You live that shall cry woe for this here- 
Rat. Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out. 
Riv. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, 
Fatal and ominous to noble peers! 
Within the guilty closure of thy walls 
Richard the second here was hack’d to death; 
And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, 
We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink. 
Grey. Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our 
heads, 
For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son. 
JTtiv. Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she 
Buckingham, 
Then cursed she Richard. O, remember, God, 
To hear her prayers for them, as now for us! 
And for my sister and her princely sons, 
Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, 
Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt. 
Rat. Make haste; the hour of death is expiate. 
Riv. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all em- 
brace: 
And take our leave, until we meet in heaven. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The Tower of London. 


Enter Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of 
Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, with others, and take their seats at 
a table, 


Hast. My lords, at once: the cause why we are 

Is, to determine of the coronation. 

In God’s name, speak: when is the royal day ? 
Buck. Are all things fitting for that royal time ? 
Der. It is, and wants but nomination. 

Ely. To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day. 
Buck. Who knows the lord protector’s mind 
herein ? 

Who is most inward with the royal duke ? 

Hiy. Your grace, we think, should soonest know 
his mind. [faces, 
Buck. Who, I, my lord! we know each other’s 

But for our hearts, he knows no more of mine, 

Than I of yours; 

Nor I no more of his, than you of mine. 

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. 

Hast. 1 thank his grace, I know he loves me well; 

But, for his purpose in the coronation, 

I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d 

His gracious pleasure any way therein: 

But you, my noble lords, may name the time; 

And in the duke’s behalf Ill give my voice, 

Which, I presume, he’ll take in gentle part. 


Enter Gloucester. 
fily. Now in good time, here comes the duke him- 


self. row. 
Glou. My noble lords and cousins all, good mor- 
I have been long a sleeper; but, I hope, 
My absence doth neglect no great designs, 
Which by my presence might have been concluded. 
Buck. Had not you come upon your cue, my lord, 
William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part,— 
i mean, your voice,— for crowning of the king. 
Glou. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be 
bolder ; 
His lordship knows me well, and loves me well. 
fast. I thank your grace. 


472 


KING RICHARD LTE. 


SCENE IY. 


Glou. My lord of Ely! 


Ely. My lord ? 
Glou. When I was last in Holborn, 
I saw good strawberries in your garden there: 
I do beseech you send for some of them. 
Ely. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my (ie 
vit, 
Glou. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. 
[Drawing him aside. 
Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, 
And finds the testy gentleman so hot, 
As he will lose his head ere give consent 
His master’s son, as worshipful he terms it, 
Shall lose She royalty of England’s throne. __[you. 
Buck. Withdraw you hence, my lord, Ill follow 
[Hxit Gloucester, Buckingham following. 
Dev. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. 
To-morrow, in mine opinion, is too sudden; 
For I myself am not so well provided 
As else I would be, were the day prolong’d. 


Re-enter Bishop of Ely. 


Ely. Where is my lord protector ? I have sent for 
these strawberries. 

Hast. His grace looks cheerfully and smooth to- 
There ’s some conceit or other likes him well, [day; 
When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit. 
I think there ’s never a man in Christendom 
That can less hide his love or hate than he; 

For by his face straight shall you know his heart. 

Der. What of his heart perceive you in his face 
By any likelihood he show’d to-day ? 

Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is offended ; 
For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. 

Der. I pray God he be not, I say. 


Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham. 


Glou. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve 
That do conspire my death with devilish plots 
Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d 
Upon my body with their hellish charms ? 
Hast. The tender love I bear your grace, my lord, 
Makes me most forward in this noble presence 
To doom the offenders, whatsoever they be: 
I say, my lord, they have deserved death. 
Glou. Then be your eyes the witness of this ill: 
See how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm 
Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up: 
And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch, 
Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, 
That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. 
ae fy they have done this thing, my gracious 
ord,— ; et, 
Glou. If! thou protector of this damned strum- 
Tellest thou me of ‘ifs’? Thou art a traitor: 
Off with his head! Now, by Saint Paul I swear, 
I will not dine until I see the same. 
Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done: 
The rest, that love me, rise and follow me. 
[Hxeunt all but Hastings, Ratcliff, and Lovel. 
Hast. Woe, woe for England! not a whit for me; 
For I, too fond, might have prevented this. 
Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm; 
But I disdain’d it, and did scorn to fly: 
Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, 
And startled, when he look’d upon the Tower, 
As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. 
O, now I want the priest that spake to me: 
I now repent I told the pursuivant, 
As ’t were triumphing at mine enemies, 
How they at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d, 
And I myself secure in grace and favour. 
O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse 
Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head! [ner; 
fat. Dispatch, my lord; the duke would be at dins 
Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head. 
Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men, 


Fg, Wall al 


_ Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! 


Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, 
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, 
Ready, with every nod, to tumble down 
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. [claim. 
Lov. Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to ex- 
Hast. O bloody Richard! miserable England! 
I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee 
That ever wretched age hath look’d upon. 
Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head: 
They smile at me that shortly shall be dead. 
[ Hceunt. 
SCENE V.—The Tower-walls. 


Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, i rotten 
armour, marvellous ill-favoured. 


Glou. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and 
change thy colour, 
Murder thy breath in the middle of a word, 
And then begin again, and stop again, 
As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror ? 
Buck. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ; 
Speak and look back, and pry on every side, 
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, 
Intending deep suspicion: ghastly looks 
Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; 
And both are ready in their offices, 
At any time, to grace my stratagems. 
But what, is Catesby gone? 
Glow. He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along. 


Enter the Mayor and Catesby. 


Lord mayor,— 

Look to the drawbridge there! 

Hark! a drum. 

Catesby, o’erlook the walls. 

Lord mayor, the reason we have sent — 

Glow. Look back, defend thee, here are enemies. 

Buck. God and our innocency defend and guard 
us! [Lovel. 

Glow. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and 


Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings’ head. 


Lov. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, 
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. 

Glou. So dear I loved the man, that I must weep. 
I took him for the plainest harmless creature 
That breathed upon this earth a Christian ; 

Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded 

The history of all her secret thotghts: 

So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue, 
That, his apparent open guilt omitted, 

I mean, his conversation with Shore’s wife, 

He lived from all attainder of suspect. [traitor 

Buck. Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d 
That ever lived. 

Would you imagine, or almost believe, 

Were ’t not that, by great preservation, 

We live to tell it you, the subtle traitor 

This day had plotted, in the council-house 

To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester ? 

May. What, had he so? 

Glow. What, think you we are Turks or infidels ? 
Or that we would, against the form of law, 
Proceed thus rashly to the villain’s death, 

But that the extreme peril of the case, 
The peace of England and our persons’ safety, 
Enforced us to this execution ? 

May. Now, fair befall you! he deserved his death ; 
And you my good lords, both have well proceeded, 
To warn false traitors from the like attempts. 

I never look’d for better at his hands, 
After he once fell in with Mistress Shore, 

Glou. Yet had not we determined he should die, 
Until your lordship came to see his death; 

Which now the loving haste of these our friends, 
Somewhat against our meaning, have prevented: 


Buck. 
Glou. 
Buck. 
Glou. 
Buck. 


KING RICHARD ITI. 


SCENE VI. 


Because, my lord, we would have had you heard 
The traitor speak, and timorously contess 
The manner and the purpose of his treason; 
That you might well have signified the same 
Unto the citizens, who haply may 
Misconstrue us in him and wail his death. [serve, 
May. But, my good lord, your grace’s word shall 
As well as I had seen and heard him speak: 
And doubt you not, right noble princes both, 
But [ll acquaint our duteous citizens 
With all your just proceedings in this cause. [here. 
Glou. And to that end we wish’d your lordship 
To avoid the carping censures of the world. 
Buck. But since you come too late of our intents, 
Yet witness what you hear we did intend: 
And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell. 
[ Hait Mayor. 
Glou. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. 
The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post ; 
There, at your meet’st advantage of the time, 
Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children: 
Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen, 
Only for saying he would make his son 
Heir to the crown; meaning indeed his house, 
Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so. 
Moreover, urge his hateful luxury, 
And bestial appetite in change of lust; 
Which stretched to their servants, daughters, wives, 
Even where his lustful eye or savage heart, 
Without control, listed to make his prey. 
Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person : 
Tell them, when that my mother went with child 
Of that unsatiate Edward, noble York 
My princely father then had wars in France; 
And, by just computation of the time, 
Found that the issue was not his begot; 
Which well appeared in his lineaments, 
Being nothing like the noble duke my father: 
But touch this sparingly, as ’t were far off; 
Because you know, my lord, my mother lives. 
Buck. Fear not, my lord, Ill play the orator 
As if the golden fee for which I plead 
Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu. [Castle; 
Glou. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s 
Where you shall find me well accompanied 
With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops. 
Buck. I go; and towards three or four o’clock 
Look for the news that the Guildhall as ORE 
eit. 
Glou. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw; 
[To Cate.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both 
Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle. 
[Hxeunt all but Gloucester. 
Now will I in, to take some privy order, 
To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight; 
And to give notice, that no manner of person 
At any time have recourse unto the princes. [Hzvt. 


SCENE VI.— The same. A street. 


Enter a Scrivener, with a paper in his hand. 


Scriv. This is the indictment of the good Lord 
Hastings; 
Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d, 
That it may be this day read over in Paul’s. 
And mark how well the sequel hangs together: 
Eleven hours I spent to write it over, 
For yesternight by Catesby was it brought me; 
The precedent was full as long a-doing: 
And yet within these five hours lived Lord Hastings, 
Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. 
Here’sa good world the while! Why who’sso gross, 
That seeth not this palpable device ? 
Yet who’s so blind, but says he sees it not? 
Bad is the world; and all will come to nought, 
When such bad dealing must be seen in amas sf 
et 


473 


ACT III. 


SCENE VII.— Baynard’s Castle. 


Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, at several 
doors. 


Glou. How now, my lord, what say the citizens ? 
Buck. Now, by the holy mother of our Lord, 
The citizens are mum and speak not a word. 
Glou. Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s 
children ? 
Buck. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy, 
And his contract by deputy in France; 
The insatiate greediness of his desires, 
And his enforcement of the city wives; 
His tyranny for trifies; his own bastardy, 
As being got, your father then in France, 
And his resemblance, being not like the duke: 
Withal I did infer your lineaments, 
Being the right idea of your father, 
Both in your form and nobleness of mind; 
Laid open all your victories in Scotland, 
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, 
Your bounty, virtue, fair humility ; 
Indeed, left nothing fitting for the purpose 
Untouch’d, or sightly handled, in discourse: 
And when mine oratory grew to an end, 
I bid them that did love their country’s good 
Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king! ’ 
Glow. Ah! and did they so? 
Buck. No,so God help me, they spake not a word ; 
But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones, 
Gazed each on other, and look’d deadly pale. 
Which when I saw, I reprehended them; 
And ask’d the mayor what meant this wilful silence: 
His answer was, the people were not wont 
To be spoke to but by the recorder. 
Then he was urged to tell my tale again, 
‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d ;’ 
But nothing spake in warrant from himself. 
When he had done, some followers of mine own, 
At the lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps, 
And some ten voices cried ‘ God save King Richard!’ 
And thus I took the vantage of those few, 
‘ Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I; 
‘This general applause and loving shout 
Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard:?’ 
And even here brake off, and came away. 
Glou. What tongueless blocks were they! would 
they not speak ? 
Buck. No, by my troth, my lord. [come ? 
Glou. Will not the mayor then and his brethren 
Buck. The mayor is here at hand: intend some 
Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit: [fear; 
And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, 
And stand betwixt two churchmen, good my lord; 
For on that ground I’ build a holy descant: 
And be not easily won to our request : 
Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it. 
Glou. 1 go; and if you plead as well for them 
As I can say nay to thee for myself, 
No doubt we’ll bring it to a happy issue. 
Buck. Go, go, up to the leads; the lord mayor 
knocks. [ Hxit Gloucester. 


Enter the Mayor and Citizens. 


Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here; 
I think the duke will not be spoke withal. 


Enter Catesby. 

Here comes his servant: how now, Catesby, 
What says he? 

Cate. My lord, he doth entreat your grace 
To visit him to-morrow or next day: 
He is within, with two right reverend fathers, 
Divinely bent to meditation ; 
And in no worldly suit would he be moved, 
To draw him from his holy exercise. 

Buck. Return, good Catesby, to thy lord again: 

474 


KING \RIGHAR DV TILT 


SCENE VII. 
| 


| Tell him, myself, the mayor and citizens, 

In deep designs and matters of great moment, 

No less importing than our general good, 

Are come to have some conference with his grace. 
Cate. Ill tell him what you say, my lord. [Hvit. 
Buck. Ab, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Ed- 

He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed, [ward ! 

But on his knees at meditation ; 

Not dallying with a brace of courtezans, 

But meditating with two deep divines ; 

| Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, 

But praying, to enrich his watchful soul: 

Happy were England, would this gracious prince 

Take on himself the sovereignty thereof: 

But, sure, I fear, we shall ne’er win him to it. 
May. Marry, God forbid his grace should say us 


Buck. I fear he will. [nay! 
Re-enter Catesby. 
How now, Catesby, what says your lord ? 
Cate. My lord, 


He wonders to what end you have assembled 
Such troops of citizens to speak with him, 
His grace not being warn’d thereof before: 
My lord, he fears you mean no good to him. 

Buck. Sorry I am my noble cousin should 
Suspect me, that I mean no good to him: 
By heaven, I come in perfect love to him ; 
And so once more return and tell his grace. 

| Hxit Catesby. 

When holy and devout religious men 
Are at their beads, ’t is hard to draw them thence, 
So sweet is zealous contemplation. 


Enter Gloucester aloft, between two Bishops. 
Catesby returns. 


May. sie where he stands between two clergy- 
men ! 
Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, 

To stay him from the fall of vanity: 

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, 

True ornaments to know a holy man. 

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince, 

Lend favourable ears to our request ; 

And pardon us the interruption 

Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. 

Glou. My lord, there needs no such apology: 

I rather do beseech you pardon me, 

Who, earnest in the service of my God, 

Neglect the visitation of my friends. 

But, leaving this, what is your grace’s pleasure ? 
Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God 

And all good men of this ungovern’d isle. [above, 
Glou. I do suspect I have done some offence 

That seems disgracious in the city’s eyes, 

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. 
Buck. You have, my lord: would it might please 

your grace, 

At our entreaties, to amend that fault! fland ? 
Glow. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian 
Buck. Then know, it is your fault that you resign 

The supreme seat, the throne majestical, 

The scepter’d office of your ancestors, 

Your state of fortune and your due of birth, 

The lineal glory of your royal house, 

To the corruption of a blemish’d stock: 

Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, 

Which here we waken to our country’s good, 

This noble isle doth want her proper limbs; 

Her face defaced with scars of infamy, 

Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, 

And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf 

Of blind forgetfulness and dark oblivion. 

Which to recure, we heartily solicit 

Your gracious self to take on you the charge 

| And kingly government of this your land; 

, Not as protector, steward, substitute, 


ie 


ACT IV. 


KING RICHARD III. 


SCENE I. 


Or lowly factor for another’s gain; 

But as successively from blood to blood, 

Your right of birth, your empery, your own. 

For this, consorted with the citizens, 

Your very worshipful and loving friends, 

And by their vehement instigation, 

In this just suit come I to move your grace. 
Glow. I know not whether to depart in silence, 

Or bitterly to speak in your reproof, 

Best fitteth my degree or your condition: 

If not to answer, you might haply think 

Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded 

To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, 

Which fondly you would here impose on me; 

If to reprove you for this suit of yours, 

So season’d with your faithful love to me, 

Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends. 

Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, 

And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, 

Definitively thus I answer you. 

Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert 

Unmeritable shuns your high request. 

First, if all obstacles were cut away, 

And that my path were even to the crown, 

As my ripe revenue and due by birth; 

Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, 

So mighty and so many my defects, 

As I had rather hide me from my greatness, 

Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, 

Than in my greatness covet to be hid, 

And in the vapour of my glory smother’d. 

But, God be thanked, there ’s no need of me, 

And much I need to help you, if need were; 

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, 

Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time, 

Will well become the seat of majesty, 

And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. 

On him I lay what you would lay on me, 

The right and fortune of his happy stars; 

Which God defend that I should wring from him! 
Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your 


grace; 
But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, 
All circumstances well considered. 
You say that Edward is your brother’s son: 
So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife; 
For first he was contract to Lady Lucy — 
Your mother lives a witness to that vow— 
And afterward by substitute betroth’d 
To Bona, sister to the King of France. 
These both put by, a poor petitioner, 
A care-crazed mother of a many children, 
A beauty-waning and distressed widow, 
Even in the afternoon of her best days, 
Made prize and purchase of his lustful eye, 
Seduced the pitch and height of all his thoughts 
To base declension and loathed bigamy: 
By her, in his unlawful bed, he got 
This Edward, whom our manners term the prince. 
More bitterly could I expostulate, 


ACT 
SCENE I.— Before the Tower. 


Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, 
and Marquess of Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess 
of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, 
Clarence’s young Daughter. 


Duch. Who meets us here? my niece Plantage- 


ne 

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester ? 
Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower, 
On pure heart’s love to greet the tender princes. 

Daughter, well met. 


Save that, for reverence to some alive, 
I give a sparing limit to my tongue. 
Then, good my lord, take to your royal self 
This proffer’d benefit of dignity ; 
If not to bless us and the land withal, 
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry 
From the corruption of abusing times, 
Unto a lineal true-derived course. 
May. Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat you. 
Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love. 
Cate. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit ! 
Glou. Alas, why would you heap these cares on me? 
I am unfit for state and majesty: 
I do beseech you, take it not amiss; 
I cannot nor I will not yield to you. 
Buck. If you refuse it, —as, in love and zeal, 
Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son; 
As well we know your tenderness of heart 
And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, 
Which we have noted in you to your kin, 
And egally indeed to all estates, — 
Yet whether you accept our suit or no, 
Your brother’s son shall never reign our king ; 
But we will plant some other in the throne, 
To the disgrace and downfall of your house: 
And in this resolution here we leave you. — 
Come, citizens: ’zounds! J ’ll entreat no more. 
Glou. O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham. 
[Exit Buckingham with the Citizens. 
Cate. Call them again, my lord, and accept their 
suit. [rue it. 
Another. Do, good my lord, lest all the land do 
Glou. Would you enforce me to a world of care ? 
Well, call them again. I am not made of stone, 
But penetrable to your kind entreats, 
Albeit against my conscience and my soul. 


Re-enter Buckingham and the rest. 


Cousin of Buckingham, and you sage, grave men, 

Since you will buckle fortune on my back, 

To bear her burthen, whether I will or no, 

I must have patience to endure the load: 

But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach 

Attend the sequel of your imposition, 

Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me 

From all the impure blots and stains thereof ; 

For God he knows, and you may partly see, 

How far I am from the desire thereof. fit. 
May. God bless your grace! we see it, and will say 
Glou. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. 
Buck. Then I salute you with this kingly title: 

Long live Richard, England’s royal king! 

May. and Cit. Amen. 

Buck. To-morrow will it please you to be crown’d? 
Glou. Even when youplease, since you willhaveitso. 
Buck. To-morrow, then, we willattend your grace: 

And so most joyfully we take our leave. 

Glou. Come, let us to our holy task again. 

Farewell, good cousin; farewell, gentle friends. 

| Hxeunt. 


Ther 
Anne. God give your graces both 
A happy and a joyful time of day! [away ? 
(). Hliz. As much to you, good sister! Whither 


Anne. No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess, 
Upon the like devotion as yourselves, 
To gratulate the gentle princes there. [gether. 
Q. Eliz. Kind sister, thanks: we ’ll enter all to- 


Enter Brakenbury. 


And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. 

Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, 

How doth the prince, and my young son of York? 
475 


y 


ACT IV. 


Brak. Right well, dear madam. By your pa- 
I may not suffer you to visit them ,; [tience, 
The king hath straitly charged the contrary. 

Q. Eliz. The king! why, who’s that ? 

Brak. Lery you mercy: I mean the lord protector. 

(). Eliz. The Lord protect him from that kingly 
Hath he set bounds betwixt theirloveand me? [title! 
Lam their mother; who should keep me from them? 

Duch. Tam their father’s mother; I will see them. 

Anne. Their aunt Lam in law, in love their mother: 
Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear th blame 
And take thy office from thee, on my peril. 

Brak. No, madam, no; I may not leave it so: 
Tam bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [Hvit. 


Enter Lord Stanley. 


Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, 
And Ill salute your grace of York as mother, 
And reverend looker on,of two fair queens. [minster, 
[To Anne] Come, madam, you must straight to West- 
There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen. [heart 

). Eliz. O, cut my lace in sunder, that my pent 
May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon 
With this dead-killing news! 

Anne. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! 

Dor. Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your 

grace ? [hence! 

Q. Hliz. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee 
Death and destruction dog thee at the heels; 

Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. 

If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, 
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell: 
Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, 
Lest thou increase the number of the dead ; 

And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, 
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen. 

Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. 

Take all the swift advantage of the hours; 

You shall have letters from me to my son 

‘To meet you on the way, and welcome you. 

Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay. 
Duch. O ill-dispersing wind of misery! 

O my accursed womb, the bed of death! 

A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world, 

Whose unavoided eye is murderous. [sent. 
Stan. Come, madam, come; I in all haste was 
Anne. And I in all unwillingness will go. 

I would to God that the inclusive verge 

Of golden metal that must round my brow 

Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain! 

Anointed let me be with deadly venom, 

And die, ere men can say, God save the queen ! 

Q). Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory; 
To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. [now 

Anne. No! why? When he that is my husband 
Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse, [hands 
When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his 
Which issued from my other angel husband 
And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d; 
O, when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face, 

This was my wish: ‘ Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘ accursed, 
For making me, so young, so old a widow! 

And, when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; 
And be thy wife—if any be so mad — 

As miserable by the life of thee 

As thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!’ 
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, 

Even in so short a space, my woman’s heart 
Grossly grew captive to his honey words 

And proved the subject of my own soul’s curse, 
Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest; 
lor never yet one hour in his bed 

Have I enjoy’d the golden dew of sleep, 

But have been waked by his timorous dreams. 
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; 

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. [ing. 

Q. Hiiz. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complain- 

476 


KING SELOCHAR D LT. 


SCENE If, 


— 


Anne. No more than from my soul I mourn for 


yours. 
Q. Eliz. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory! 
Anne. Adieu, poor soul, that takest thy leave of it ! 
Duch. [To Dorset| Go thou to Richmond, and good 
fortune guide thee! . 
[To Anne] Go thou to Richard, and good angels 
guard thee! 
[To Queen Eliz.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good 
thoughts possess thee! 
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! 
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, 
And each hour’s joy wreck’d with a week of teen. 
Q. Hliz. Stay, yet look back with me unto the 
Tower. 
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes 
Whom envy hath immured within your walls! 
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! 
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow 
For tender princes, use my babies well! 
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. [ Hxewnt. 


SCENE II.— London. 


Sennet. Enter Richard, in pomp, crowned; Buck- 
ingham, Catesby, a Page, and others. 


K. Rich. Standallapart. Cousin of Buckingham! — 

Buck. My gracious sovereign ? | . 

K. Rich. Give me thy hand. [Here he ascendeth 

his throne.| Thus high, by thy advice 

And thy assistance, is King Richard seated: 

But shall we wear these honours for a day ? 

Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them ? 

Buck. Still live they and for ever may they last! 

k. Rich. O Buckingham, now do I play the touch, 
To try if thou be current gold indeed: 

Young Edward lives: think now what I would say. 
Buck. Say on, my loving lord. {king. 
K. Rich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be — 
Buck. Why, so you are, my thrice renowned liege. 
K. Rich. Ha! am I king? ’tis so: but Edward 
Buck. True, noble prince. [lives. 
A. Rich. O bitter consequence, 

That Edward still should live! ‘ True, noble prince!’ 

Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull: 

Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead; 

And I would have it suddenly perform’d. 

What sayest thou? speak suddenly; be brief. 

Buck. Your grace may do your pleasure. 

K. Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness 

freezeth: 

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? 

Buck. Give me some breath, some little pause, my 
Before I positively speak herein: {lord, 

I will resolve your grace immediately. [ Evit. 
Cate. [Aside to a stander by| The king is angry: 

see, he bites the lip. 

K. Rich. I will converse with iron-witted fools 
And unrespective boys: none are for me a 
That look into me with considerate eyes: 
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. 
Boy! 

Page. My lord ? [gold 

K. Rich. Know’st thou not any whom corrupting 
Would tempt unto a close exploit of death ? 

Page. My lord, I know a discontented gentleman, 
Whose humble means match not his haughty mind: 
Gold were as good as twenty orators, A 
And will, no doubt, tempt him to any thing. 

K. Rich. What is his name ? ‘ 

Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. 

K. Rich. I partly know the man: go, call him © 

hither. [Hxit Page. 

The deep-revolving witty Buckingham 

No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel: 

Hath he so long held out with me untired, 

And stops he now for breath ? 


The palace. 


SOS ONS 


Enter Stanley. 


How now! what news with you ? 
Stan. My lord, I hear the Marquis Dorset’s fled 
To Richmond, in those parts beyond the sea 
Where he abides. [Stands apart. 
K. Rich, Catesby! 
Cate. My lord ? 
K. Rich. Rumour it abroad 
That Anne, my wife, is sick and like to die: 
I will take order for her keeping close. 
Inquire me out some mean-born gentleman, 
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter : 
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. 
Look, how thou dream’st! I say again, give out 
That Anne my wife is sick and like to die: 
About it; for it stands me much upon, 
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. 
| Hxit Catesby. 
I must be married to my brother’s daughter, 
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. 
Murder her brothers, and then marry her! 
Uncertain Way of gain! But Iam in 
So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin: 
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. 


Re-enter Page, with Tyrrel. 

Is thy name Tyrrel ? [ject. 
Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient sub- 
K. Rich. Art thou, indeed ? . 

Tyr. Prove me, my gracious sovereign. 
K. Rich. Darest thou resolve to kill a friend of 
Tyr. Ay, my lord; [mine ? 

But I had rather kill two enemies. [enemies, 
K. Rich. Why, there thou hast it: two deep 

Foes to my rest and my sweet sleep’s disturbers 

Are they that I would have thee deal upon: 

Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower. 

Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them, 

And soon Ill rid you from the fear of them. 

K. Rich. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come 
hither, Tyrrel: 

Go, by this token: rise, and lend thine ear: 

| Whispers. 

There is no more but so: say it is done, 

And I will love thee, and prefer thee too. 

Tyr. ’T is done, my gracious lord. [sleep ? 
. Rich. Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we 
Tyr. Ye shall, my Jord. [ Heit. 


Re-enter Buckingham. 


Buck. My lord, I have consider’d in my mind 
The late demand that you did sound me in. 
K. Rich. Well, let that pass. Dorset is fled to 
Buck. I hear that news, my lord. [Richmond. 
kK. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, 
look to it. [promise, 
Buck. My lord, I claim your gift, my due by 
For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d; 
The earldom of Hereford and the moveables 
The which you promised I should possess. [vey 
K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife: if she con- 
Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. [mand ? 
Buck. What says your highness to my just de- 
Kk. Rich. As I remember, Henry the Sixth 


_ Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, 


When Richmond was a little peevish boy. 
A king, perhaps, perhaps,— 
Buck. My lord! [that time 
K. Rich. How chance the prophet could not at 
Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him ? 
Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom ,— 
K. Rich. Richmond! When last I was at Exe- 
The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle, [ter, 
And eall’d it Rougemont: at which name I started, 
Because a bard of Ireland told me once, 
I should not live long after 1 saw Richmond. 


EOIN ELT OIPAR DV LTE. 


SCENE III, 


Buck. My lord! 

Kk. Rich. Ay, what ’s o’clock ? 

Buck. Lam thus bold to put your grace in mind 
Of what you promised me. 


KK. ftich. Well, but what ’s o’clock ? 
Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. , 
K. Bich. Well, let it strike. 


Buck. Why let it strike ? [the stroke 
KK. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou keep’st 

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. 

I am not in the giving vein to-day. [or no. 
Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will 
KY Eich, “Mut, tut, 

Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. 

[Kxeunt all but Buckingham. 
Buck. Is it even so? rewards he my true service 

With such deep contempt? made I him king for 

O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone [this ? 

To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on! [Hzit. 


SCENH III.— The same. 


Enter Tyrrel. 


Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, 
The most arch act of piteous massacre 
That ever yet this land was guilty of. 
Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
To do this ruthless piece of butchery, 
Although they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs, 
Melting with tenderness and kind compassion 
Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad stories. 
‘ Lo, thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘ lay those tender babes :’ 
‘ Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘ girdling one another 
Within their innocent alabaster arms: 
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
Which in their suminer beauty kiss’d each other. 
A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; {mind; 
Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost changed my 
But O! the devil ’— there the villain stopp’d; 
Whilst Dighton thus told on: ‘ We smothered 
The most replenished sweet work of nature, 
That from the prime creation e’er she framed.’ 
Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse; 
They could not speak; and so I left them both, 
To bring this tidings to the bloody king. 
And here he comes. 


Enter King Richard. 


All hail, my sovereign liege! 
K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news ? 
Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge 
Beget your happiness, be happy then, 
For it is done, my lord. 


Kk. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ? 
Tyr. I did, my lord. 
KK, dite And buried, gentle Tyrrel ? 


Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them ; 
But how or in what place I do not know. 

Kk. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, 
And thou shalt tell the process of their death. 
Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, 
And be inheritor of thy desire. 
Farewell till soon. [Heit Tyrrel. 
The son of Clarence have I pent up close; 

His daughter meanly have I match’d in marriage; 
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, 
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night. 
Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims 

At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter, 

And, by that knot, looks proudly o’er the crown, 
To her I go, a jolly thriving wooer. 


Enter Catesby. 
Cate. My lord! 
K. Rich. Good news or bad, that thou comest in 
so bluntly ? [mond ; 
Cate. Bad news, my lord: Ely is fled to Rich- 
477 


ACT IV. 


And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen, 

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. [near 
K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more 

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army. 

Come, I have heard that fearful commenting 

Is leaden servitor to dull delay; 

Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary : 

Then fiery expedition be my wing, 

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king! 

Come, muster men: my counsel is my shield; 

We must be brief when traitors brave the field. 


[Heeunt. | 
SCENE IV.— Before the palace. 


Enter Queen Margaret. 


Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow 
And drop into the rotten mouth of death. 
Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d, 
To watch the waning of mine adversaries. 
A dire induction am I witness to, 
And will to France, hoping the consequence 
Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. [here ? 
Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes 


Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York. 

(). Hliz. Ah, my young princes! ah, my tender 

babes! 
My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! 
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air 
And be not fix’d in doom perpetual, 
Hover about me with your airy wings 
And hear your mother’s lamentation ! [right 

@. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for 
Hath dimm/’d your infant morn to aged night. 

Duch. So many miseries have crazed my voice, 
That my woe-wearied tongue is mute and dumb, 
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ? 

Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet. 
Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. (lambs, 

Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle 
And throw them in the entrails of the wolf ? 
When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done ? 

Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. 

Duch. Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal living 

ghost, fusurp’d, 
Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life 
Brief abstract and record of tedious days, 
Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, 
[Sitting down. 
Unlawfully made drunk with innocents’ blood! 

Q. Eliz. O, that thou wouldst as well afford a 
As thou canst yield a melancholy seat! [grave 
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. 
O, who hath any cause to mourn but I ? 

[Sitting down by her. 

Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverend, 
Give mine the benefit of seniory, 

And let my woes frown on the upper hand. 
If sorrow can admit society, 
[Sitting down with them. 
Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine: 
I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; 
I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him: 
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; 
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him. 

Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill 
Thad a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him. [him ; 

@. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard 

kill’d him. 
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept 
A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: 
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, 
To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, 
That foul defacer of God’s handiwork, 
That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, 
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, 
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. 


478 


KING RICHARD) TIL 


SCENE IV. 


O upright, just, and true-disposing God, 
How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur 
Preys on the issue of his mother’s body, 
And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan! 
Duch. O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes! 
God witness with me, I have wept for thine. 
Q. Mar. Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, 
And now I cloy me with beholding it. 
Thy Edward he is dead, that stabb’d my Edward; 
‘Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; 
Young York he is but boot, because both they 
Match not the high perfection of my loss: 
Thy Clarence he is dead that kil’d my Edward ; 
And the beholders of this tragic play, 
The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 
Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves. 


| Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, 


Only reserved their factor, to buy souls 


| And send them thither: but at hand, at hand, 


Ensues his piteous and unpitied end: 

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, 

To have him suddenly convey’d away. 

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, 

That I may live to say, The dog is dead! [come 
Q. Eliz. O, thou didst prophesy the time would 

That I should wish for thee to help me curse 


| That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back’d toad! 


Q. Mar. I call’d thee then vain flourish of my 
fortune; 

I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen; 

The presentation of but what 1 was; 

The flattering index of a direful pageant; 

One heaved a-high, to be hurl’d down below; 

A mother only mock’d with two sweet babes; 

A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble, 

A sign of dignity, a garish flag, 

To be the aim of every dangerous shot; 

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. 

Where is thy husband now ? where be thy brothers ? © 

Where are thy children ? wherein dost thou joy ? 

Who sues to thee and cries ‘ God save the queen ?’ 

Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee ? 

Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee ? 

Decline all this, and see what now thou art: . 

For happy wife, a most distressed widow; 

For joyful mother, one that wails the name; 

For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care; 

For one being sued to, one that humbly sues; 

For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me; 

For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one; 

For one commanding all, obey’d of none. 

Thus hath the course of justice wheel’d about, 

And left thee but a very prey to time; 

Having no more but thought of what thou wert, 

To torture thee the more, being what thou art. 

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not 

Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ? 

Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen’d yoke; 

From which even here I slip my weary neck, 

And leave the burthen of it all on thee. 

Farewell, Y ork’s wife, and queen of sad mischance: 

These English woes will make me smile in France. 
Q. Hliz. O thou well skill’d in curses, stay awhile, 

And teach me how to curse mine enemies! [days; 
Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the 

Compare dead happiness with living woe; 

Think that thy babes were fairer than they were, 

And he that slew them fouler than he is: 

Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse: 

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. [thine! 
Q. Eliz. My words are dull; O, quicken them with 
Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, and 

pierce like mine. Exit. 

Duch. Why should calamity be full of words ? 

_ Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes, 

Airy succeeders of intestate joys, 

Poor breathing orators of miseries! 


ACT ?PV. 


Let them have scope: though what they do impart 
Help not at all, yet do they ease the heart. 

Duch. Tf so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me, 
And in the breath of bitter words let ’s smother 
My damned son, which thy two sweet sons smoth- 


I hear his drum: be copious in exclaims. fer’d. 
Hinter King Richard, marching, with drums and 


trumpets. 


K. Rich. Who intercepts my expedition ? 
Duch. O, she that might have intercepted thee, 
By strangling thee in her accursed womb, 
From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast 
done! [crown, 
. Hliz. Hidest thou that forehead with a golden 
Where should be graven, if that right were right, 
The slaughter of the prince that owed that crown, 
And the dire death of my two sons and brothers ? 
Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children ? 
Duch. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother 
And little Ned Plantagenet, his son? [Clarence ? 
Q. Hliz. Whereis kind Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, 
Grey ? {[drums! 
kK. Rich. A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, 
Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women 
Rail on the Lord’s anointed: strike, I say! 


[Flourish. Alarums. 
Either be patient, and entreat me fair, 
Or with the clamorous report of war 
Thus will I drown your exclamations. 
Duch. Art thou my son? [self. 


K. Rich. Ay, I thank God, my father, and your- 
Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience. [tion, 
K. Rich. Madame, I have a touch of your condi- 
Which cannot brook the accent of reproof. 
Duch. O, let me speak ! 
K. Rich. Do then; but I’ll not hear. 
Duch. I will be mild and gentle in my speech. 
kK. Rich. And brief, good mother; for I am in 
haste. 
Duch. Art thouso hasty? Ihave stay’d for thee, 
God knows, in anguish, pain and agony. 
K. Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you ? 
Duch. No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well, 
Thou camest on earth to make the earth my hell. 
A grievous burthen was thy birth to me; 
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy: 
Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild, and 
furious, 
Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous, 
Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, bloody, treach- 
erous, 
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred: 
What comfortable hour canst thou name, 
That ever graced me in thy company ? 
K. Rich. Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that 
call’d your grace 
To breakfast once forth of my company. 
If I be so disgracious in your sight, 
Let me march on, and not offend your grace. 
Strike up the drum. 
Duch. I prithee, hear me speak. 
K. Rich. You speak too bitterly. 


Duch. Hear me a word; 
For I shall never speak to thee again. 
Kk. Rich. So. 


Duch. Either thou wilt die, by God’s just ordi- 
Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, [nance, 
Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish 
And never look upon thy face again. 

Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse; 
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more 

Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st ! 
My prayers on the adverse party fight; 

And there the little souls of Edward’s children 
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies 

And promise them success and victory. | 


eMC e ECE DR DS LEE 


SCENE IV. 


Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end; 
Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. 
[ Hicit. 

Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much less 

spirit to curse 
Abides in me; I say amen to all. toe ES OG: 

K. Rich. Stay, madam; I must speak a word with 

Q. Eliz. I have no moe sons of the royal blood 
For thee to murder: for my daughters, Richard, 
They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens ; 
And therefore level not to hit their lives. 

K. Rich. You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth, 
Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. 

Q. Hliz. And must she die for this ? O, let her live, 
And I7ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty ; 
Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed; 

Throw over her the veil of infamy: 
So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter, 
I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter. 
K. Rich. Wrong not her birth, she is of royal 
blood. 
). Hliz. To save her life, I ’ll say she is not so. 
. Rich. Her life is only safest in her birth. 
. Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers. 
. Rich. Lo, at their births good stars were op- 
posite. [trary. 
. Kliz. No, to their lives bad friends were con- 
. Rich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. 

Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny : 
My babes were destined to a fairer death, 
If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life. 

Kk. Rich. You speak as if that I had slain my 

cousins. [cozen’d 

Q. Hliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle 
Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. 
Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts, 
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction: 

No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt 
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, 

To revel in the entrails of my lambs. 

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, 
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys 
Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes; 
And I, in such a desperate bay of death, 

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, 

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. 

K. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise 
And dangerous success of bloody wars, 

As I intend more good to you and yours 
Than ever you or yours were by me wrong’d! 

Q. Eliz. What good is cover’d with the face of 
To be discover’d, that can do me good? [heaven, 

K. Rich. The advancement of your children, 

gentle lady. [heads ? 

Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their 

Kk. Rich. No,tothe dignity and height of honour, 
The high imperial type of this earth’s glory. 

Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrows with report of it; 
Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, 
Canst thou demise to any child of mine? 

K. Rich. Even all I have; yea, and myself and 
Will I withal endow a child of thine; all, 
So in the Lethe of thy angry soul 
Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs 
Which thou supposest I have done to thee. 

Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy 

kindness 
Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date. 

Kk. Rich. Then know, that from my soul I love 

thy daughter. 

Q. Eliz. My daughter’s mother thinks it with her 

kK. Rich. What do you think ? [soul. 

Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter froin 

thy soul: 
So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers, 
And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it. 
K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning: 


479 


AOT TV: 


T mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, 
And mean to make her queen of England. 
@. Eliz. Say then, who dost thou mean shall be 
her king ? 
K. Rich. Even he that makes her queen : 
should be else ? 
% Eliz. What, thou ? 
Rich. 1,even 1: what think you of it, madam ? 
Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her ? 
K. Rich. That would I learn of you, 
As one that are best acquainted with her humour. 
Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me ? 
AK, Rich. Madam, with all my heart. 
Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her 
brothers, 
A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave 
Edward and York; then haply she will weep: 
Therefore present to her,—as sometime Margaret 
Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood, -- 
A handkerchief ; ‘whieh, say to her, did drain 
The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body. 
And bid her dry her weeping eyes therewith. 
If this inducement force her not to love, 
Send her a story of thy noble acts; 
Tell her thou madest away her uncle Clarence, 
Her uncie Rivers; yea, and, for her sake, 
Madest quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. 
kK. Rich. Come, come, you mock me; this is not 
To win yoy daughter. [the way 
There is no other way; 
Unless the couldst put on some other shape, 
And not be Richard that hath done all this. 
kK. Rich. Say that I did all this for love of her. 
Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but 
hate thee, 
Having bought ‘love with such a bloody spoil. 
Keicn. “Look, what is done cannot be now 
Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, [amended: 
Which after hours give leisure to repent. 
If I did take the kingdom from your sons, 
To make amends, Il] give it to your daughter. 
If I have kill’d the issue of your womb, 
. To quicken your increase, I will beget 
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter: 
A grandam’s name is little less in love 
Than is the doting title of a mother; 
They are as children but one step below, 
Even of your mettle, of your very blood; 
Of all one pain, save for a night of groans 
Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. 
Your children were vexation to your youth, 
But mine shall be a comfort to your age. 
The loss you have is but a son being king, 
And by that loss your daughter is made queen. 
I cannot make you what amends I would, 
Therefore accept such kindness as I can. 
Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul 
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, 
This fair alliance quickly shall call home 
To high promotions and great dignity: 
The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, 
Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother; 
Again shall you be mother to a king, 
And all the ruins of distressful times 
Repair’d with double riches of content. 
What! we have many goodly days to see: 
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed 
Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, 
Advantaging their loan with interest 
Of ten times double gain of happiness. 
Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go; 
Make bold her bashful years with your experience ; 
Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale; 
Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame 
Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess 
With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys: 
And when this arm of mine hath chastised 


480 


who 


KING RICHARD ff]. 


SCENE IV, 


Bound with triumphant garlands will I come 
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed; 
To whom I will retail my conquest won, 
And she shall be sole victress, Ceesar’s Ceesar. ’ 

Q. Eliz. What were I best to say? her father’s — 

brother 
Would be her lord ? or shall I say, her uncle ? 1 
Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles ? 
Under what title shall I woo for thee, 
That God, the law, my honour and her love, 
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years ? | 
kK. Rich. Infer fair England’s peace by this 
alliance. [ing war. 
. Eliz. Which she shall purchase with still last- 
t. Rich. Say that the king, which may command, 
entreats. [forbids. 
. Hliz. That at her hands which the king’s King 
. Rich. Say,sheshall beahigh and mighty queen. 
. Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother doth. 
. Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. 

Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title ‘ ever’ last ? 

KK. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end. ; 

Q. ee: But how long fairly shall her sweet life 

ast ? its 

Kk, Rich. So long as heaven and nature lengthens 

Q. Eliz. So long as hell and Richard likes of it. 

Kk. Rich. Say,I,her sovereign,amhersubjectlove. 

Q. Hliz. But she, your subject, loathes such soy- 

ereignty. 

K. Rich. be eloquent in my behalf to her. [told. 

@. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best being plainly — 

kK. Rich. Then in plain terms tell her my loving 

tale. | 
. Eliz. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. 
.. dtich. Your reasons are too shallow and too 
quick. 

Q. Hliz. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead; 
Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their grave. 

K. Rich. Harp not on that string, madam ; that 

is past. (break. 

Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings 

i. Rich. Now, by my George, my garter, and my 

. erown,— fusurp’d. — 

Q. Eliz. Profaned, dishonour’d, and the third 

kK. Rich. I swear — 

Q. Eliz. By nothing; for this is no oath: 
The George, profaned, hath lost his holy honour; 
The garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue; 
The crown, usurp’d, disgraced his kingly glory. 

If something thou wilt swear to be believed, 
Swear then by something that thou hast not w yong’. 

K. Rich. Now, by the world — 


The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham, 
; 


i TF 


ee ee a ee 


Q. Eliz ’T is full of thy foul wrongs. 
nL Rich. My father’s death — 
. Eliz. Thy life hath that dishonour’d. 


K. Rich. Then, by myself — 
Q. Lliz Thyself thyself misusest. 
K. Rich. W hy then, by God — 
. Eliz. God’s wrong is most of all. 
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him, 
The unity the king thy brother made 
Had not been broken, nor my brother slain : 
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him, 
The imperial metal, circling now thy brow, 
Had graced the tender temples of my child, 
And both the princes had been breathing here, 
Which now, two tender playfellows for dust, 
Thy br oken faith hath made a prey for worms. 
What canst thou swear by now ? 
KK. Rich. The time to come. 
(). Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o’er- | 
For I myself have many tears to wash [past; — 
Hereafter time, for time past wrong’d by thee. 
The children live, whose parents thou hast slaugh- — 
Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age; [ter’d, 
The parents live swhose children thou hast butcher’ d, 


ACT IV. 


Old wither’d plants, to wail it with their age. 
Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast 
Misused ere used, by time misused o’erpast. 
K. Rich. As I intend to prosper and repent, 
So thrive I in my dangerous attempt 
Of hostile arms! myself myself confound! 
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! 
Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest! 
Be opposite all planets of good luck ' 
To my proceedings, if, with pure heart’s love, 
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, 
I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter! 
In her consists my happiness and thine; 
Without her, follows to this land and me, 
To thee, herself, and many a Christian soul, 
Death, desolation, ruin and decay : 
It cannot be avoided but by this; 
It will not be avoided but by this. 
Therefore, good mother,— I must call you so— 
Be the attorney of my love to her: 
Plead what I wili be, not what I have been; 
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve: 
Urge the necessity and state of times, 
And be not peevish-fond in great designs. 
Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus ? 
kk. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. 
Q. Eliz. Shall I forget myself to be myself ? 
it, Rich. Ay, if yourself’s remembrance wrong 
yourself. 
Q. Hliz. But thou didst kill my children. [them: 
kK. Rich. But in your daughter’s womb I bury 
Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed 
Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. 
Q. Hliz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? 
K. Rich. And be a happy mother by the deed. 
Q. Eliz. Igo. Write to me very shortly, 
And you shall understand from me her mind. 
kK. Rich. Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, 
farewell. [Hutt Queen Elizabeth. 
Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman! 


Enter Ratcliff; Catesby following. 


How now! what news ? 
Rat. My gracious sovereign, on the western coast 
Rideth a puissant navy; to the shore 
Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, 
Unarm’d, and unresolved to beat them back : 
*T is thought that Richmond is their admiral ; 
And there they hull, expecting but the aid 
Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. [Norfolk: 
kK. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of 
Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby ; where is he? 
Cate. Here, my lord. 
ik. Rich. Fly to the duke: [To Ratcliff] Post thou 
to Salisbury : 
When thou comest thither,— [To Catesby] Dull, un- 
mindful villain, 
Why stand’st thou still, and go’st not to the duke? 
Cate. First, mighty sovereign, let me know your 
mind, 
What from your grace I shall deliver to him. 
Kk. Rich. O, true, good Catesby: bid him levy 
straight 
The greatest strength and power he can make, 
And meet me presently at Salisbury. 
Cate. I go. [ Nxt. 
Rat. What is’t your highness’ pleasure I shall do 
At Salisbury ? [I go? 
K. Rich. Why, what wouldst thou do there before 
Rat. Your highness told me I should post before. 
K. Rich. My mind is changed, sir, my mind is 
changed. 
Enter Lord Stanley. 
How now, what news with you? [hearing ; 
Stan. None good, my lord, to please you with the 


Nor none so bad, but it may well be told. 
K. Rich. Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad! 
31 


FONG RICOH A RD SLT. 


SCENE IV. 


Why dost thou run so many mile about, 
When thou mayst tell thy tale a nearer way ? 
Once more, what news ? 
Stan. Richmond is on the seas. 
Kk. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on 
White-liver’d runagate, what doth he there? [him! 
Sian. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. 
KK, Rich. Well, sir, a8 you guess, as you guess ? 
Stan. Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Ely, 
He makes for England, there to claim the crown. 
UCL Cis As the chair empty? is the sword un- 
sway’d : 
Is the king dead ? the empire unpossess’d ? 
What heir of York is there alive but we? 
And who is England’s king but great York’s heir ? 
Then, tell me, what doth he upon the sea ? 
Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. 
K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege, 
You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. 
Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. 
Stan. No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not. 
K. Rich. Where is thy power, then, to beat him 
Where are thy tenants and thy followers? [back ? 
Are they not now upon the western shore, 
Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? 
Stan. N st my good lord, my friends are in the 
north. 
kk. Rich. Cold friends to Richard: what do they 
in the north, 
When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? 
Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty sov- 
Please it your majesty to give me leave, _[ereign: 
I ’ll muster up my friends, and meet your grace 
Where and what time your majesty shall please. 
K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with 
I will not trust you, sir. [Richmond : 
Stan. Most mighty sovereign, 
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful: 
I never was nor never will be false. 
Kk. Rich. Well, 
Go muster men; but, hear you, leave behind 
Your son, George Stanley: look your faith be firin, 
Or else his head’s assurance is but frail. 
Stan. So deal with him as I prove true to you. 
Enter a Messenger. ete 
Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, 
As I by friends am well advertised, 
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate 
Bishop of Exeter, his brother there, 
With many moe confederates, are in arms. 


Enter another Messenger. 


Sec. Mess. My liege, in Kent the Guildfords are in 
And every hour more competitors [arms ; 
Flock to their aid, and still their power increaseth. 


Enter another Messenger. 


Third Mess. My lord, the army of the Duke of 
Buckingham — 
K. Rich. Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of 
death ? | He striketh him. 
Take that, until thou bring me better news. 

Third Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty 
Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, 
Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scatter’d ; 
And he himself wander’d away alone, 

No man knows whither. 

K. Rich. I cry thee mercy: 
There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. 
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d 
Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? 

Third Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, 

my liege. 


Enter another Messenger. 


Fourth Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Mar- 
quis Dorset, 
481 


ACT ¥V. 


°T is said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. 
Yet this good comfort bring I to your grace, 
The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest: 
Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat 
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks 
if they were his assistants, yea or no; 
Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham 
Upon his party: he, mistrusting them, 
Hoised sail and made away for Brittany. 

kK. Rich. March on, march on, since we are up in 
If not to fight with foreign enemies, [arms ; 
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. 


Re-enter Catesby. 


Cate. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken; 
That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond 
Is with a mighty power landed at Milford, 

Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. 

K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury ! while we rea- 
A royal battle might be won and lost: [son here, 
Some one take order Buckingham be brought 
To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. 


[Flouwrish. Hxeunt. 


KING RICHARD I11. 


SCENE IIIf. 


SCENE V.— Lord Derby’s house. 


Enter Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick. 


Der. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: 

That in the sty of this most bloody boar 

My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold: 

If I revolt, off goes young George’s head; 

The fear of that withholds my present aid. 

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now ? 
Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha/’rford-west, in 
Der. What men of name resort to him? [Wales. 
Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier ; 

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley ; 

Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, 

And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew; 

And many moe of noble fame and worth: 

And towards London they do bend their course, 

If by the way they be not fought withal. 

Der. Return unto thy lord; commend me to him: 

Tell him the queen hath heartily consented 

He shall espouse Elizabeth her daughter. 

These letters will resolve him of my mind. 


Farewell. [ Hxeunt. 


BANEGD LT REN 0 


SCENE I.— Salisbury. An open place. 


Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham, with halberds, 
led to execution. 


Buck. Will not King Richard let me speak with 
him ? 
Sher. No, my good lord; therefore be patient. 
Buck. Hastings, and Edward’s children, Rivers, 
Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, [Grey, 
Vaughan, and all that have miscarried 
By underhand corrupted foul injustice, 
If that your moody discontented souls 
Do through the clouds behold this present hour, 
Even for 1 revenge mock my destruction! 
This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not ? 
Sher. It is, my lord. [doomsday. 
Buck. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s 
This is the day that, in King Edward’s time, 
I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found 
False to his children or his wife’s allies ; 
This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall 
By the false faith of him I trusted most ; 
This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul 
Is the determined respite of my wrongs ; 
That high All-Seer that I dallied with 
Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head 
And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest. 
Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men 
To turn their own points on their masters’ bosoms: 
Now Margaret’s curse is fallen upon my head 
‘When he,’ quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart With 
Remember Margaret was a prophetess.’ _—_‘[Sorrow, 
Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame; 
Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due ee 
veunt, 


SCENE II.— The camp near Tamworth. 


Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and 
others, with drum and colours. 


Richm. Fellow Ss in arms, and my most loving 
Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, [friends, 
Thus far into the bowels of the lan 
Have we march’d on without impediment ; 

And here receive we from our father Stanley 

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. 

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, 

That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines, 

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his 
trough 


482 


In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine 
Lies now even in the centre of this isle, 
Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn: 
From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march. 
In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends, 
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace 
By this one bloody trial of sharp war. 
Oxf. Every man’s conscience is a thousand swords, 
To fight against that bloody homicide. 
Herb. I doubt not but his friends will fly to us. 
Blunt. He hath no friends but who are friends for 


fear 
Which in his greatest need will shrink from him. 
Richm. All for our vantage. Then, in God’s 
name, march: 
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings; 
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE III.— Bosworth Field. 


Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, the 
Earl of Surrey, and others. 


K. Rich. Here pitch our tents, even here in Bos- 
My Lord of Surrey why look you 30 sad ? {worth field. 
Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. 
i. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk, — 
Nor Here, most gracious liege. 
K. Rich. Nortolk, we must have knocks: ha! 
must we not? lord. 
Nor. We must both give and take, my gracious 
K. Rich. Up with my tent there! here will I lie 
to-night ; 
But where to-morrow ? Well, all’s one for that. 
Who hath descried the number of the foe ? 
Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. 
K. Rich. Why, our battalion trebles that account: 
Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength, 
Which they upon the adverse party want. 
Up with my tent there! Valiant gentlemen, 
Let us survey the vantage of the field ; 
Call for some men of sound direction : 
Let ’s want no discipline, make no delay ; 
For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [ Hxeunt. 


Enter, on the other side of the field, Richmond, Sir Wil- 
liam Brandon, Oxford, and others. Some of the Sol- 
diers pitch Richmond’s tent. 


Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden set, 
And, by the bright track of his fiery car, 


MOTE VN. 


Gives signal of a goodly day to-morrow. 

Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. 

Give me some ink and paper in my tent: 

I’ draw the form and model of our battle, 

Limit each leader to his several charge, 

And part in just proportion our small strength. 

My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon, 

And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. 

The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment : 

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, 

And by the second hour in the morning 

Desire the earl to see me in my tent: 

Yet one thing more, good Blunt, before thou go’st, 

Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, dost thou know ? 
Blunt. Unless I have mista’en his colours much, 

Which well I am assured I have not done, 

His regiment lies half a mile at least 

South from the mighty power of the king. 
Richm. If without peril it be possible, 

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, 

And give him from me this most needful scroll. 
Blunt. Upon my life, my lord, I ll undertake it ; 

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night! 
Richm. Good-night, good Captain Blunt. 

gentlemen, 
Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business : 
In to our tent; the air is raw and cold. 
[They withdraw into the tent. 


Enter, to his tent, King Richard, Norfolk, Rat- 
cliff, Catesby, and others. 


K. Rich. What is ’t o’clock ? 
f It’s supper-time, my lord; 


Come, 


It’s nine o’clock. 
kK. Rich. I will not sup to-night. 

Give me some ink and paper. 

What, is my beaver easier than it was ? 

And all my armour laid into my tent ? [ness. 
Cate. It is, my liege; and all things are in readi- 
K. Rich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; 

Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels. 

Nor. I go, my lord. [Norfolk. 

A. Rich. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle 

Nor. I warrant you, my lord. [ Hxit. 

kK. Rich. Catesby! 

Cate. My lord ? 

K. Rich. Send out a pursuivant at arms 
To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power 
Before sunrising, lest his son George fall 
Into the blind cave of eternal night. [Hit Catesby. 
Fill me a bowl of wine. Give mea watch. 

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. 

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. 


_ Ratcliff! 


fiat. My lord ? [fumberland ? 

K. Rich. Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord North- 

Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself, 
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop 
Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. 

K. Rich. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of 
I have not that alacrity of spirit, [wine: 
Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. 

Set it down. Is ink and paper ready ? 

Rat. It is, my lord. 

Ix, Rich. Bid my guard watch; leave me. 
Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent 
And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. 

[| Hxeunt Ratcliff and the other Attendants. 


' Enter Derby to Richmond in his tent, Lords and 


others attending. 


Der. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm! 
Richm. All comfort that the dark night can afford 
Be to thy person, noble father-in-law! 
Tell me, how fares our loving mother ? 
Der. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, 
Who prays continually for Richmond’s good: 
So much for that. The silent hours steal on, 


KTR Canter. At Dwr E 


SCENE III. 


And flaky darkness breaks within the east. 

In brief,—for so the season bids us be,— 

Prepare thy battle early in the morning, 

And put thy fortune to the arbitrement 

Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. 

I, as I may—that which I would I cannot,— 

With best advantage will deceive the time, 

And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms: 

But on thy side I may not be too forward, 

Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, 

Be executed in his father’s sight. 

Farewell: the leisure and the fearful time 

Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love 

And ample interchange of sweet discourse, 

Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon: 

God give us leisure for these rites of love! 

Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well! 
Richm. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment: 

Ill strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap, 

Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow, 

When I should mount with wings of victory: 

Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentlemen. 

[Hxeunt all but Richmond. 


O Thou, whose captain I account myself, 


Look on my forces with a gracious eye; 

Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath, 
That they may crush down with a heavy fall 
The usurping helmets of our adversaries! 
Make us thy ministers of chastisement, 

That we may praise thee in the victory ! 

To thee I do commend my watchful soul, 

Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes: 


Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! [Sleeps. 


Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, son to Henry 
the Sixth. 
Ghost. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul 

to-morrow ! 

Think, how thou stab’dst me in my prime of youth 

At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die! 

[To Richmond] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the 
wronged souls 

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf: 

King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee. 


Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. 


Ghost. [To Richard] When I was mortal, my 
anointed body 

By thee was punched full of deadly holes: 
Think on the Tower and me: despair, and die! 
Harry the Sixth bids thee despair anddie! [queror! 
[To Richmond] Virtuous and holy, be thou con- 
Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king, 
Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live, and flourish! 


Enter the Ghost of Clarence. 


Ghost. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy soul 
to-morrow ! 

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine, 
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death! 
To-morrow in the battle think on me, 
And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die! — 
[To Richmond] Thou offspring of the house of Lan- 
The wronged heirs of Y ork do pray for thee: [caster, 
Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish! 


Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan. 


Ghost of R. [To Richard] Let me sit heavy on thy 
soul to-morrow, 
Rivers, that died at Pomfret! despair, and die! 
Ghost of G. [To Richard] Think upon Grey, and 
let thy soul despair ! 
Ghost of V. [To Richard] Think upon Vaughan, 
and, with guilty fear, 
Let fall thy lance: despair, and die! 
All. [To Richmond] Awake, and think our wrongs 
in Richard’s bosom 
Will conquer him! awake, and win the day! 


483 


AGE, V8 


Enter ine Ghost of Hastings. 

Ghost. [To Richard] Bloody and guilty, guiltily 
And in a bloody battle end thy days! _ [awake, 
Think on Lord Hastings: despair, and die! 

[To Richmond] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake! 
Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s sake! 


Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. 


Ghosts. [To Richard] Dream on thy cousins 

smother’d in the Tower: 

Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, 

And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! 

Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die! 

[To Richmond] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, 
and wake in joy; 

Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy! 

Live, and beget a happy race of kings! 

Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. 


Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne. 


Ghost. [To Richard] Richard, thy wife, that 
wretched Anne thy wife, 
That never slept a quiet hour with thee, 
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations: 
To-morrow in the battle think on me, 
And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die! 
[To Richmond] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet 
Dream of success and happy victory! [sleep ; 
Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee. 


Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. 


Ghost. [To Richard] The first was I that helped thee 
The last was I that felt thy tyranny: [to the crown; 
O, in the battle think on Buckingham, 

And die in terror of thy guiltiness! 
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death: 
Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath! 
[To Richmond] I died for hope ere I could lend thee 
But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d: [aid: 
God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side; 
And Richard falls in height of all his pride. 
[The Ghosts vanish. King Richard starts out 
of his dream. 
kK. Rich. Give me another horse: bind up my 
wounds. 
Have mercy, Jesu!—Soft! I did but dream. 
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! 
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. 
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
What do I fear? myself? there’s none else by: 
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. 
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, Iam: 
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why: 
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself ? 
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? for any good 
That I myself have done unto myself ? 
O, no! alas, I rather hate myself 
For hateful deeds committed by myself! 
I ama villain: yet I lie, I am not. 
Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter. 
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
And every tongue brings in a several tale, 
And every tale condemns me for a villain. 
Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree; 
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree; 
All several sins, all used in each degree, 
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty! 
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; 
And if I die, no soul shall pity me: 
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself 
Find in myself no pity to myself ? 
Methought the souls of all that I had murder’d 
Came to my tent; and every one did threat 
To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard. 


Enter Ratcliff. 
Rat. My lord! 
Kk. Rich. ’Zounds! who is there ? 


484 


KING? PUOCHAR DY aT 


SCENE ITT. 


— 


Rat. Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early village- 
Hath twice done salutation to the morn; [cock 
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. 

kK. Rich. O Ratcliff, I have dream’d a fearful 

dream ! 

What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true ? 
Rat. No doubt, my lord? ; 
K. Rich. O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear,— 
Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows, 
Kk, Rich. By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night 

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 

Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers 

Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond. 

It is not yet near day. Come, go with me; 

Under our tents Ill play the eaves-dropper, 

To see if any mean to shrink from me. [ Hxeunt. 


Enter the Lords to Richmond, sitting in his tent. 


Lords. Good morrow, Richmond! 
Richm. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, 
That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here. 
Lords. How have you slept, my lord? [dreams 
Richm. The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding 
That ever enter’d in a drowsy head, 
Have I since your departure had, my lords. [der’d, 
Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard mur-. 
Came to my tent, and cried on victory: 
I promise you, my soul is very jocund 
In the remembrance of so fair a dream. 
How far into the morning is it, lords ? 
Lords. Upon the stroke of four. [tion, 
Richm. Why, then ’t is time to arm and give direc- 


His oration to his soldiers. 
More than I have said, loving countrymen, 
The leisure and enforcement of the time 
Forbids to dwell upon: yet remember this, 
God and our good cause fight upon our side; 
The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, 
Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces; 
Richard except, those whom we fight against 
Had rather have us win than him they follow: 
For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen, 
A bloody tyrant and a homicide ; 
One raised in blood, and one in blood establish’d ; 
One that made means to come by what he hath, 
And slaughter’d those that were the means to help. 
A base foul stone, made precious by the foil {him;_ 
Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set ; 
One that hath ever been God’s enemy: 
Then, if you fight against God’s enemy, 
God will in justice ward you as his soldiers ; 
If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, 
You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; 
If you do fight against your country’s foes, 
Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the hire; 
If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, 
Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors ; 
If you do free your children from the sword, 
Your children’s children quit it in your age. 
Then, in the name of God and all these rights, 
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords, . 
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt 
Shall be this cold corpse on the earth’s cold face; 
But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt 
The least of you shall share his part thereof. 
Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully ; 
God and Saint George! Richmond and victory! 

[ Hxeunt, 


Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Attendants and 
Forces. 

K,. Rich. What said Northumberland as touching 
Richmond ? 

fat. That he was never trained up in arms. 

K. Rich. He said the truth: and what said Sur. 
rey then ? [pose.’ 

Rat. He smiled and said ‘ The better for our pur. | 


eg 


ACT V:. 


KK. Rich. He was in the right; and so indeed it 
is. [Clock striketh. 
Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. 
Who saw the sun to-day ? 
Rat. NotI, my lord. [book 
Kk. Rich. Then he disdains to shine; for by the 
He should have braved the east an hour ago: 
A black day will it be to somebody. 
Ratcliff ! 
Rat. My lord ? 
dig.. Rich. The sun will not be seen to-day ; 
The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. 
I would these dewy tears were from the ground. 
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me 
More than to Richmond ? for the selfsame heaven 
That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. 


Enter Norfolk. 


ae ue arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the 
eld. 

K. Rich. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse. 
Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power: 
J will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, 
And thus my battle shall be ordered : 
My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, 
Consisting equally of horse and foot; 
Our archers shall be placed in the midst: 
John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, 
Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. 
They thus directed, we will follow 
In the main battle, whose puissance on either side 
Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. 
This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st 

thou, Norfolk ? 

Nor. A good direction, warlike sovereign. 

This found I on my tent this morning. 
[He sheweth him a paper. 

K. Rich. [Reads] ‘ Jockey of Norfolk, be not too 
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.’ [bold, 
A thing devised by the enemy. 
Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge: 
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls: 
Conscience is but a word that cowards use, 
Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: 
Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. 
March on, join bravely, let us to ’t pell-mell ; 
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. 


His oration to his army. 


What shall I say more than I have inferr’d ? 

Remember whom you are to cope withal ; 

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, 

A scum of Bretons, and base lackey peasants, 

Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth 

To desperate ventures and assured destruction. 

You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; 

You having lands, and blest with beauteous wives, 

They would restrain the one, distain the other. 

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, 

Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost ? 

A milk-sop, one that never in his life 

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow ? 

Let ’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again ; 

Lash hence these overweening rags of France, 

These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives; 

Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, 

For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d them- 

If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us, [selves : 

And not these bastard Bretons; whom our fathers 

Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d, 

And in record, left them the heirs of shame. 

Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives ? 

Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off.] Hark! I 
hear their drum. 

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen ! 

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! 

Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; 

Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! 


HOLING | Let CLEAR Dery. 


SCENE V. 


~——— 


Enter « Messenger. 
What says Lord Stanley ? will he bring his power ? 

Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come. 

KK. Rich. Off with his son George’s head ! 

Nor. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh: 
After the battle let George Stanley die. . 

K. Rich. A thousand hearts are great’ within my 
Advance our standards, set upon our foes; [bosom: 
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, 
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! 

Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV. — Another part of the field. 


Alarum: excursions. Enter Norfolk and forces 
Jighting; to him Catesby. 


Cate. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! 
The king enacts more wonders than a man, 
Daring an opposite to every danger: 

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, 
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. 
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost! 


Alarums. Enter King Richard. 


Kk. Rich. A horse! a horse! my kingdom fora horse! 
Cate. Withdraw, my lord; I 71] help you to a horse. 
K. Rich. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, 

And I will stand the hazard of the die: 

I think there be six Richmonds in the field; 

Five have I slain to-day instead of him. 

A horse] a horse! my kingdom fora horse! [Hzeunt. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the field. 


Alarum. Enter Richard and Richmond; they fight. 
Richard 7s slain. Retreat and flourish. Re-enter Rich- 
mond, Derby bearing the crown, with divers other Lords. 


Richm. God and your arms be praised, victorious 
The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. _ [friends; 
Der. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit 
Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty [thee. 
From the dead temples of this bloody wretch 
Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal: 
Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. 
Richm. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! 
But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ? 
Der. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town ; 
Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us. 
Richm. What men of name are slain on either side ? 
Der. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, 
Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. 
Richm. Inter their bodies as becomes their births: 
Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled 
That in submission will return to us: 
And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament, 
We will unite the white rose and the red: 
Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, 
That long have frown’d upon their enmity! 
What traitor hears me, and says not amen ? 
England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself ; 
The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood, 
The father rashly slaughter’d his own son, 
The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire: 
All this divided York and Lancaster, 
Divided in their dire division, 
O, now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, 
The true succeeders of each royal house, 
By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together! 
And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so, 
Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace, 
With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days! 
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, 
That would reduce these bloody days again, 
And make poor England weep in streams of blood! 
Let them not live to taste this land’s increase 
That would withtreason wound this fair land’s peace ! 
Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again : 
That she may long live here, God say amen! [Hxeunt. 


THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF 


KING HENRY 


THE EIGHTH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


King Henry the Eighth. 

Cardinal Wolsey. 

Cardinal Campeius. 

Capucius, Ambassador 
Charles V. 

Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Duke of Buckingham. 

Duke of Suffolk. 

Earl of Surrey. 

Lord Chamberlain. 

Lord Chancellor. 

Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. 

Bishop of Lincoln. 

Lord Abergavenny. 

Lord Sands. 

Sir Henry Guildford. 

Sir Thomas Lovell. 

Sir Anthony Denny. 

Sir Nicholas Vaux. 

Secretaries to Wolsey. 

Cromwell, Servant to Wolsey. 


from the Emperor 


Griffith, Gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine. 

Three Gentlemen. 

Doctor Butts, Physician to the King. 

Garter King-at-Arms. 

Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. 

Brandon, and a Sergeant-at-Arms. 

Door-keeper of the Council-chamber. 
his Man. 

Page to Gardiner. A Crier. 

Queen Katharine, wife to King Henry, afterwards 
divorced. 

Anne Bullen, her Maid of Honour, afterwards 
Queen. 

An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen. 

Patience, woman to Queen Katharine. 


Porter, and 


Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women 
attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, 
and other Attendants. 


Spirits. 
SCENE — London; Westminster ; Kimbolton. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lvit.] 


TELE PROLOG UE. 


I COME no more to make you laugh: things now, 
That bear a weighty and a serious brow, 

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, 
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, 

We now present. Those that can pity, here 
May, if they think it well, let fall a tear; 

The subject will deserve it. Such as give 

Their money out of hope they may believe, 

May here find truth too. Those that come to see 
Only a show or two, and so agree 

The play may pass, if they be still and willing, 
L’ll undertake may see away their shilling 
Richly in two short hours. Only they 

That come to hear a merry bawdy play, 

A noise of targets, or to see a fellow 

In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, 


Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know, 

To rank our chosen truth with such a show 

As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting 

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring, 
To make that only true we now intend, 

Will leave us never an understanding friend. 
Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known 
The first and happiest hearers of the town, 

Be sad, as we would make ye: think ye see 

The very persons of our noble story 

As they were living; think you see them great, 
And follow’d with the general throng and sweat 
Of thousand friends; then in a moment, see 
How soon this mightiness meets misery: 

And, if you can be merry then, I ’ll say 

A mah may weep upon his wedding-day. 


Ba 8 BA PR 


SCENE I.— London. An antechamber in the 
palace. 

Enter the Duke of Norfolk at one door ; at the other, the 
Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny. 
Buck. Good morrow, and well met. 

Since last we saw in France ? [ye done 


Nor. I thank your grace 
Healthful; and ever since a fresh adiiuee 4 
Of what I saw there. 


How have 


486 


Buck. An untimely ague 
Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber when 
Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, 
Met in the vale of Andren. 

Nor. ; *Twixt Guynes and Arde: 
I was then present, saw them salute on horseback ; 
Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung 
In their embracement, as they grew together ; 
Which had they, what four throned ones could 
Such a compounded one? - [have weigh’d 


ACT I. KRING CHIEN RY *VOELE SCENE I. 
Buck. _ All the whole time Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have 

I was my chamber’s prisoner. By this so sicken’d their estates, that never 
Nor. Then you lost They shall abound as formerly. 


The view of earthly glory: men might say, 
Till this time pomp was single, but now married 
To one above itself. Each following day 
Became the next day’s master, till the last 
Made former wonders its. To-day the French, 
All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, 
Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they 
Made Britain India: every man that stood 
Show’d likea mine. Their dwarfish pages were 
As cherubins, all gilt: the madams too, 
Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear 
The pride upon them, that their very labour 
Was to them as a painting: now this masque 
Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night 
Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, 
Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, 
As presence did present them; him {n eye, 
Still him in praise: and, being present both, 
*T was said they saw but one; and no discerner 
Durst wag his tongue incensure. When these suns— 
For so they phrase ’em — by their heralds challenged 
The noble spirits to arms, they did perform 
Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous 
Being now seen possible enough, got credit, [story, 
That Bevis was believed. 

Buck. O, you go far. 

Nor. As I belong to worship and affect 
In honour honesty, the tract of every thing 
Would by a good discourser lose some life, 
Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal; 
To the disposing of it nought rebell’d, 
Order gave each thing view; the oflice did 
Distinctly his full function. 

B Who did guide, 


uck. 
I mean, who set the body and the limbs 
Of this great sport together, as you guess ? 
Nor. One, certes, that promises no element 
In such a business. 
Buck. pray you, who, my lord? 
Nor. All this was order’d by the good discretion 
Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. 
Buck. The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed 
From his ambitious finger. What had he 
To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder 
That such a keech can with his very bulk 
Take up the rays 0’ the beneficial sun 
And keep it from the earth. 
Nor. Surely, sir, 
There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends; 
For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace 
Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon 
For high feats done to the crown; neither allied 
To eminent assistants; but, spider-like, 
Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note, 
The force of his own merit makes his way; 
A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys 
A place next to the king. 
Aber. I cannot tell 
What heaven hath given him,— let some graver eye 
Pierce into that; but I can see his pride [that, 
Peep through each part of him: whence has he 
If not from hell? the devil is a niggard, 
Or has given all before, and he begins 
A. new hell in himself. 
Buck. Why the devil, 
Upon this French going out, took he upon him, 
Without the privity o’ the king, to appoint 
Who should attend on him? He makes up the file 
Of all the gentry; for the most part such 
To whom as great a charge as little honour 
He meant to lay upon: and his own letter, 
The honourable board of council out, 
Must fetch him in the papers. 


Aber. I do know 


The cost that did conclude it. 


Buck. O, many 
Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em 
For this great journey. What did this vanity 
But minister communication of ; 
A most poor issue ? 

Nor. Grievingly I think, 
The peace between the French and us not values 


Buck. Every man, 
After the hideous storm that follow’d, was 
A thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke 
Into a general prophecy; That this tempest, 
Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded 
The sudden breach on ’t. 

Nor. Which is budded out; 
For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath at- 
Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux. [tach’d 


Aber. Is it therefore 
The ambassador is silenced ? 
Nor. Marry, is’t. 


Aber. A proper title of a peace; and purchased 
At a superfluous rate! 

Buck. Why, all this business 
Our reverend cardinal carried. 

or. Like it your grace, 

The state takes notice of the private difference 
Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you— 
And take it from a heart that wishes towards you 
Honour and plenteous safety — that you read 
The cardinal’s malice and his potency 
Together; to consider further that 
What his high hatred would effect wants not 
A minister in his power. You know his nature, 
That he’s revengeful, and I know his sword 
Hath a sharp edge: it’s long and, ’t may be said, 
It reaches far, and where ’t will not extend, 
Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, [rock 
You’ll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that 
That I advise your shunning. 


Enter Cardinal Wolsey, the purse borne before him, cer- 
tain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with papers. 
The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Bucking- 
ham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain. 


Wol. The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha? 
Where’s his examination ? 
First Secr. Here, so please you. 
Wol. Is he in person ready ? 
First Secr. Ay, please your grace. 
Wol. Well, we shall then know more; and Buck- 
Shall lessen this big look. [ingham 
[Hxeunt Wolsey and his Train. 
Buck. This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I 
Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best 
Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book 
Outworths a noble’s blood. 
or. What, are you chafed ? 
Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only 
Which your disease requires. 
Buck. I read in’s looks 
Matter against me; and his eye reviled 
Me, as his abject object: at this instant 
He bores me with some trick ; he’s gone to the king; 
Ill follow and outstare him. 
Nor. Stay, my lord, 
And let your reason with your choler question 
What ’tis you go about: to climb steep hills 
Requires slow pace at first: anger is like 
A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way, 
Self-mettle tires him. Not aman in England 
Can advise me like you: be to yourself 
As you would to your friend. ; 
Buck. I'll to the king; 
And from a mouth of honour quite cry down 
487 . 


ACT I. 


KING CHE MBE LT: 


SCENE If. 


This Ipswich fellow’s insolence; or proclaim 
There ’s difference in no persons. 
Nor. Be advised ; 
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 
That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, 
By violent swiftness, that which we run at, 
And lose by over-running. Know you not, 
The fire that mounts the liquor till ’t run o’er, 
In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised: 
I say again, there is no English soul 
More stronger to direct you than yourself, 
If with the sap of reason you would quench, 
Or but allay, the fire of passion. 
Buck. Sir, 
T am thankful to you; and I’ll go along 
By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow, 
Whom from the flow of gall I name not but 
From sincere motions, by intelligence, 
And proofs as clear as founts in July when 
We see each grain of gravel, I do know 
To be corrupt and treasonous. 
Nor. Say not ‘ treasonous.’ 
Buck. To the king I’ll say ’t; and make my 
vouch as strong 
As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, 
Or wolf, or both,—for he is equal ravenous 
As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief 
As able to perform ’t; his mind and place 
Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally — 
Only to show his pomp as well in France 
As here at home, suggests the king our master 
To this last costly treaty, the interview, 
That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a glass 
Did break i’ the rinsing. 
Nor. Faith, and so it did. 
Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning 
The articles 0’ the combination drew [cardinal 
As himself pleased; and they were ratified 
As he cried ‘ Thus let be’: to as much end 
As giveacrutch to the dead: but our count-cardinal 
Has done this, and ’tis well; for worthy Wolsey, 
Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,— 
Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy 
To the old dam, treason,— Charles the emperor, 
Under pretence to see the queen his aunt,— 
For ’t was indeed his colour, but he came 
To whisper Wolsey,— here makes visitation: 
His fears were, that the interview betwixt 
England and France might, through their amity, 
Breed him some prejudice; for from this league 
Peep’d harms that menaced him: he privily 
Deals with our cardinal; and, as I trow,— 
Which I do well; for I am sure the emperor 
Paid ere he promised ; whereby his suit was granted 
Ere it was ask’d; but when the way was made, 
And paved with gold, the emperor thus desired, 
That he would please to alter the king’s course, 
And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know, 
As soon he shall by me, that thus the cardinal 
Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, 
And for his own advantage. 
Nor. I am sorry 
To hear this of him; and could wish he were 
Something mistaken in ’t. 
Buck. No, not a syllable: 
I do pronounce him in that very shape 
He shall appear in proof. 


inter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, 
and two or three of the Guard. 
Bran. Your office, sergeant; execute it. 
Serg. Sir, 
My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl 
Ot Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 
Arrest thee of high treason, in the name 
Of our most sovereign king. 
Buck. Lo, you, my lord, 
488 


The net has fall’n upon me! I shall perish 
Under device and practice. 

Bran. I am sorry 
To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on 
The business present: ’tis his highness’ pleasure 
You shall to the Tower. . 

Buck. It will help me nothing 
To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me 
Which makes my whitest part black. The will of 
Be done in this and all things! I obey. [heaven 
O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well! 

Bran. Nay, he must bear youcompany. The king 

[To Abergavenny. 
Is pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know 
How he determines further. 

Aber. As the duke said, 
The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure 
By me obey’d! 

Bran. Here is a warrant from 
The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies 
Of the duke’s confessor, John de la Car, 

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,— 

Buck. So, so; 

These are the limbs 0’ the plot; no more, I hope. 

Bran. A monk o’ the Chartreux. 

Buck. O, Nicholas Hopkins ? 

Bran. ; He. 

Buck. My surveyor is false ; the o’er-great cardinal 
Hath show’d him gold; my life is spann’d already: 
I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, 

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on, 
By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell. 
| Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — The same. 


Cornets. Enter the King, leaning on the Cardinal’s shoul- 
der, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Lovell; the Cardinal 
places himself under the King’s feet on his right side. 


King. My life itself, and the best heart of it, 
Thanks you for this great care: I stood i’ the level 
Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks 
To you that choked it. Let be call’d before us 
That gentleman of Buckingham’s; in person 
J ll hear him his confessions justify ; 

And point by point the treasons of his master 
He shall again relate. 


The council-chamber. 


A noise within, crying ‘Room for the Queen!’ Hnter Queen 
Katharine, ushered by the Duke of Norfolk, and the 
Duke of Suffolk: she kneels. The King riseth from his 
state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him. 


Q. Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel: Iamasuitor. - 


King. Arise, and take place by us: half your suit 
Never name to us; you have half our power: 

The other moiety, ere you ask, is given; 
Repeat your will and take it. 

Q. Kath. Thank your majesty. 
That you would love yourself, and in that love 
Not unconsider’d leave your honour, nor 
The dignity of your office, is the point 
Of my petition. 

King. Lady mine, proceed. 

Q. Kath. I am solicited, not by a few. 
And those of true condition, that your subjects 
Are in great grievance: there have been commissions 
Sent down among ’em, which hath flaw’d the heart 
Of all their loyalties: wherein, although, 
My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches 
Most bitterly on you, as putter on 
Of these exactions, yet the king our master— 
Whose honour heaven shield from soil! —even he 

escapes not — 

Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks 
The sides of loyalty, and almost appears 
In loud rebellion. 

Nor. Not almost appears, 


me 
f 


ACT I. 


TOIIG: SEI EY OW BEL. 


SCENE II. 


It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, 

The clothiers all, not able to maintain 

The many to them longing, have put off 

The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who, 
Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger 

And lack of other means, in desperate manner 
Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar, 
And danger serves among them. 

ving. Taxation! 
Wherein? and what taxation? My lord cardinal, 
You that are blamed for it alike with us, 

Know you of this taxation ? 
Wol. Please you, sir, 
I know but of a single part, in aught 
Pertains to the state; and front but in that file 
Where others tell steps with me. . 

Q. Kath. No, my lord, 
Youknownomorethan others; but youframe [some 
Things that are known alike; which are not whole- 
To those which would not know them, and yet must 
Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, 
Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are 
Most pestilent to the hearing; and, to bear ’em, 
The back is sacrifice to the load. They say 
They are devised by you; or else you suffer 
Too hard an exclamation. 

ving. Still exaction ! 

The nature of it? in what kind, let ’s know, 
Is this exaction ? 

Q. Kath. I am much too venturous 
In tempting of your patience; but am bolden’d 
Under your promised pardon. The subjects’ grief 
Comes through commissions, which compel from 
The sixth part of his substance, to be levied [each 
Without delay; and the pretence for this [mouths: 
Is named, your wars in France: this makes bold 
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze 
Allegiance in them; their curses now 
Live where their prayers did: and it ’s come to pass, 
This tractable obedience is a slave 
To each incensed will. I would your highness 
Would give it quick consideration, for 
There is no primer business. 

King. . 

This is against our pleasure. 


By my life, 


ol. And for me, 
I have no further gone in this than by 
A single voice; and that not pass’d me but 
By learned approbation of the judges. If Iam 
Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know 
My faculties nor person, yet will be 
The chronicles of my doing, let me say 
’T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake 
That virtue must go through. We must not stint 
Our necessary actions, in the fear 
To cope malicious censurers; which ever, 
As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow 
That is new-trimm/’d, but benefit no further 
Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, 
By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is 
Not ours, or not allow’d; what worst, as oft, 
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 
For our best act. If we shall stand still, 
In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at, 
We should take root here where we sit, or sit 
State-statues only. 

King. Things done well, 
And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ; 
Things done without example, in their issue 
Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent 
Of this commission? I believe, not any. 
We must not rend our subjects from our laws, 
And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each ? 
A trembling contribution! Why, we take 
From every tree lop, bark, and part o’ the timber ; 
And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d, 
The air will drink the sap. To every county 


Where this is question’d send our letters, with 
Free pardon to each man that has denied 
The force of this commission: pray, look to ’t ; 
I put it to your care. 
Wol. A word with you. 

[To the Secretary. 
Let there be letters writ to every shire, 
Of the king’s grace and pardon. The grieved com- 
Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised [mons 
That through our intercession this revokement 
And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you 
Further in the proceeding. [Hxit Secretary. 


Enter Surveyor. 


@. Kath. Iam sorry that the Duke of Bucking- 
Is run in your displeasure. {hain 
King. It grieves many: 
The gentleman is learn’d, and a most rare speaker ; 
To nature none more bound; his training such, 
That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, 
And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, 


| When these so noble benefits shall prove 


Not well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt, 
hey turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly 
Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, 
Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we, 

Almost with ravish’d listening, could not find 

His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady, 

Hath into monstrous habits put the graces 

That once were his, and is become as black 

Asif besmear’d in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear — 
This was his gentleman in trust —of him 

Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount 
The fore-recited practices ; whereof 

We cannot feel too little, hear too much. 

Wol. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what 
Most like a careful subject, have collected [you, 
Out of the Duke of Buckingham. 

King. Speak freely. 

Surv. First, it was usual with him, every day 
It would infect his speech, that if the king 
Should without issue die, he ’ll carry it so 
To make the sceptre his: these very words 
I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law, 

Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced 
Revenge upon the cardinal. 

Wol. Please your highness, note 
This dangerous conception in this point. 

Not friended by his wish, to your high person 
His will is most malignant; and it stretches 
Beyond you, to your friends. 


Q. Kath. My learn’d lord cardinal, 
Deliver all with charity. 
King. Speak on: 


How grounded he his title to the crown, 
Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him 
At any time speak aught ? 
Surv. He was brought to this 
By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins. 
King. What was that Hopkins ? 
Surv. Sir, a Chartreux friar, 
His confessor; who fed him every minute 
With words of sovereignty. 
King. How know’st thou this ? 
Surv. Not long before your highness sped to France, 
The duke being at the Rose, within the parish 
Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand 
What was the speech among the Londoners 
Concerning the French journey: I replied, 
Men fear’d the French would prove perfidious, 
To the king’s danger. Presently the duke 
Said, ’t was the fear, indeed; and that he doubted 
’T would prove the verity of certain words 
Spoke by a holy monk; ‘that oft,’ says he, 
‘Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit 
John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour 
To hear from him a matter of some moment: 


489 


ACT I. 


Whom after under the confession’s seal 
He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke 
My chaplain to no creature living, but 
To me, should utter, with demure confidence 
This pausingly ensued: Neither the king nor’s heirs, 
Tell you the duke, shall prosper: bid him strive 
To gain the love o’ the commonalty: the duke 
Shall govern England.’ 

Q. Kath. If I know you well, 
You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office 
On the complaint o’ the tenants: take good heed 
You charge not in your spleen a noble person 
- And spoil your nobler soul: I say, take heed; 
Yes, heartily beseech you. 


king. Let him on. 
Go forward. 
Surv. On my soul, Ill speak but truth. 


I told my lord the duke, by the devil’s illusions 
The monk might be deceived; and that ’t was dan- 
gerous for him 

To ruminate on this so far, until 
It forged him some design, which, being believed, 
It was much like to do: he answer’d, ‘ Tush, 
It can do me no damage ;’ adding further, 
That, had the king in his last sickness fail’d, 
The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovyell’s heads 
Should have gone off. 

King. Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha! 
There ’s mischief in this man: canst thou say fur- 


Surv. I can, my liege. [ther? 
King. Proceed. 
Surv. Being at Greenwich, 


After your highness had reproved the duke 
About Sir William Blomer,— 
King. I remember 
Of such a time: being my sworn servant, 
The duke retain’d him his. But on; what hence ? 
Surv. ‘If,’ quoth he, ‘I for this had been com- 
mitted, 
As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play’d 
The part my father meant to act upon 
The usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, 
Made suit to come in ’s presence; which if granted, 
As he made semblance of his duty, would 
Have put his knife into him.’ 
King. A giant traitor ! 
Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in free- 
And this man out of prison ? [dom, 
Q. Kath. God mend all! 
dxing. There ’s something more would out of thee; 
what say’st ? [knife,’ 
Surv. After ‘the duke his father,’ with ‘the 
He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger, 
Another spread on ’s breast, mounting his eyes, 
He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour 
Was,— were he evil used, he would outgo 
His father by as much as a performance 
Does an irresolute purpose. 
King. There ’s his period, 
To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d; 
Call him to present trial: if he may 
Find mercy in the law, ’tis his; if none, 
Let him not seek ’t of us: by day and night, 
He ’s traitor to the height. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IIT. — An antechamber in the palace. 


Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands. 


Cham. Is’t possible the spells of France should 
Men into such strange mysteries ? [juggle 
Sands. New customs, 
Though they be never so ridiculous, 
Nay, let ’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d. 

Cham. As far as I see, all the good our English 
Have got by the late voyage is but merely 
A fit or two o’ the face; but they are shrewd ones; 
For when they hold ’em, you would swear directly 


490 


KING HENRY VIII. 


SCENE III. 


Their very noses had been counsellors 
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. 
Sands. They have all new legs, and lame ones, 
one would take it, 
That never saw ’em pace before, the spayvin 
Or springhalt reign’d among ’em. 
Cham. Death! my lord, 
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too, 
That, sure, they’ve worn out Christendom. 


Enter Sir Thomas Lovell. 
How now! 
What news, Sir Thomas Lovell ? 
Lov. Faith, my lord, 
I hear of none, but the new proclamation 
That ’s clapp’d upon the court-gate. 

Cham. What is ’t for? 
Lov. The reformation of our travell’d gallants, 
That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. 

Cham. I’m glad ’tis there: now I would pray 
our monsieurs 
To think an English courtier may be wise, 
And never see the Louvre. 


Lov. They must either, 


| For so run the conditions, leave those remnants 


Of fool and feather that they got in France, 
With all their honourable points of ignorance 
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks, 
Abusing better men than they can be, 
Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean 
The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings, 
Short blister’d breeches, and those types of travel, 
And understand again like honest men; 
Or pack to their old playfellows ; there, I take it, 
They may, ‘cum privilegio,’ wear away 
The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh’d at. 
Sands. Tis time to give ’em physic, their dis- 
Ayre grown so catching. [eases 
Cham. What a loss our ladies 
Will have of these trim vanities! 
ov. Ay, marry, 
There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons 
Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies ; 
A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. 
Sands. The devil fiddle em! Iam glad they are 
going, 
For, sure, there ’s no converting of ’em: now 
An honest country lord, as I am, beaten 
A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song 
And have an hour of hearing; and, by ’r lady, 
Held current music too. 


Cham. Well said, Lord Sands; 
Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet. 

Sands. No, my lord; 
Nor shall not, while I have a stump. 

Cham. Sir Thomas, 
Whither were you a-going ? 

Lov. To the cardinal’s: 
Your lordship is a guest too. 

Cham. O, tis true: - 


This night he makes a supper, and a great one, 
To many lords and ladies; there will be | 
The beauty of this kingdom, I ’ll assure you. ; 
Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous mind — 
indeed, 
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; ~ ) 
His dews fall every where. ¥ 
Cham. No doubt he’s noble; 
He had a black mouth that said other of him. ‘ 
Sands. He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in 
him 
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: 
Men of his way should be most liberal; 


| They are set here for examples. 


Cham. True, they are so; 
But few now give so great ones. My barge stays: 
Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, 


ACT I. 


LODING LEN LY VILLE 


SCENE IV. 


We shall be late else; which I would not be, 

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford 

This night to be comptrollers. 
Sands. lam your lordship’s. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— A Hall in York Place. 


Hautboys. A smail table under a state for the Cardinal, 
a longer table for the guests. Then enter Anne Bullen 
and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as guests, at 
one door; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford. 


Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his grace 
Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates 
To fair content and you: none here, he hopes, 
In all this noble bevy, has brought with her 
One care abroad; he would have all as merry 
As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome, 
Can make good people. O, my lord, you ’re tardy: 


Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir 
Thomas Lovell. 
The very thought of this fair company 
Clapp’d wing's to me. 
Cham. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford. 
Sands. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal 
But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these 
Should find a running banquet ere they rested, 
I think would better please ’em: by my life, 
They are a sweet society of fair ones. 
Lov. QO, that your lordship were but now confessor 
To one or two of these! 


Sands. I would I were; 
They should find easy penance. 
Lov. Faith, how easy ? 


Sands. As easy as a down-bed would afford it. 
Cham. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir 
Harry, 
Place you that side; Ill take the charge of this: 
His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze; 
Two women placed together makes cold weather: 
My Lord Sands, you are one will keep ’em waking ; 
Pray, sit between these ladies. 
Sands. By my faith, 
And thank your lordship. By your leave,sweet ladies: 
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; 
I had it from my father. 
Anne. Was he mad, sir? 
Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too: 
But he would bite none; just as I do now, 
He would kiss you twenty with a breath. 
[Kisses her. 
Cham. Well said, my lord. 
So, now you’re fairly seated. Gentlemen, 
The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies 
Pass away frowning. 
Sands. 


For my little cure, 
Let me alone. 


Hautboys. Hnter Cardinal Wolsey, and takes 


his state. 


Wol. You’re welcome, my fair guests: that noble 
Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, lady, 
Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome; 
And to you all, good health. [Drinks. 

Sands. Your grace is noble: 
Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks, 
And save me so much talking. 

My Lord Sands, 


ol. 
I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours. 
Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen, 
Whose fault is this ? 

Sands. The red wine first must rise 
In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 


Talk us to silence. [’em 
Anne. You are a merry gamester, 

My Lord Sands. 
Sands. Yes, if I make my play. 


Here’s to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam, 
For ’tis to such a thing,— 
Anne. You cannot show me. 
Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon. 
[Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged. 
Wol. What’s that ? 
Cham. Look out there, some of ye. [ Hxit Servant. 
ol. What warlike voice, 
And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not; 
By all the laws of war you ’re privileged. 


Re-enter Servant. 

Cham. How now! what is’t ? 

Serv. A noble troop of strangers ; 
For so they seem: they ’ve left their barge and landed; 
And hither make, as great ambassadors 
From foreign princes. 

Wol. Good lord chamberlain, 
Go, give ’em welcome; you can speak the French 

tongue ; 

And, pray, receive ’em nobly, and conduct ’em 

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty 

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. 
[Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, 

and tables removed. 

You have now a broken banquet; but we ’1l mend it. 

A good digestion to you all: and once more 

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all. 


Hautboys. Enter the King and others, as masquers, habited 
like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They 
pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute 
him. 


A noble company! what are their pleasures? [pray’d 
Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they 

To tell your grace, that, having heard by fame 

Of this so noble and so fair assembly 

This night to meet here, they could do no less, 

Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, 

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct, 

Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat 

An hour of revels with ’em. 


Wol. Say, lord chamberlain, 
They have done my poor house grace; for which I 
ay ’em [ures. 


A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their pleas- 
[They choose Ladies es the dance. The 
King chooses Anne Bullen. 

King. The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty, 
Till now I never knew thee! [Music. Dance. 

Wol. My lord! 

Cham. Your grace ? 

Wol. Pray, tell °em thus much from me: 
There should be one amongst ’em, by his person, 
More worthy this place than myself; to whom, 

If I but knew him, with my love and duty 
I would surrender it. 


Cham. I will, my lord. 

[ Whispers the Masquers« 
Wol. What say they ? 
Cham. Such a one, they all confess, 


There is indeed; which they would have your grace 
Find out, and he will take it. 
Wol. Let me see, then. 
By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I 71] make 
My royal choice. oa Wh 
Iving. Ye have found him. cardinal: 
| Unmasking. 

You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord: 
You are a churchman, or, I ll tell you, cardinal, 
I should judge now unhappily. 


Wol. Tam glad 
Your grace is grown so pleasant. - 
King. My lord chamberlain, 


Prithee, come hither: what fair lady ’s that ? 
Cham. An’t please your grace, Sir Thomas Bul- 
len’s daughter,— 
491 


Bb. OT. GEE. 


The Viscount Rochford,—one of her highness’ 
women. 


King. By heaven, sheisa dainty one. Sweet-heart, | In the next chamber. 


I were unmannerly, to take you out, 
And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! 
Let it go round. 
Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready 
YP the privy chamber ? 
Lov. 
Wol. 
T fear, with dancing is a little heated. 


Yes, my lord. 
Your grace, 


KING WHEVAY, SV 


SCENE I. 


oak I fear, too much. 

Wo There ’s fresher air, my lord. 
King. Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet part- 

ner 

I must not yet forsake you: let’s be merry: 

Good my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen healths 

To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure 

To lead ’em once again; and then let ’s dream 

Who’s best in favour. Let the music knock it. 

[Exeunt with trumpets. 


ont, O40 Be ad Bal 


SCENE I.— Westminster. A street. 


Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. 


First Gent. Whither away so fast ? 

Sec. Gent. O, God save ye! 
Even to the hall, to hear what shall become 
Of the great Duke of Buckingham. 

First Gent. I?ll save you 
That labour, sir. All’s now done, but the ceremony 
Of bringing back the prisoner. 

Sec. Gent. Were you there ? 

First Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. 

Sec. Gent. Pray, speak what has happen’d. 

First Gent. You may guess quickly what. 

Sec. Gent. Is he found guilty ? 

First Gent. Yes, truly ishe,and condemn’d upon ’t. 

Sec. Gent. I am sorry for ’t. 

First Gent. So are a number more. 

Sec. Gent. But, pray, how pass’d it ? 

First Gent. I ’lltellyouina little. The great duke 
Came to the bar; where to his accusations 
He pleaded still not guilty and alleged 
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. 

The king’s attorney on the contrary 

Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions 

Of divers witnesses; which the duke desired 

To have brought viva voce to his face: 

At which appear’d against him his surveyor ; 

Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car, 
Confessor to him; with that devil-monk, 
Hopkins, that made this mischief. 

Sec. Gent. 

That fed him with his prophecies ? 

First Gent. The same. 
All these accused him strongly; which he fain 
Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could 
And so his peers, upon this evidence, [not: 
Have found him guilty of high treason. Much 
He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all 
Was either pitied in him or forgotten. 

Sec. Gent. After all this, how did he bear himself ? 

First Gent. When he was brought again to the bar, 

to hear 
His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d 
With such an agony, he sweat extremely, 
And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty: 
But he fell to himself again, and sweetly 
In all the rest show’d a most noble patience. 

Sec. Gent. I do not think he fears death. 

First Gent. Sure, he does not: 
He never was so womanish; the cause 
He may a little grieve at. 


That was he 


Sec. Gent. Certainly 
The cardinal is the end of this. 
First Gent. ’T is likely, 


By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder, 
Then deputy of Ireland; who removed, 
Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, 
Lest he should help his father. 
Sec. Gent. That trick of state 
Was a deep envious one. 
492 


First Gent. At his return 
No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, 
And generally, whoever the king favours, 
The cardinal instantly will find employment, 
And far enough from court too. | 
Sec. Gent. All the commons 
Hate him perniciously, and, 0’ my conscience, 
Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much 
They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buck- 
The mirror of all courtesy ;— [ingham, 
First Gent. Stay there, sir, 
And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of. 


Enter Buckingham from his arraignment ; tipstaves before 
him ; the axe with the edge towards him ; halberds on each 
side: accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nich- 
olas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common people. 


Sec. Gent. Let’s stand close, and behold him. 
uck, All good people, 
You that thus far have come to pity me, 
Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. 
Ihave this day received a traitor’sjudgment, [ness, 


And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear wit- — 


And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, 
Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! 
The law I bear no malice for my death ; 

’T has done, upon the premises, but justice: 


But those that sought it I could wish more Chris- 


Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em: 
Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief, 
Nor build their evils on the graves of great men; 
For then my guiltless blood must cry against ’em. 
For further life in this world I ne’er hope, 
Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies 
More than I dare make faults. You few that loved 
And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, __[me, 
His noble friends and fellows, whom to.leave 
Is only bitter to him, only dying, 
Go with me, like good angels, to my end; 
And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 
Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, 
And lift my soulto heaven. Lead on, 0’ God’s name. 
Lov. I do beseech your grace, for charity, 
If ever any malice in your heart 
Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. 
Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, 1 as free forgive you 
As I would be forgiven: I forgive all; 
There cannot be those numberless offences [envy 
’Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: no black 
Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his grace; 
And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him 
You met him half in heaven: my vows and prayers 
Yet are the king’s; and, till my soul forsake, 
Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live 
Longer than I have time to tell his years! 
Ever beloved and loving may his rule be! 
And when old time shall lead him to his end, 
Goodness and he fill up one monument! 
Lov. To the water side I must conduct your grace: 
Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux- 
Who undertakes you to your end. 


[tians: 


ATi bs 


UNL GY PON Te YOO. 


SCENE II. 


Vauc. Prepare there, 
The duke is coming: see the barge be ready ; 

And fit it with such furniture as suits 
The greatness of his person. 

Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, 
Let it alone; my state now will but mock me. 
When I came hither, I was lord high constable 
And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward 
Yet I am richer than my base accusers, [Bohun: 
That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it; 
And with that blood will make ’em one day groan 
My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, (for ’t. 
Who first raised head against usurping Richard, 
Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 

Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d, 

And without trial fell; God’s peace be with him! 

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying 

My father’s loss, like a most royal prince, 

Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins, 

Made my name once more noble. Now his son, 

Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name and all 

That made me happy at one stroke has taken 

For ever from the world. I had my trial, 

And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me 

A little happier than my wretched father: 

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both 

Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most; 

A most unnatural and faithless service! 

Heaven has an end in all: yet, you that hear me, 

This from a dying man receive as certain: 

Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels 

Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends 

And give your hearts to, when they once perceive 

The least rub in your fortunes, fall away 

Like water from ye, never found again 

But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, 

Pray for me! I must now forsake ye: the last hour 

Of my long weary life is come upon me. 

Farewell: 

And when you would say something that is sad, 

Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive 
me! [Exeunt Duke and Train. 

First Gent. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calis, 
I fear, too many curses on their heads 
That were the authors. 

Sec. Gent. If the duke be guiltless, 
*T is full of woe: yet I can give you inkling 
Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, 

Greater than this. 

Hirst Gent. Good angels keep it from us! 
What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir? 

Sec. Gent. This secret is so weighty, ’t will require 
A strong faith to conceal it. 

First Gent. 

I do not talk much. 

Sec. Gent. I am confident ; 

You shall, sir: did you not of late days hear 
A buzzing of a separation 
Between the king and Katharine ? 

First Gent. Yes, but it held not: 
For when the king once heard it, out of anger 
He sent command to the lord mayor straight 
To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues 
That durst disperse it. 

Sec. Gent. But that slander, sir, 

Ts found a truth now: for it grows again 
Fresher than e’er it was; and held for certain 
The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal, 
Or some about him near, have, out of malice 

To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple 
That will undo her: to confirm this too, 
Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately; 

As all think, for this business. 

First Gent. ’T is the cardinal ; 
And merely to revenge him on the emperor 
For not bestowing on him, at his asking, 

The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed. 


Let me have it; 


Sec. Gent. I think you have hit the mark: but 
is ’t not cruel 
That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal 
Will have his will, and she must fall. 
First Gent. 
We are too open here to argue this; 
Let ’s think in private more. 


*T is woful. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.—<An antechamber in the palace. 


Finter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter. 


Cham. ‘My lord, the horses your lordship sent 
for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, rid- 
den, and furnished. They were young and hand- 
some, and of the best breed in the north. When 
they were ready to set out for London, a man of my 
lord cardinal’s, by commission and main power, 
took ’em from me; with this reason: His master 
would be served before a subject, if not before the 
king; which stopped our mouths, sir.’ 

I fear he will indeed: well, let him have them: 
He will have all, I think. 


Enter, to the Lord Chamberlain, the Dukes of 
Norfolk and Suffolk. 


Nor. Well met, my lord chamberlain. 

Cham. Good day to both your graces. 

Suf. How is the king employ’d ? 

Cham. I left him private, 
Full of sad thoughts and troubles. 

Nor. What ’s the cause ? 

Cham. It seems the marriage with his brother’s 
Has crept too near his conscience. [wife 


Suf. No, his conscience 
Has crept too near another lady. 
Nor. "T is so: 


This is the cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal : 

That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune, 

Turns what he list. The king will know him one day. 
Suf. Pray God he do! he’ll never know himself else. 
Nor. How holily he works in all his business! 

And with what zeal! for, now he has crack’d the 

league [nephew, 

Between us and the emperor, the queen’s great 

He dives into the king’s soul, and there scatters 

Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, 

Fears, and despairs ; and all these for his marriage: 

And out of all these to restore the king, 

He counsels a divorce; a loss of her 

That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years 

About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; 

Of her that loves him with that excellence 

That angels love good men with; even of her 

That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, 

Will bless the king: and is not this course pious ? 
Chum. Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’T is 

most true [’em, 

These news are every where; every tongue speaks 

And every true heart weeps for ’t: all that dare 

Look into these affairs see this main end, 

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open 

The king’s eyes, that so long have slept upon 


This bold bad man. 
Suf. And free us from his slavery. 
Nor. We had need pray, 

And heartily, for our deliverance ; 

Or this imperious man will work us all 

From princes into pages: all men’s honours 

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion’d 

Into what pitch he please. 

uf. For me, my lords, 

I love him not, nor fear him; there’s my creed: 

As Iam made without him, so I ’ll stand, | 

If the king please; his curses and his blessings 

Touch me alike, they ’re breath I not believe in. 

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him 

To him that made him proud, the pope. 


493 


ACT) Ti. 


Nor. Let’s in; 
And with some other business put the king 
From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon 
My lord, you ’ll bear us company ? [him: 

Cham. Excuse me; 
The king has sent me otherwhere: besides, 

You ’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him: 
Health to your lordships. 
Nor. Thanks, my good lord chamberlain. 
[Exit Lord Chamberlain; and the King draws 
the curtain, and sits reading pensively. 

Suf. How sad he looks! sure, he is much afflicted. 

King. Who’s there, ha? 

Nor. Pray God he be not angry. 

King. Who’s there, I say ? How dare you thrust 
Into my private meditations ? [yourselves 
Who am I? ha? 

Nor. A gracious king that pardons all offences 
Malice ne’er meant: our breach of duty this way 
Is business of estate; in which we come 
To know your-royal pleasure. | 

j Ye are too bold: 


ing. ) 
Go to; Ill make ye know your times of business: 
Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha ? 


Enter Wolsey and Campeius, wiih a commission. 


Who’s there ? my good lord cardinal? Omy Wol- 
The quiet of my wounded conscience ; [sey, 
Thou art acure fit foraking. [Zo Camp.] You’re 
welcome, 
Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom: 
Use usandit. [Zo Wol.] My good lord, have great 
I be not found a talker. [care 
Wol. Sir, you cannot. 
I would your grace would give us but an hour 
Of private conference. 
King. [To Nor. and Suf.] We are busy; go. 
Nor. [Aside to Suf.| This priest has no pride in 
Suf. [Aside to Nor.| Not to speak of: [him ? 
I would not be so sick though for his place: 
But this cannot continue. 
Nor. [Aside to Suf.] If it do, 
I’ll venture one have-at-him. 
Suf. [Aside to Nor.] I another. 
[Exeunt Nor. and Suf. 
Wol. Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom 
Above all princes, in committing freely 
Your scruple to the voice of Christendom: 
Who can be angry now? what envy reach you? 
The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, 
Must now confess, if they have any goodness, 
The trial just and noble. All the clerks, 
I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms 
Have their free voices: Rome, the nurse of judg- 
Invited by your noble self, hath sent [ment, 
One general tongue unto us, this good man, 
This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius ; 
Whom once more I present unto your highness. 
King. And once more in mine arms I bid him 
welcome, 
And thank the holy conclave for their loves: [for. 
They have sent me such a man I would have wish’d 
Cam. Your grace must needs deserve all strangers’ 
You are so noble. To your highness’ hand [loves, 
I tender my commission; by whose virtue, 
The court of Rome commanding, you, my lord 
Cardinal of York, are join’d with me their servant 
In the unpartial judging of this business. 
King. Two equal men. The queen shall be ac- 
quainted 
Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner ? 
Wol. I know your majesty has always loved her 
So dear in heart, not to deny her that 
A woman of less place might ask by law: 
Scholars allow’d freely to argue for her. [favour 
King. Ay, and the best she shall have; and my 
To him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal, 


494 


KING | HENRY VILL 


SCENE IItf. 


Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary : 
I find him a fit fellow. [Heit Wolsey. 


Re-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner. 


Wol. [Aside to Gard.] Give me your hand: much 
joy and favour to you; 

You are the king’s now. 

Gard. [Aside to Wol.| But to be commanded 
For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me. 

King. Come hither, Gardiner. 

[ Walks and whispers. 

Cam. My Lord’ of York, was not one Doctor Pace 

In this man’s place before him ? 


Wol. Yes, he was. 
Cam. Was he not held a learned man ? 
Wol Yes, surely. 


Cam. Believe me, there ’s an ill opinion spread 
Even of yourself, lord cardinal. [then 

Wol. How! of me? 

Cam. They will not stick to say you envied him, 
And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, 
Kept him a foreign man still; which so grieved him, 
That he ran mad and died. 

Wol. Heaven’s peace be with him! 
That ’s Christian care enough: for living murmurers 
There ’s places of rebuke. He was a fool; 

For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow, 
If I command him, follows my appointment: 
I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother, 
We live not to be grip’d by meaner persons. 

King. Deliver this with modesty to the queen. 

[Exit Gardiner. 

The most convenient place that I can think of 
For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars; 
There ye shall meet about this weighty business. 
My Wolsey, see it furnish’d. O, my lord, 
Would it not grieve an able man to leave 


So sweet a bedfellow ? But, conscience, conscience! 


O, ’t is a tender place; and I must leave her. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—An antechamber of the Queen’s apart- 
ments. 


Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady. 


Anne. Not for that neither: here’s the pang that 
pinches: 
His highness having lived so long with her, and she 
So good a lady that no tongue could ever 
Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, 
She never knew harm-doing: O, now, after 
So many courses of the sun enthroned, 
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which 
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 
’T is sweet at first to acquire,—after this process, 
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity 
Would move a monster. 


Old L. Hearts of most hard temper 
Melt and lament for her. 
Anne. O, God’s will! much better 


She ne’er had known pomp: though ’t be temporal, 
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce 

It from the bearer, ’t is a sufferance panging 

As soul and body’s severing. 


Old L. Alas, poor lady! 
She ’s a stranger now again. 
Anne. So much the more 


Must pity drop upon her. Verily, 
I swear, ’t is better to be lowly born, 
And range with humble livers in content, 
Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow. 
Old L. Our content 
Is our best having. 
. Anne. By my troth and maidenhead, 
I would not be a queen. 


Old L Beshrew me, I would, 


' 


ACT II. 


And venture maidenhead for ’t; and so would you, 
For all this spice of your hypocrisy : 
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, 
Have too a woman’s heart; which ever yet 
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty ; 
Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts, 
Saving your mincing, the capacity 
Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive, 
If you might please to stretch it. 
Anne. Nay, good troth. 
Old L. Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be 
a queen ? 
Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. 
Old L. ’Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d would 
Old as Iam, toqueenit: but,I pray you, [hire me, 
What think you of a duchess? have you limbs 
To bear that load of title ? 
Anne... No, in truth. 
Old L. Then you are weakly made: pluck off a 
I would not be a young count in your way, [little; 
For more than blushing comes to: if your back 
Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, ’t is too weak 
Ever to get a boy. 


Anne. How you do talk! 
I swear again, I would not be a queen 
For all the world. 
Old L. In faith, for little England 


You ‘ld venture an emballing: I myself 

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long’d 

No pes i. the crown but that. Lo, who comes 
ere 


Enter the Lord Chamberlain. 


Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were ’t worth 
The secret of your conference ? [to know 
Anne. My good lord, 
Not your demand; it values not your asking: 
Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying. 
Cham. It was a gentle business, and becoming 
The action of good women: there is hope 
All will be well. 
Anne. Now, I pray God, amen! 
Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly 
blessings . 
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, 
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s 
Ta’en of your many virtues, the king’s majesty 
Commends his good opinion of you, and 
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing 
Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title 
A thousand pound a year, annual support, 
Out of his grace he adds. 
Anne. I do not know 
What kind of my obedience I should tender ; 
More than my all is nothing: nor my prayers 
Are not words duly hallow’d, nor my wishes 
More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and 
wishes 
Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, 
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, 
As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness; 
Whose health and royalty I pray for. 
Cham. Lady, 
I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit 
The king hath of you. [Aside] I have perused her 
Beauty and honour in her are so mingled [well ; 
That they have caught the king: and who knows 
But from this lady may proceed a gem [yet 
To lighten all this isle? Ill to the king, 
And say I spoke with you. [Exit Lord Chamberlain. 
Anne. My honour’d lord. 
Old L. Why, this it 1s; see, see! 
I have been begging sixteen years in court, 
Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could 
Come pat betwixt too early and too late 
For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate! 
A very fresh-fish here — fie, fie, fie upon 


WING HENRY SV LL. 


SCENE IV. 


This compell’d fortune !—have your mouth fill’d up 
Before you open it. 

Anne. This is strange to me. 

Old L. How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, 
There was a lady once, ’t is an old story, [no. 
That would not be a queen, that would she not, 
For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it ? 

Anne. Come, you are pleasant. 

Old L. With your theme, I could 
O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! 
A thousand pounds a year for pure respect! 

No other obligation! By my life, 

That promises moe thousands: honour’s train 
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time 

I know your back will bear a duchess: say, 
Are you not stronger than you were ? 

Anne. Good lady, 
Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, 
And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being, 
If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me, 

To think what follows. 
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful 
In our long absence: pray, do not deliver 
What here you ’ve heard to her. 
ld L. What do you think me? 
[| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—A hall in Black-Friars. 


Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with 
short silver wands ; next them, two Scribes, in the habit 
of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury 
alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Roches- 
ter, and Saint Asaph; neat them, with some small dis- 
tance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the 
great seal, and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bear- 
ang each a silver cross; then a Gentleman-usher bare- 
headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms bearing 
a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bearing two great 
silver pillars ; after them, side by side, the two Cardinals ; 
two Noblemen with the sword and mace. The King 
takes place under the cloth of state; the two Cardinals sit 
under him as judges. The Queen takes place some dis- 
tance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on 
each side the court, in manner of a consistory ; below them, 
the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest 
of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the 
stage. 

Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, 

Let silence be commanded. 

King. What ’s the need ? 

It hath already publicly been read, 

And on all sides the authority allow’d; 

You may, then, spare that time. 

Wol Be’t so. Proceed. 


ol. 
Scribe. Say, Henry King of England, come into 


| the court. 


Orier. Henry King of England, &c. 
King. Here. 
Scribe. Say, Katharine Queen of England, come 
into the court. 
Crier. Katharine Queen of England, &c. 
[The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her 
chair, goes about the court, comes to the 
King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks. 
Q. Kath. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice ; 
And to bestow your pity on me: for 
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, 
Born out of your dominions; having here 
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance 
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, 
In what have I offended you ? what cause 
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure, 
That thus you should proceed to put me off, [ness, 
And take your good grace from me? Heaven wit- 
I have been to you a true and humble wife, 
At all times to your will conformable ; 
Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, 
Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry 


495 


AG TALS 


As I saw it inclined: when was the hour 

I ever contradicted your desire, 

Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends 
Have I not strove to love, although I knew 

He were mine enemy? what friend of mine 

That had to him derived your anger, did I 
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice 

He was from thence discharged ? Sir, call to mind 
That I have been your wife, in this obedience, 
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest 
With many children by you: if, in the course 

And process of this time, you can report, 

And prove it too, against mine honour aught, 

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, 
Against your sacred person, in God’s name, 

Turn me away; and let the foul’st contempt 

Shut door upon me, and so give me up 

To the sharp’st kind of justice. Please you, sir, 
The king, your father, was reputed for 

A prince most prudent, of an excellent 

And unmatch’d wit and judgment: Ferdinand, 
My father, king of Spain, was reckon’d one 

The wisest prince that there had reign’d by many 
A year before: it is not to be question’d 

That they had gather’d a wise council to them 

Of every realm, that did debate this business, 
Who deem’d our marriage lawful: wherefore I 
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may [humbly 
Be by my friends in Spain advised; whose counsel 
I will implore: if not, i’ the name of God, 

Your pleasure be fulfill’d! 

Wol. You have here, lady, 
And of your choice, these reverend fathers; men 
Of singular integrity and learning, 

Yea, the elect o’ the land, who are assembled 

To plead your cause: it shall be therefore bootless 
That longer you desire the court; as well 

For your own quiet, as to rectify 

What is unsettled in the king. 

Cam. His grace 
Hath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam, 
It’s fit this royal session do proceed ; 

And that, without delay, their arguments 
Be now produced and heard. 

Q. Kath. 

To you I speak. 

Wol 


ol. 
Q. Kath. 

Iam about to weep; but, thinking that 

We are a queen, or long have dream ’d so, certain 

The daughter of a king, my drops of tears 

iL Hea es to sparks of fire. 


Lord cardinal, 


Your pleasure, madam? __ 
Sir, 


ol. Be patient yet.  ([fore, 
Q. Kath. I will, when you are humble; nay, be- 
Or God will punish me. I do believe, 
Induced by potent circumstances, that 
You are mine enemy, and make my challenge 
You shall not be my judge: for it is you 
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me; 
Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say again, 
L utterly abhor, yea, from my soul 
Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more, 
I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 
At all a friend to truth. 

ol. I do profess 
You speak not like yourself; who ever yet 
Have stood to charity, and display’d the effects 
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom [wrong: 
O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me 
I have no spleen against you; nor injustice 
For you or any: how far I have proceeded, 
Or how far further shall, is warranted 
By a commission from the consistory, [me 
Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge 
That I have blown this coal: I do deny it: 
The king is present: if it be known to him 
That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, 


496 


KING HENRY VIII. 


SCENE IV. 


And worthily, my falsehood! yea, as much 
As you have done my truth. If he know 
That I am free of your report, he knows 
IT am not of your wrong. ‘Therefore in him 
It lies to cure me: and the cure is, to 
Remove these thoughts from you: the which before 
His highness shall speak in, I do beseech 
You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking 
And to say so no more. 
Q. Kath. My lord, my lord, 
Iam a simple woman, much too weak [mouth’d; 
To oppose your cunning. You ’re meek and humble- 
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, 
With meekness and humility; but your heart 
Is cramm’d with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
You have, by fortune and his highness’ favours, 
Gone slightly o’er low steps and now are mounted 
Where powers are your retainers, and your words, 
Domestics to you, serve your will as ’t please 
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you, 
You tender more your person’s honour than 
Your high profession spiritual: that again 
I do refuse you for my judge; and here, 
Before you all, appeal unto the pope, 
To bring my whole cause ’fore his holiness, 
And to be judged by him. 
[She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. 
Cam. The queen is obstinate, 
Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 
Disdainful to be tried by ’t: ’tis not well. 
She ’s going away. 
King. Call her again. [the court. 
Crier. Katharine Queen of England, come into 
Grif. Madam, you are call’d back. [your way: 
Q. Kath. What need you note it? pray you, keep 
When you are call’d, return. Now, the Lord help, 
They vex me past my patience! Pray you, pass on: 
I will not tarry; no, nor ever more 
Upon this business my appearance make 
In any of their courts. 
[EHxeunt Queen, and her Attendants. 
King. Go thy ways, Kate: 
That man i’ the world who shall report he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 
For speaking false in that: thou art, alone, 
If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 
Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out, 
The queen of earthly queens: she’s noble born ; 
And, like her true nobility, she has 
Carried herself towards me. 
Wol. Most gracious sir, 
In humblest manner I require your highness, 
That it shall please you to declare, in hearing 
Of all these ears,—for where I am robb’d and bound, 
There must I be unloosed, although not there 
At once and fully satisfied, — whether ever I 
Did broach this business to your highness; or 
Laid any scruple in your way, which might 
Induce you to the question on ’t? or ever 
Have to you, but with thanks to God for such 
A royal lady, spake one the least word that might 
Be to the prejudice of her present state, 
Or touch of her good person ? 
King. My lord cardinal, 
I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour, 
I free you from’t. You are not to be taught 
That you have many enemies, that know not 
Why they are so, but, like to village-curs 
Bark when their fellows do: by some of these 
The queen is put in anger. You’re excused: _ 
But will you be more justified ? you ever [sired 
Have wish’d the sleeping of this business ; never de- 
It to be stirr’d; but oft have hinder’d, oft, 
The passages made toward it: on my honour, 
I speak my good lord cardinal to this point, | 


ACT IITI. 


And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to’t, 
I will be bold with time and your attention: 


KING HENRY VIII. 


SCENE I. 


With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember 
How under my oppression I did reek, 


Then mark the inducement. Thusitcame; give heed | When I first moved you. 


My conscience first received a tenderness, [to ’t: 
Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter’d 

By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador; 
Who had been hither sent on the debating 

A marriage ’twixt the Duke of Orleans and 

Our daughter Mary: 1’ the progress of this business, 
Ere a determinate resolution, he, 

I mean the bishop, did require a respite; 

W herein he might the king his lord advertise 
Whether our daughter were legitimate, 
Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, 
Sometimes our brother’s wife. This respite shook 
The bosom of my conscience, enter’d me, 

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble 
The region of my breast; which forced such way, 
That many mazed considerings did throng 

And press’d in with this caution. First, methought 
I stood not in the smile of heaven; who had 
Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb, 

If it conceived a male child by me, should 

Do no more offices of life to ’t than 

The grave does to the dead; for her male issue 

Or died where they were made, or shortly after 
This world had air’d them: hence I took a thought, 
This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom, 
Well worthy the best heir 0’ the world, should not 
Be gladded in ’t by me: then follows, that 

I weigh’d the danger which my realms stood in 

By this my issue’s fail; and that gave to me 

Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in 

The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer 

Toward this remedy, whereupon we are 

Now present here together; that’s to say, 

I meant to rectify my conscience, — which 

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, — 

By all the reverend fathers of the land 

And doctors learn’d: first I began in private 


J OMG Mh 


SCENE I.— London. The Queen’s apartments. 


Enter the Queen and her Women, as at work. 


@. Kath. Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows 
sad with troubles ; 
Sing, and disperse em, if thou canst : leave working. 


SONG. 


Orpheus with his lute made trees, 
And the mountain tops that freeze, 
Bow themselves when he did sing: 
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung; as sun and showers 
There had made a lasting spring. 


Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 
Killing care and grief of heart 

Fall asleep, or hearing, die. 


Enter a Gentleman. 


. Kath. How now! [dinals 
ent. An’t please your grace, the two great car- 
Wait in the presence. 
a. Kath. Would they speak with me ? 
7ent. They will’d me say so, madam. 


Q. Kath. Pray their graces 
To come near. [Exit Gent.] What can be their 
business 
32 


Lin. Very well, my liege. [say 
King. I have spoke long: be pleased yourself to 
How tar you satisfied me. ; 
in. So please your highness, 
The question did at first so stagger me, 
Bearing a state of mighty moment in ’t 
And consequence of dread, that I committed 
The daring’st counsel which I had to doubt; 
And did entreat your highness to this course 
Which you are running here. 

King. I then moved you, 
My Lord of Canterbury; and got your leave 
To make this present summons: unsolicited 
I left no reverend person in this court; 

But by particular consent proceeded 

Under your hands and seals: therefore, go on; 
For no distike i’ the world against the person 

Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points 
Of my alleged reasons, drive this forward: 

Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life 

And kingly dignity, we are contented 

To wear our mortal state to come with her, 
Katharine our queen, before the primest creature 
That ’s paragon’d o’ the world. 

Cam. So please your highness, 
The queen being absent, tis a needful fitness 
That we adjourn this court till further day: 
Meanwhile must be an earnest motion 
Made to the queen, to call back her appeal 
She intends unto his holiness. 

King. | Aside] I may perceive 
These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor 
This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. 

My learn’d and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, © 
Prithee, return: with thy approach, I know, 

My comfort comes along. Break up the court: 

I say, set on. [ Hxeunt in manner as they entered. 


LA 


With me, a poor weak woman, fall’n from favour ? 
I do not like their coming. Now I think on’t, 
They should be good men; their affairs as righteous: 
But all hoods make not monks. 


Enter the two Cardinals, Wolsey and Campeius. 


Wol. Peace to your highness! 

Q. Kath. Your graces find me here part of a house- 
IT would be all, against the worst may happen. [wife, 
What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords ? 

Wol. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw 
Into your private chamber, we shall give you 
The full cause of our coming. 

Q. Kath. Speak it here; 
There ’s nothing I have done yet, 0’ my conscience, 
Deserves a corner: would all other women 
Could speak this with as free a soulas I do! 

My lords, I care not, so much I am happy 
Above a number, if my actions 

Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw ’em, 
Envy and base opinion set against ’em, 

I know my life so even. If your business 

Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, 

Out with it boldly: truth loves open dealing. 

Wol. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina 

serenissima,— 

Q. Kath. O, good my lord, no Latin; 

I am not such a truant since my coming, 
As not to know the language I have lived in: 
A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, 
suspicious ; 
497 


AOE THT, 
Pray, speak in English: here are some will thank you, 
If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ sake ; 
Believe me, she has had much wrong: lord cardinal, 
The willing’st sin I ever yet committed 
May be absolved in English. 
Wol. Noble lady, 
IT am sorry my integrity should breed, 
And service to his majesty and you, 
So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. 
We come not by the way of accusation, 
To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, 
Nor to betray you any way to sorrow, 
You have too much, good lady; but to know 
How you stand minded in the weighty difference 
Between the king and you; and to deliver, 
Like free and honest men, our just opinions 
And comforts to your cause. 
Cam. Most honour’d madam, 
My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, 
Zeal and obedience he still bore your grace, 
Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure 
Both of his truth and hin, which was too far, 
Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, 
His service and his counsel. 
Q). Kath. [ Aside] To betray me.— 
My lords, I thank you both for your good wills; 
Ye speak like honest men; pray God, ye prove so! 
But how to make ye suddenly an answer, 
In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,— 
More near my life, I fear,— with my weak wit, 
And to such men of gravity and learning, 
In truth, I know not. I was set at work 
Among my maids; full little, God knows, looking 
Hither for such men or such business. 
For her sake that I have been,—for I feel 
The last fit of my greatness,— good your graces, 
Let me have time and counsel for my cause: 
Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless ! 
Wol. Madam, you wrong the king’s s love with these 
Your hopes and friends are infinite. [fears : 
. Kath. In England 
But little for my profit: can you think, lords, 
That any Englishman dare give me counsel ? 
Or bea known friend, ’gainst his highness’ pleasure, 
Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, 
And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
They that must weigh out my afflictions, 
They that my trust must grow to, live not here: 
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence 
In mine own country, lords. 
Cam. I would your grace 
pate leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 
. Kath. How, sir? 
am. Put your main cause into the king’s pro- 
tection ; 
He’s loving and most gracious: ’t will be much 
Both for your honour better and your cause; 
For if the trial of the law o’ertake ye, 
You’ part away disgraced. 
Wol. He tells you rightly. 
Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both,—my 
Is this your Christian counsel ? out upon ye! {ruin : 
Ileaven is above all yet; there sits a judge 
That no king can corrupt. 
Cam. Your rage mistakes us. 
@. Kath. The more shame for ye: 
thought ye, 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues: 
But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye: 
Mend ’em, for shame, my lords. Is this your com- 
The cordial that ye bri ing a wretched lady, [fort ? 
A woman lost among ye, laugh’d at, scorn’d ? 
J will not wish ye haif my miseries ; 
I have more charity: but say, I warn’d ye; 
‘Take heed, for heaven’s sake, ‘take heed, lest at once 
The burthen of my sorrows fall upon ye. 
Wol. Madam, this is a mere distraction : 
You turn the good we offer into envy. 


498 


holy men I | 


FOLIVIG PTOI POY SLL: 


SCENE I, 


Q. Kath. Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye 
And all such false professors! would you have me— 
If you have any justice, any pity; 

If ye be anything but churehmen’s habits — 
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ? 
Alas, has banish’d me his bed already, 
His love, too long ago! Iam old, my lords, 
And all the fellowship I hold now with him 
Is only my obedience. What can happen 
To me above this wretchedness ? all your studies 
Make me a curse like this. 
Cam. Your fears are worse. 
Q. Ivath. Have I lived thus long—let me speak 
myself, 
Since virtue finds no friends —a wife, a true one ? 
A woman, I dare say without vain- elor y; 
Never yet. branded with suspicion : > 
Have I with all my full affections [him ? 
Still met the king ? loved him next heaven ? Bs i: 
Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? 


| Almost for got my prayers to content him ? 


And am [ thus rewarded ? ’t is not well, lords. 


| Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 


One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure; 
And to that woman, when she has done most, 
Yet will I add an honour, a great patience. 

Wol. Madam, you wander from the good weaim at 

Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
To give up willingly that noble title 
Your master wed me to: nothing but death 
Shall e’er divorce my dignities. 

Wol. Pray, hear me. 

Q. Kath. Would I had never trod this English 
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! [earth, 
Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts. 
What will become of me now, wretched lady! 

J am the most unhappy woman living. 

Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes! 
Shipwreck’ ‘d upon a kingdom, where no pity, 

No friends, no hope; no ) kindred weep for me; 
Almost no grave allow’d me: like the lily, 

That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d, 
I 7ll hang my head and perish. 

Wol. If your grace 
Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, 
You ’ldteel more comfort: why should we, good lady, 
Upon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places, 
The way of our profession is against it: 
We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow ’em., 
For goodness’ sake, consider what you do; 
How you may hurt your self, ay, utterly 
Grow from the king’s acquaintance, by this car- 
The hearts of princes kiss obedience, [riage. 
So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits 
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 
I know you have a gentle, noble temper, 
‘A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us _ [vants. 
Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and ser- 

Cam. Madam, you’ll finditso. You wrong your 

virtues 

With these weak women’s fears: a noble spirit, 
As yours was put into you, ever casts [you ; 
Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves 
Beware you lose it not: for us, if you please 
To trust us in your business, we are ready 
To use our utmost studies in your service. 

Q. Kath. Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, 

forgive me, 
If I have used myself unmannetly ; 
You know I am a woman, lacking wit 
To make a seemly answer to such persons. 
Pray, do my service to his majesty: 
He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers 
While [shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 
Bestow your counsels on me: she now begs, 
That little thought, when she set footing here, 
She should have bought her dignities so ‘dear. 
[| Hxeunt. 


ACT III. 


SCENE II. — Antechamber to the King’s apartment. 


Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the 
Earl of Surrey, and the Lora Chamberlain. 


Nor. If you will now unite in your complaints, 
And force them with a constancy, the cardinal 
Cannot stand under them: if you omit 
The offer of this time, [ cannot promise 
But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces, 
With these you bear already. 

Sur. IT am joyful 
To meet the least occasion that may give me 

temembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, 
To be revenged on him. 

Suf. Which of the peers 
Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least 
Strangely neglected ? when did he regard 
The stamp of nobleness in any person 
Out of himself ? 

Cham. My lords, you speak your pleasures: 
What he deserves of you and me I know; 

What we can do to him, though now the time 
Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot 
Bar his access to the king, never attempt 
Any thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft 
Over the king in’s tongue. 

Nor. O, fear him not; 
His spell in that is out: the king hath found 
Matter against him that for ever mars 
The honey of his language. No, he’s settled, 
Not to come off, in his displeasure. 

Sur. Sir, 

I should be glad to hear such news as this 
Once every hour. 

Nor. Believe it, this is true: 
In the divorce his contrary proceedings 
Ayre all unfolded; wherein he appears 
«As | would wish mine enemy. 


Sur. How came 
Tis practices to light ? 
Suf. Most strangely. 
Sur. O, how, how? 


Suf. The cardinal’s letters to the pope miscarried, 
And came to the eye o’ the king: wherein was read, 
Tlow that the cardinal did entreat his holiness 
To stay the judgment o’ the divorce; for if 
It did take place, ‘ I do,’ quoth he, ‘ perceive 
My king is tangled in affection to 
A creature of the queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.’ 

Sur. Has the king this? . 

Suf. Believe it. 

Sur. Will this work ? 

Cham. The king in this perceives him, how he 

coasts 
And hedges his own way. But in this point 
All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic 
After his patient’s death: the king already 
Hlath married the fair lady. 

Sur. Would he had! 

Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my lord! 
For, I profess, you have it. 


Sur. Now, all my joy 
Trace the conjunction! 

Suf. My amen to’t! 

Nor. All men’s! 


Suf. There’s order given for her coronation : 
Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left 
To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, 

She is a gallant creature, and complete 

In mind and feature: I persuade me, from her 
Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall 
In it be memorized. 

Sur. But, will the king 
Digest this letter of the cardinal’s ? 
The Lord forbid! 

Nor. 

Suf. No, no; 
There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose 


Marry, amen! 


ING ERI MEY PLE 


SCENE II- 


Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius 
Is stol’n away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave; 

Has left the cause 0’ the king unhandled; and 

Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal, 

To second all his plot. I do assure you 

The king cried Ha! at this. 


Cham. Now, God incense him, 
And let him ery Ha! louder! 
Nor. But, my lord, 


When returns Cranmer ? 
Suf. He is return’d in his opinions; which 
Have satisfied the king for his divorce, ° 
Together with all famous colleges 
Almost in Christendom: shortly, I believe, 
His second marriage shall be publish’d, and 
Her coronation. Katharine no more 
Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager 
And widow to Prince Arthur. 
Nor. This same Cranmer ’s 
A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain 
In the king’s business. 


Suf. He has; and we shall see him 
For it an archbishop. 
Nor. So I hear. 
Suf. T is so. 
The cardinal! 
Enter Wolsey and Cromwell. 
Nor. Observe, observe, he’s moody. 


Wol. The packet, Cromwell, 
Gave ’t you the king ? 
Crom. To his own hand, in’s bedchamber. 
Wol. Look’d he o’ the inside of the paper ? 
Crom. Presently 
He did unseal them: and the first he view’d, 
He did it with a serious mind; a heed 
Was in his countenance. You he bade 
Attend him here this morning. 


Wol. Is he ready 
To come abroad ? 
Crom. I think, by this he is. 


Wol. Leave me awhile. [Exit Cromwell. 
[ Aside] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon, 
The French king’s sister: he shall marry her. 
Anne Bullen! No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him: 
There ’s more in’t than fair visage. Bullen! 
No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish 
To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke! 

Nor. He’s discontented. 

Suf. May be, he hears the king 
Does whet his anger to him. 

Oe Sharp enough, 

Lord, for thy justice! 

Wol. [Aside] The late queen’s gentlewoman, a 

knight’s daughter, 

To be her mistress’ mistress! the queen’s queen! 
This candle burns not clear: ’tis I must snuff it; 
Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous 
And well deserving ? yet I know her for 
A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to 
Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of 
Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up 
An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one 
Hath crawl’d into the favour of the king, 
And is his oracle. 
Dee VOR: He is vex’d at something. 

Sur. I would ’t were something that would fret 
The master-cord on’s heart! [the string, 


Enter the King, reading of a schedule, and Lovell. 
Suf. The king, the king! 

King. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated 

To his own portion! and what expense by the hour 

Seems to flow from him! How, i’ the name of thrift, 

Does he rake this together! Now, my lords, 

Saw you the cardinal ? 


or. My lord, we have 
Stood here observing him: some strange commotion 
499 


ACT ITI. 


Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts; 

Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, 

Then lays his finger on his temple; straight 
Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, 
Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts 

His eye against the moon: in most strange pustures 
We have seen him set himself. 

King. It may well be; 
There is a mutiny in’s mind. This morning 
Papers of state he sent me to peruse, 

As I required: and wot you what I found 
There,— on my conscience, but unwittingly ? 
Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing ; 

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, 
Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which 
I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks 
Possession of a subject. 

Nor. It’s heaven’s will: 
Some spirit put this paper in the packet, 

To bless your eye withal. 

King. If we did think 

His contemplation were above the earth, 
And fix’d on spiritual object, he should still 
Dwell in his musings: but I am afraid 

His thinkings are below the moon, not worth 
His serious considering. 

[King takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to 

the Cardinal. 

Wol. Heaven forgive me! 
Ever God bless your highness ! 

King. Good my lord, 
You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inven- 
Of your best graces in your mind; the which [tory 
You were now running o’er: you have scarce time 
To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span 
To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that 
I deem you an ill husband, and am glad 
To have you therein my companion. 

Wol. 

For holy offices I have a time; a time 
To think upon the part of business which 

I bear i’ the state; and nature does require 

Her times of preservation, which perforce 

I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, 
Must give my tendence to. 

King. You have said well. 

Wol. And ever may your highness yoke together, 
As I will lend you cause, my doing well 
With my well saying! 

King. "T is well said again ; 

And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well: 

And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you: 
He said he did; and with his deed did crown 

His word upon you. Since I had my oftice, 

I have kept you next my heart; have not alone 
Employ’d you where high profits might come home, 
But pared my present havings, to bestow 

My bounties upon you. 

ol. [ Aside] What should this mean ? 
Sur. [Aside] The Lord increase this business ! 
king. Have I not made you 

The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me, 
[If what I now pronounce you have found true: 
And, if you may confess it, say withal, 
If you are bound to us or no. What say you? 
_ Wol. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, 
Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could 
My studied purposes requite; which went 
Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours 
Have ever come too short of my desires, 
Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends 
Have been mine so that evermore they pointed 
To the good of your most sacred person and 
The profit of the state. For your great graces 
Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I 
Can nothing render but allegiant thanks, 
My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty, 

500 


Sir, 


KING EN AA Ae 


SCENE il. 


Which ever has and ever shall be growing, 
Till death, that winter, kill it. 
King. 
A loyal and obedient subject is 
Therein illustrated: the honour of it 
Does pay the act of it; as, i’ the contrary, 
The foulness is the punishment. I presume 
That, as my hand has open’d bounty to you, 
My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d honour, 
On you than any; so your hand and heart, [more 
Your brain, and every function of your power, 
Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, 
As ’t were in love’s particular, be more 
To me, your friend, than any. 
Wol. I do profess 
That for your highness’ good I ever labour’d 
More than mine own; that am, have, and will be— 
Though all the world should crack their duty to you, 
And throw it from their soul; though perils did 
Abound, as thick as thought could make ’em, and 
Appear in forms more horrid,— yet my duty, 
As doth a rock against the chiding flood, 
Should the approach of this wild river break, 
And stand unshaken yours. 
King. *T is nobly spoken : 
Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, 
For you have seen him open ’t. Read o’er this; 
[Giving him papers. 
And after, this: and then to breakfast with 
What appetite you have. 
[Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey : 
the Nobles throng after him, smiling and 
whispering. 


Fairly answer’d ; 


Wol. What should this mean ? 
What sudden anger ’s this? how have I reap’d it ? 
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 
Leap’d from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion 
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him; 
Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; 
I fear, the story of his anger. ’Tis so; 

This paper has undone me: ’tis the account 

Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together 

For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom, 
And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence! . 

Fit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil 

Made me put this main secret in the packet 

I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this ? 

No new device to beat this from his brains ? 

I know ’t will stir him strongly; yet I know 

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune [Pope!’ 
Will bring me off again. What’s this? ‘To the 
The letter, as I live, with all the business 

I writ to’s holiness. Nay then, farewell! 

I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness : 
And, from that full meridian of my glory, 

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall 

Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 

And no man see me more. 


Re-enter to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, 
the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain. 
Nor. Hear the king’s pleasure, cardinal : who com- 
To render up the great seal presently [mands you 
Into our hands; and to confine yourself 


To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester’s, 
Till you hear further from his highness. 

Wol. tay: 
Where ’s your commission, lords? words cannot 
Authority so weighty. [carry 

Suf. Who dare cross ’em, 
Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly ? 

Wol. Till I find more than will or words to do it, 
I mean your malice, know, officious lords, 

_I dare and must deny it. Now I feel 
Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy: 
How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, 

| As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton 


SS 
=< ) 


= => 
2 = _ 
—= =—s a 
a 
en: 


‘Ir sus0S WTI] IV—HLHDIA AHL AUYNFAH ONIM 


!) 
ms Po 
rhs 


ee a a a ee ee oe eee 


“ 


_ 


oe a 


ON yyy 1 
i 
Hl 


i | | | 


= 


uD 


i/\ i : ‘i 
I} AN \ | 
VW YO Ny i 


a 
4 . — oe 
! i Mt Lt Sone 


| Aili | TTT 
Ca 


I 


ll 


ACT IT. 


Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin! 
Follow your envious courses, men of malice; 

You have Christian warrant for ’em, and, no doubt, 
in time will find their fit rewards. That seal, 
You ask with such a violence, the king, 

Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me; 
Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, 
During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, 
Tied it by letters-patents: now, who ’ll take it ? 

Sur. The king, that gave it. 

Wol. It must be himself, then. 

Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. 

Wol. Proud lord, thou liest: 
Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 
{ave burnt that tongue than said so. 

Sur. Thy ambition, 
Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land 
Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law: 

The heads of all thy brother cardinals, 

With thee and all thy best parts bound together, 
Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! 
You sent me deputy for Ireland; 

Far from his succour, from the king, from all 
That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him; 
Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, 
Absolved him with an axe. 

Wol. This, and all else 
This talking lord can lay upon my credit, 

1 answer is most false. The duke by law 
Found his deserts: how innocent I was 

From any private malice in his end, 

His noble jury and foul cause can witness. 

If [ loved many words, lord, I should tell you 
You have as little honesty as honour, 

That in the way of loyalty and truth 

Toward the king, my ever royal master, 

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, 
And all that love his follies. 

Sur. By my soul, [feel 
Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst 
My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else. My lords, 
Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ? 

And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, 
To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, 
Farewell nobility; let his grace go forward, 
And dare us with his cap like larks. 


Wol. All goodness 
Is poison to thy stomach. 
Sur. Yes, that goodness 


Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, 
Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion ; 
The goodness of your intercepted packets [ness, 
You writ to the pope against the king: your good- 
Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. 
My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, 
As you respect the common good, the state 
Of our despised nobility, our issues, 
Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, 
Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles 
Collected from his life. Ill startle you 
Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench 
Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal. 
Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this 
man, 
But that Iam bound in charity against it! 
Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s 
But, thus much, they are foul ones. [hand : 
Wol. So much fairer 
And spotless shall mine innocence arise, 
When the king knows my truth. 
Sur. This cannot save you: 
I thank my memory, I yet remember 
Some of these articles; and out they shall. 
Now, if you can blush and cry ‘ guilty,’ cardinal, 
You ‘ll show a little honesty. 
Wol. Speak on, sir; 
I dare your worst objections: if I blush, 
It is to see a nobleman want manners. 


KING HENRY VIIL 


| 


SCENE II. 


Sur. [had Rea want those than my head. Have 
at you! 
First, that, without the king’s assent or knowledge, 
You wrought to be a legate; by which power 
You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. 
Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else 
To foreign princes, ‘ Ego et Rex meus’ 
Was still inscribed; in which you brought the king 
To be your servant. 
Suf. Then that, without the knowledge 
Either of king or council, when you went 
Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold 
To carry into Flanders the great seal. 
Sur. Item, you sent a large commission 
To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, 
Without the king’s will or the state’s allowance, 
A league between his highness and Ferrara. 
Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused 
Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin. 
Sur. Then that you have sent innumerable sub- 
stance — 
By what means got, I leave to your own conscience— 
To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways 
You have for dignities; to the mere undoing 
Of all the kingdom. Many more there are; 
Which, since they are of you, and odious, 
I will not taint my mouth with. 
Cham. O my lord, 
Press not a falling man too far! *tis virtue: 
His faults lie open to the laws; let them, 
Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him 
So little of his great self. 
Sur. I forgive him. 
Suf. Lord cardinal, the king’s further pleasure is, 
Because all those things you have done of late, 
By your power legatine, within this kingdom, 
Fall into the compass of a preemunire, 
That therefore such a writ be sued against you ; 
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, 
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 
Out of the king’s protection. This is my charge. 
Nor. And so we’ll leave you to your meditations 
How to live better. For your stubborn answer 
About the giving back the great seal to us, —_[you. 
The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank 
So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal. 
[Hxeunt all but Wolse,. 
Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me. 
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a Sea of glory, i 
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me and now has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: 
I feel my heart new open’d. O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have: 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 


Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed. 


Why, how now, Cromwell! 
Orom. I have no power to speak, sir. 
Wol. What, amazed 
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, 
I am fall’n indeed. 


501. 


ACB TY. 0. RIG CEO AEE KING HENRY Vii. SCENE I. 


What and how true thou art: he will advance thee - 
Some little memory of me will stir him — 
I know his noble nature — not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell, 
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 
Crom. O my lord, 
Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego 
So ood, so noble and so true a master ? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
Too heavy fora man that hopes for heaven ! With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 
Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right | The king shall have my service; but my prayers 


Orom. How does your grace ? 
use of it. For ever and for ever shall be yours. 


Wol. Why, well; 
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoul- 
These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken [ders, 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour: 
O, tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’t is a burthen 


Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks, Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, In all my miseries : but thou hast forced me, 
To endure more miseries and greater far Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. Let ’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Crom- 
What news abroad ? And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, {well ; 


Crom. The heaviest and the worst | And "sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Is your displeasure with the king. Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, 
Wol. God bless him! | Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, 


Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Ph chancellor in your place. 

That ’s somewhat sudden: 
But he ’s alearned man. May he continue 
Long in his highness’ favour, and do justice 
For truth’s sake and his conscience; that his bones, 
When he has run his course and sleeps i in blessings, 
May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em! 
What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome, 
Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That ’s news indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, 
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view’d in open as his queen, 

Going to chapel; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 
Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me down. 
O Cromwell, 
The king has gone beyond me: all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever: 
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 
Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; 


And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? 
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. [thee ; 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. “Be just, and fear not: 
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 
Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O 
Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; 
And,— prithee, lead me in: 
There take an inventory of all I have, 
To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is ‘all 
I dare now call mineown. O Cr omwell, Cromwell! 
Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good sir, have patience. 


TI am a poor fall’n man, unworthy now Wol. So Thave. Farewell 
To be thy lord and master: seek the king: The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. 
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him [ Hxeunt. 
ES GAC EN. 
SCENE I.— A street in Westminster. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims 
‘ To be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, 
Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. He to be earl marshal: you may read the rest. 
First Gent. You’re well met once again. Sec. Gent. I thank you, sir: had I not known 
Sec. Gent. So are you. those customs, 
First Gent. You come to take your stand here, and | I should have been beholding to your paper. 
The Lady Anne pass from her coronation ? [behold | But, I beseech you, what’s become of Katharine, 
Sec. Gent. ’T is all my business. At our last en- | The princess dowager ? how goes her business ? 
counter, First Gent. That I can tell you too. The Arch- 
The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. Of Canterbury, accompanied with other [bishop 
First Gent. *T is very true: but that time offer’d | Learned and reverend fathers of his order, 
This, general joy. [sorrow; | Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off 
Sec. Gent. *T is well: the citizens, From Ampthill where the princess lay ; to which 
Iam sure, have shown at full their royal minds— | She was often cited by them, but appear’d not: 
As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward— | And, to be short, for not appearance and 
In celebration of this day with show S, | The king’s late scruple, by the main assent 
Pageants and sights of honour. , Of all these learned men she was divorced, 
First Gent. Never greater, | And the late marriage made of none effect : 
Nor, I ’ll assure you, better taken, sir. Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, 
Sec. Gent. May I be bold to ask what that con-| Where she remains now sick. 
That paper in your hand ? [tains, Sec. Gent. Alas, good lady! 
First Gent. Yes; ’tis the list [ Trumpets. 
Of those that claim their offices this day | The trumpets sound : stand close, the queen is com- 


By custom of the coronation. ing. [ Hautboys. 


502 


ACT IV. 


TING VN oY Ey, 


THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 


1. A lively flourish of Trumpets. 

2. Then, two Judges. [him. 
8. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before 
4. Choristers, singing. [| Music. 
5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Gar- 


ter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt 
copper crown. 

6. Marquess DorsET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on 
his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the 
Earl of SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with 
the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Col- 
lars of Ss. 

. Duke of SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coro- 
net on his head, bearing a long white wand, as 
high-steward. With him, the Duke of Nor- 
FOLK, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet 
on his head. Collars of SS. 

8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports ; 
under it, the Queen in her robe; in her hair 
richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each 
side her, the Bishops of London and Win- 
chester. 

9. Theold Duchess of NORFOLK, inacoronalof gold, 
wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train. 

10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets 

of gold without flowers. 

They pass over the stage in order and state. 


These I 


~I 


Sec. Gent. A royal train, believe me. 
Who’s that that bears the sceptre ? [know: 

First Gent. Marquess Dorset: 
And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. 

Sec. Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That should 
The Duke of Suffolk? [be 

First Gent. *T is the same: high-steward. 

Sec. Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk ? 

First Gent. ' 

Sec. Gent. 


Yes. 
Heaven bless thee ! 
[Looking on the Queen. 
Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on. 
Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; 
Our king has all the Indies in his arms, 
And more and richer, when he strains that lady; 
I cannot blame his conscience. ) 
First Gent. They that bear 
The cloth of honour over her, are four barons 
Of the Cinque-ports. [near her. 
Sec. Gent. Those men are happy ; and so are all are 
I take it, she that carries up the train 
Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. 
First Gent. It is; and all the rest are countesses. 
Sec. Gent. Their coronets sayso. These are stars 
And sometimes falling ones. [indeed ; 
First Gent. No more of that. 
| Hxit procession, and then a great flourish 
éeUs. 
Enter a third Gentleman. ph cerunapets 
First Gent. God save you, sir! where have you 
been broiling ? 
Third Gent. Among the crowd i’ the Abbey; 
where a finger . 
Could not be wedged in more: I am stifled 
With the mere rankness of their joy. 
Sec. Gent. 


You saw 
The ceremony ? 


Third Gent. That I did. 

First Gent. How was it ? 

Third Gent. Well worth the seeing. | 
Sec. Gent. Good sir. speak it to us. 


Third Gent. As wellasITamable. Therich stream 
Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen 
To a prepared place in the choir, fell off 
A distance from her; while her grace sat down 
To rest a while, some half an hour or so, 
in a rich chair of state, opposing freely 
The beauty of her person to the people. 


_ Willing to leave their burthen. 


SCENE II. 


Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman 
That ever lay by man: which when the people 
Had the full view of, such a noise arose 
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, 
As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks,— 
Doublets, I think,— flew up; and had their faces 
Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy 
I never saw before. Great-bellied women, 
That had not half a week to go, like rams 
In the old time of war, would shake the press, 
And make ’em reel before ’em. No man living 
Could say ‘ This is my wife’ there; all were woven 
So strangely in one piece. 
Sec. Gent. But, what follow’d ? 
Third Gent. At length her grace rose, and with 
modest paces 
Came to the altar; where she kneel’d, and saint-like 
Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray’d devoutly. 
Then rose again and bow’d her to the people: 
When by the Archbishop of Canterbury 
She had all the royal makings of a queen; 
As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, 
The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems 
Laid nobly on her: which perform’d, the choir, 
With all the choicest music of the kingdom, 
Together sung ‘Te Deum.’ So she parted, 
And with the same full state paced back again 
To York-place, where the feast is held. 

First Gent. Sir, 

You must no more ¢all it York-place, that ’s past; 
For, since the cardinal fell, that title ’s lost: 
*T is now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall. 

Third Gent. I know it; 
But ’tis so lately alter’d, that the old name 
Is fresh about me. 

Sec. Gent. What two reverend bishops 
Were those that went on each side of the queen ? 

Third Gent. Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of 

Winchester, 
Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary, 
The other, London. 

Sec. Gent. He of Winchester 
Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s, 
The virtuous Cranmer. 

Third Gent. All the land knows that : 
However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes, 
Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. 

Sec. Gent. Who may that be, I pray you ? 

Third Gent. Thomas Cromwell; 
A man in much esteem with the king, and truly 
A worthy friend. The king has made him master 
O”’ the jewel house, 

And one, already, of the privy council. 

Sec. Gent. He will deserve more. 

Third Gent. Yes, without all doubt. 
Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which 
Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests: 
Something I can command. As I walk thither, 

I ’ll tell ye more. 
Both. You may command us, sir. 


SCENE II.— Kimbolton. 
Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between Grif- 


[ Haueunt. 


| fith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman. 


Grif. How does your grace ? 

Kath. O Griffith, sick to death! 
My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth, 
Reach a chair: 
So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. 

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led’st me, 
That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, 


| Was dead ? 


Grif. Yes, madam; but I think your grace, 
Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to ’t. _ 
Kath. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died: 
If well, he stepp’d before me, happily 
For my example. 
503 


ACT IV. 
Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam: 
For after the stout Earl Northumberland 


Arrested him at York, and brought him forward, 
As aman sorely tainted, to his answer, 

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill 

He could not sit his mule. 

Kath. Alas, poor man! 

Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, 
Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, 
With all his covent, honourably received him; 

To whom he gave these words, ‘ O, father abbot, 
An old man, broken with the storms of state, 
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; 

Give him a little earth for charity!’ 

So went to bed; where eagerly his: ess 
Pursued him still: and, three nights after this, 
About the hour of eight, which he himself 
Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, 
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 

He gave his honours to the world again, 

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 

Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him! 
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 
And yet with charity. He was a man 
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking 
Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion, 
Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play ; 

His own opinion was his law: i’ the presence 
He would say untruths; and be ever double 
Both in his words and meaning: he was never, 
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful: 

His promises were, as he then was, mighty; 
But his performance, as he is now, nothing: 
Of his own body he was ill, and gave 

The clergy ill example. 

Grif. Noble madam, 

Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues 
We write in water. May it please your highness 
To hear me speak his good now ? 


Ce 01) Pere Yes, good Griffith ; 
I were malicious else. 
rif This cardinal, 


HU bj. 

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly 
Was tashion’d to much honour from his cradle. 
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; 
Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading: 
Lofty and sour to them that loved him not; 
But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. 
And though he were unsatisfied in getting, 
Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam, 
He was most princely: ever witness for him 
Those twins of learning that he raised in you, 
Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him, 
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; 
The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous, 
So excellent in art, and still so rising, 
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. 
His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him; 
For then, and not till then, he felt himself, 
And found the blessedness of being little : 
And, to add greater honours to his age 
Than man could give him, he died fearing God. 

Kath. After my death I wish no other herald, 
No other speaker of my living actions, 
To keep mine honour from corruption, 
But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 
Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, 
With thy religious truth and modesty, 
Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him! 
Patience, be near me still; and set me lower: 
I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, 
Cause the musicians play me that sad note 
I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating 
On that celestial harmony I go to. 

Sad and solemn music. 

Grif. She isasleep: good wench, let’s sit down quiet, 

For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience. 


504 


KING HENRY VILL 


SCENE II, 


The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, siz 
personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads 
arlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; 
Dieiiches of bays or palm in their hands. They first con- 
gee unto her, then dance ; and, at certain changes, the first 
two hold a spare garland over her head 3 at which the other 
four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held the 
garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe 
the same order in their changes, and holding the garland 
over her head: which done, they deliver the same garland 
to the last two, who likewise observe the same order: at 
which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep 
signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven: 
and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with 
them. The music continues. 


| Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all 
gone 

| And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? 

| Grif. Madam, we are here. 

} 


Kath. It is not you I call for: 
Saw ye none enter since I slept ? 
Grif. None, madam. 


Kath. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed 
Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces [troop 
| Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ? 
| They promised me eternal happiness; 
| And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel 
| I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly. 

Grif. 1am most joyful, madam, such good dreams 
Possess your fancy. 

Kath. 


Bid the music leave, 

| They are harsh and heavy to me. | Music ceases. 

| Pat. Do you note 

How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden ? 

How long her face is drawn ? how pale she looks, 

And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes! 
Grif. She is going, wench: pray, pray. 


Pat. Heaven comfort her! 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. An’t like your grace,— 
cath. You are a saucy fellow: 
Deserve we no more reverence ? 

Grif. You are to blame, 
Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, 
To use so rude behaviour; go to, kneel. 

Mess. I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon ; 
My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying 
A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you. 

Kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this 
Let me ne’er see again. [fellow 

[Exeunt Griffith and Messenger. 


Re-enter Griffith, with Capucius. 
If my sight fail not, 
You should be lord ambassador from the emperor, 
My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. 

Cap. Madam, the same; your servant. 

Kath. O, my lord, 
The times and titles now are alter’d strangely 
With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you, 
What is your pleasure with me ? 

Cap. Noble lady, 
First, mine own service to your grace; the next, 
The king’s request that I would visit you; 

Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me 
Sends you his princely commendations, 
And heartily entreats you take good comfort. [late; 

Kath. O my good lord, that comfort comes too 
’T is like a pardon after execution: 

That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; 
But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. 
How does his highness ? 

ap. Madam, in good health. 

Kath. So may he ever do! and ever flourish, 
When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name 
Banish’d the kingdom! Patience, is that letter, 

I caused you write, yet sent away ? 


ACT V. 


KING HENRY VIII. 


SCENE I, 


Pat. No, madam. 
[Giving it to Katharine. 
Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver 
This to my lord the king. 
Cap. Most willing, madam. 
Kath. In which I have commended to his good- 
ness 
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter: 
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her! 
Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding, — 
She is young, and of a noble modest nature, 
I hope she will deserve well, —and a little 
To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved him, 
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition 
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity 
Upon my wretched women, that so long 
Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully : 
Of which there is not one, I dare avow, 
And now I should not lie, but will deserve, 
For virtue and true beauty of the soul, 
For honesty and decent carriage, 
A right good husband, let him be a noble: 
nd, sure, those men are happy that shall have ’em. 
The last is, for my men; they are the poorest, 
But poverty could never draw ’em from me; 


That they may have their wages duly paid ’em, 
And something over to remember me by: 
If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life 
And able means, we had not parted thus. 
These are the whole contents: and, good my lord, 
By that you love the dearest in this world, 
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed 
Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king 
To do me this last right. 

Cap. By heaven, I will, 
Or let me lose the fashion of a man! 

kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me 
In all humility unto his highness: 
Say his long trouble now is passing 
Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless’d him, 
For so Iwill. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, 
My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, 
You must not leave me yet: I must to bed; 
Callin more women. When I am dead, good wench, 
Let me be used with honour: strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me, 
Then lay me forth: although unqueen’d, yet like 
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
I can no more, [Hxeunt, leading Katharine. 


Joe DOE ae 


SCENE I.— London. 


inter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with 
a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell. 


Gar. It’s one o’clock, boy, is ’t not ? 
Boy. It hath struck. 
Gar. These should be hours for necessities, 
Not for delights; times to repair our nature 
With comforting repose, and not f rus [Thomas! 
To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir 
Whither so late ? 
Low. Came you from the king, my lord ? 
Gar. I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at primero 
ie the Duke of Suffolk. 


A gallery in the palace. 


Ov. I must to him too, 
Before he go to bed. Ill take my leave. 

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the 

matter ? 

It seems you are in haste: an if there be 
No great offence belongs to ’t, give your friend 
Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk, 
As they say spirits do, at m.dnight, have 
In them a wilder nature than the business 
That seeks dispatch by day. 

Lov. My lord, I love you; 
And durst commend a secret to your ear [labour, 
Much weightier than this work. The queen’s in 
They say, in great extremity; and fear’d 
She 711 with the labour end. 

Gar. The fruit she goes with 
I pray for heartily, that it may find 
Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas, 
I wish it grubb’d up now. 

Lov. Methinks I could 
Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says 
She ’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does 
Deserve our better wishes. 

Gar. But, sir, sir, 

Hear me, Sir Thomas: you’re a gentleman 

Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious; 
And, let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, 

*T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take ’t of me, 
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, 
Sleep in their graves. 

Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two 
The most remark’di’ the kingdom. As for Cromwell, 
Beside that of the jewel house, is made master 


O’ the rolls, and the king’s secretary; further, sir, 
Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments, 
With which the time will load him. The archbishop 
Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak 
One syllable against him ? 
rar. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, 
There are that dare; and I myself have ventured 
To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day, 
Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have 
Incensed the lords 0’ the council, that he is, 
For so I know he is, they know he is, 
A most arch heretic, a pestilence 
That does infect the land: with which they moved 
Have broken with the king; who hath so far 
Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace 
And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs 
Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded 
To-morrow morning to the council-board 
He be convented. He’s arank weed, Sir Thomas, 
And we must root him out. From your affairs 
I hinder you too long: good-night, Sir Thomas. 
Lov. Many good-nights, my lord: I rest your ser- 
vant. [| Hxeunt Gardiner and Page. 


Enter the King and Suffolk. 
King. Charles, I will play no more to-night ; 
My mind’s not on ’t; you are too hard for me. 
Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before. 
King. But little, Charles; 
Nor shall not, when my fancy ’s on my play. 
Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news ? 
Lov. I could not personally deliver to her 
What you commanded me, but by her woman 
I sent your message; who return’d her thanks | 
In the great’st humbleness, and desired your high- 
Most heartily to pray for her. [ness 
King. What say’st thou, ha? 
To pray for her? what, is she crying out ? 
Lov. So said her woman; and that her sufferance 
Almost each pang a death. [made 
King. Alas, good lady ! 
Suf. God safely quit her of her burthen, and 
With gentle travail, to the gladding of 
Your highness with an heir ! Avy ' 
(ing. 'T is midnight, Charles ; 
Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember 
The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone; 
505 


ACT V. 


For I must think of that which company 
Would not be friendly to. 
Suf. I wish your highness 
A quiet night; and my good mistress will 
Remember in my prayers. 
King. Charles, good-night. [Hit Suffolk. 
Enter Sir Anthony Denny. 
Well, sir, what follows ? 
Den. Sir, 1 have brought my lord the archbishop, 
As you commanded me. 
King. Ha! 
Den. Ay, my good lord. 
King. ’T is true: where is he, Denny ? 
Den. He attends your highness’ pleasure. 
King. Bring him to us. 
[Haxit Denny. 


Low. [Aside] This is about that which the bishop 
I am happily come hither. [spake : 


Canterbury ? 


- Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer. 


King. Avoid the gallery. [Lovell seems to stay.] 
Ha! Ihave said. Be gone. . 
What! [Hxeunt Lovell and Denny. 

Cran. [Aside] I am fearful: wherefore frowns he 
°T is his aspect of terror. All’s not well.  [thus? 

King. How now, my lord! you do desire to know 
Wherefore I sent for you. 

Cran. [Kneeling] It is my duty 
To attend your highness’ pleasure. 

King. Pray you, arise, 
My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. 

Come, you and I must walk a turn together; [hand. 
I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your 
Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, 

And am right sorry to repeat what follows: 

I have, and most unwillingly, of late 

Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord, 

Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider’d, 
Have moved us and our council, that you shall 
This morning come before us: where, I know, 
You cannot with such freedom purge yourself, 

But that, till further trial in those charges 

Which will require your answer, you must take 
Your patience to you, and be well contented _— [us, 
To make your house our Tower: you a brother of 
It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness 

Would come against you. 

Cran. [Kneeling] I humbly thank your highness; 
And am right glad to catch this good occasion 
Most throughly to be winnow’d, where my chaff 
And corn shall fly asunder: for, I know, 

There ’s none stands under more calumnious tongues 
Than I myself, poor man. 

King. Stand up, good Canterbury: 
Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted 
In us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up: 
Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my holidame, 

What manner of man are you? My lord, I look’d 
You would have given me your petition, that 

I should have ta’en some pains to bring together 
Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you, 
Without indurance, further. 

Oran. Most dread liege, 

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty: 

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, 

Will triumph o’er my person; which I weigh not, 
Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing 
What can be said against me. 

King. Know you not 

How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole 
world ? [tices 
Your enemies are many, and not small; their prac- 
Must bear the same proportion; and not ever 
The justice and the truth o’ the question carries 
The due o’ the verdict with it: at what ease 
Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt 
To swear against you ? such things have been done. 
506 


KING CHIENIAY VOGEE 


SCENE II. 


You are potently opposed; and with a malice 
Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, 
I mean, in perjured witness, than your master, 
Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived 
Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to; 
You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 
And woo your own destruction. 

Cran. God and your majesty 
Protect mine innocence, or I fall into 
The trap is laid for me! 

King. Be of good cheer; 
They shall no more prevail than we give way to. 
Keep comfort to you; and this morning see 
You do appear before them: if they shall chance, 
In charging you with matters, to commit you, 
The best persuasions to the contrary 
Fail not to use, and with what vehemency 
The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties 
Will render you no remedy, this ring 
Deliver them, and your appeal to us [weeps! 
There make before them. Look, the good man 
He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother! 
I swear he is true-hearted; and a soul 
None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, 
And do as I have bid you. [Exit Cranmer.] He 
His language in his tears. [has strangled 


Enter Old Lady, Lovell following. 


Gent. [Within] Come back: what mean you ? 
Old LZ. I’ not come back; the tidings that I 
bring (gels 
Will make my boldness manners. Now, good an- 
Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person 
Under their blessed wings! 
King. 
IT guess thy message. 
Say, ay; and of a boy. 
Old L. 


Now, by thy looks 
Is the queen deliver’d ? 


_ Ay, ay, my liege; 

And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven 

Both now and ever bless her! ’tis a girl, 
Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen 
Desires your visitation, and to be 

Acquainted with this stranger: ’tis as like you 
As cherry is to cherry. 


King Lovell! 

Low. Sir? 

King. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the 
queen. jacit 


{ Heit. 
Old £. An hundred marks! By this light, 170 
An ordinary groom is for such payment. [ha’ more. 
I will have more, or scold it out of him. 
Said I for this, the girl was like to him? 
I will have more, or else unsay ’t; and now, 
While it is hot, 111 put it to the issue. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Before the council-chamber. 
Pursuiwants, Pages, &c., attending. 


Enter Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. 


Cran. I hope I am not too late; and yet the gen- 
tleman, 
That was sent to me from the council, pray’d me 
To make great haste. All fast ? what means this? 
Who waits there? Sure, you know me? fHo! 


Enter Keeper. 

Keep. 
But yet I cannot help you. 

Cran. Why ? 

Enter Doctor Butts. 

Keep. Your grace must wait till you be call’d for. 

Cran. So. 

Butts. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. Iam glad 
I came this way so happily: the king f 
Shall understand it presently. [ Hxit. 

Cran. [ Aside] ’T is Butts,* 


Yes, my lord; 


| The king’s physician: as he pass’d along, 


—— 


ACY V. 
How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! [tain, 
Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For cer- 


This is of purpose laid by some that hate me — 
God turn their hearts! I never sought their mal- 

ice — [make me 
To quench mine honour: they would shame to 
Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, jures 
*Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleas- 
Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience. 


Enter the King and Butts at a window above. 


Butts. Ill show your grace the strangest sight — 
King. What’s that, Butts ? 
Butts. I think your highness aes this many a day. 
King. Body 0’ me, where is it ? 

Butts. There, my lord: 
The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury ; 
Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants, 
Pages, and footboys. 

King. Ha! ’tis he, indeed: 

Is this the honour they do one another ? 

*T is well there ’s one above ’em yet. I had thought 
They had parted so much honesty among ’em, 

At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer 

A man of his place, and so near our favour, 

To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures, 
And at the door too, like a post with packets. 

By holy Mary, Butts, there ’s knavery: 
Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close : 
We shall hear more anon. [ Hixceunt. 


SCENE III.— The Council-Chamber. 
Enter Lord Chancellor; places himself at the wpper end 
of the table on the left hand; a seat being left void above 
him, as for Canterbury’s seat. Duke of Suffolk, 

Duke of Norfolk, Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gar- 

diner, seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell 

at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door. 

Chan. Speak to the business, master secretary : 
Why are we met in council ? 

Crom. Please your honours, 
The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury. 

Gar. Has he had knowledge of it ? 

Crom. Yes 
Nor Who mate there ? 

Keep. Without, my noble lords ? 

Gar. Yes. 

Keep. My lord archbishop ; 
And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. 

Chan. Let him come in. 

Keep. Your grace may enter now. 

Orage enters and approaches the council-table. 

Chan. My good lord archbishop, I’m very sorry 
To sit here at this present, and behold 
That chair stand empty : but we all are men, 

In our own natures frail, and capable 

Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty 
And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, 
Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little, 
Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling 

The whole realm, by your teaching and your chap- 
For so we are inform’d, with new opinions, [lains, 
Divers and dangerous ; which are heresies, 

And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious. 

Gar. Which reformation must be sudden too, 
My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses 
Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle, 
But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur 
Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, em, 
Out of our easiness and childish pity 
To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, 
Farewell all physic: and what follows then ? 
Commotions, uproars, with a general taint 
Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours, 


‘The upper Germany, can dearly witness, 


Yet freshly pitied in our memories. 
Oran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress 
Both of my life and office, I have labour d, 


ING TE TEIN EOYs VBEL. 


SCENE III. 


And with no little study, that my teaching 
And the strong course of my authority 
Might go one way, and safely; and the end 
Was ever, to do well: nor is there living, 
I speak it with a single heart, my lords, 
A man that more detests, more stirs against, 
Both in his private conscience and his place, 
Defacers of a public peace, than I do. 
Pray heaven, the king may never find a heart 
With less allegiance in it! Men that make 
Envy and crooked malice nourishment 
Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships, 
That, in this case of justice, my accusers, 
Be what they will, may stand forth face to face, 
And freely urge ag ainst me. 
Su Nay, my lord, 
That cannot be: you are a counsellor, 
And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you. 
Gar. My lord, because we have business of more 
moment, [ure, 
We will be short with you. ’T is his highness’ pleas- 
And our consent, for better trial of you, 
From hence you be committed to the Tower; 
Where, being but a private man again, 
You shali know many dare accuse you boldly, 
More than, I fear, you are provided for. [you; 
Cran. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank 
You are always my good friend; if your will pass, 
I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, 
You are so merciful: I see your end 
*T is my undoing: love and meekness, lord, 
Become a churchman better than ambition: 
Win straying souls with modesty again, 
Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, 
Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, 
I make as little doubt, as you do conscience 
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, 
But reverence to your calling makes me modest. 
Gar. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary, 
That ’s the plain ‘truth: your painted gloss discovers, 
To men that understand you, words and weakness. 
Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little, 
By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble, 
However faulty, yet should find respect 
For what they have been: ’t.is a cruelty 
To load a falling man. 
Gar. Good master secretary, 
I ery your honour mercy; you may, worst 
Of all this table, say so. 
Crom. Why, my lord? 
Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer 
Of this new sect ? ye are not sound. 
Crom. Not sound ? 
Gar. Not sound, I say. 
Crom. "Would you were half so honest! 
Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears. 
Gar. I shall remember this bold language. 


Crom. Do. 
Remember your bold life too. 

Chan. This is too much; 
Forbear, for shame, my lords. 

Gar. I have done. 

Crom. _ And I. 

Chan. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands 
I take it, by all voices, that for thwith [agreed, 


You be convey’ *d to the Tower a prisoner ; 
There to remain till the king’s further pleasure 
Be known unto us: are you all agreed, lords ? 

All. We are., 

Oran. Is there no other way of mercy, 
But I must needs to the Tower, my lords? 

Garner What other 
Would you expect ? you are strangely troublesome. 
Let some o’ the guard be ready there. 


Enter Guard. ‘ 
Oran. For me? 


Must I go like a traitor thither : ? 
DOT 


ACT V. KING HENRY VIII. SCENE IV. 
Gar. Receive hin, | In such an honour: how may I deserve it, 

And see him safe i’ the Tower. That ama poor and humble subject to you ? 
Cran. Stay, good my lords, King. Come, come, my lord, you’ld spare your 


I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; 
By virtue of that ring, I take my cause 

Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it 

To a most noble judge, the king my master. 

Cham. This is the king’s ring. 

Sur. *T is no counterfeit. 

Suf. ’T is the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all, | 
When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, 
*T would fall upon ourselves. 

or. Do you think, my lords, 
The king will suffer but the little finger 
Of this man to be vex’d ? 

Chan. °T is now too certain: 
How much more is his life in value with him ? 
Would I were fairly out on’t! 

Crom. My mind gave me, 
In seeking tales and informations 
Against this man, whose honesty the devil 
And his disciples only envy at, 
Ye blew the fire that burns ye: 


now have at ye! 


Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat. 


Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to 
In daily thanks, that gave ussuchaprince; [heaven 
Not only good and wise, but most religious: 

One that, in all obedience, makes the church 
The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen 
That holy duty, out of dear respect, 

His royal self in judgment comes to hear 

The cause betwixt her and this great offender. 

King. You were ever good at sudden commenda- 
Bishop of Winchester. But know,I come not [tions, 
To hear such flattery now, and in my presence; 
They are too thin and bare to hide offences. 

To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel, 


| The common voice, I see, is verified 


And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; 
But, whatsoe’er thou takest me for, I’m sure 
Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [proudest 
| To Cranmer |Good man,sit down. Now let mesee the 
He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee: 
By all that’s holy, he had better starve 
Than but once think this place becomes thee not. 
Sur. May it please your grace, — 
King. No, sir, it does not please me. 
I had thought [had had men of some understanding 
And wisdom of my council; but I find none. 
Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, 
This good man, —few of you deserve that title, — 
This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy 
At chamber-door ? and one as great as you are ? 
Why, what ashame was this! Did my commission 
Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye 


| 


Power as he was a counsellor to try him, 
Not as a groom: there’s some of ye, I see, 
More out of malice than integrity, 

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; 
Which ye shall never have while I live. 

Chan. Thus far, 
My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace 
To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed 
Concerning his imprisonment, was rather, 

If there be faith in men, meant for his trial, 
And fair purgation to the world, than malice, 
I’m sure, in me. 

King. Well, well, my lords, respect him; | 
Take him, and use him well, he’s worthy of it. 
I will say thus much for him, if a prince 
May be beholding to a subject, I 
Am, for his love and service, so to him. 
Make me no more ado, but all embrace him: [bury, 
Be friends, for shame,my lords! My Lord of Canter- 
I have a suit which you must not deny me; 
That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism, 
You must be godfather, and answer for her. 

Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory | 


508 


spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; 
the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dor- 
set: will these please you 3 
Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, 
Embrace and love this man. 


Gar. 

And brother-love I do it. 
Cran. And let heaven 

Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation. [heart: 
King. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true 


ury 
Of thee, which says thus, ‘Do my Lord of Canter- 
A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.’ 
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long 
To have this young one made a Christian. 
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain; 
So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [Exewnt. 


SCENE IV. — The palace yard. 


Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. 


Port. Youll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: 
do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude 
slaves, leave your gaping. [larder. 

| Within] Good master porter, I belong to the 

Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye 
rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch mea dozen 


With a true heart 


| crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but 
| switches to 


’em. Ill seratch your heads: you 
must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale 
and cakes here, you rude rascals ? 

Man. Pray, sir, be patient: ’tis as much impos- 
Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons — 
To scatter ’em, as ’t is to make ’em sleep 
On May-day morning; which will never be: 

We may as well push against Powle’s, as stir ’em. 

Port. How got they in, and be hang’d ? 

Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in ? 
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot — 

You see the poor remainder — could distribute, 
I made no spare, sir. 

Port. You did nothing, sir. 

Man. Lam not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, 
To mow ’em down before me: but if I spared any 
That had a head to hit, either young or old, 

He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, 
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again; 


| And that I would not for a cow, God save her! 


[ Within] Do you hear, master porter ? 

Port. I shall be with you presently, good master 
puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. 

Man. What would you have me do ? 

Port. What should you do, but knock ’em down by 
the dozens ? Is this Moorfields to muster in ? or have 
we some strange Indian with the great tool come to 
court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a 
fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian con- 
science, this one christening will beget a thousand; 
here will be father, godfather, and all together. 

Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There 
is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a 
brazier by his face, for, 0’ my conscience, twenty 
of the dog-days now reign in’s nose; all that stand 
about him are under the line, they need no other 
penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on 
the head, and three times was his nose discharged 
against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to 
blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small 
wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked 
porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a com- 
bustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and 
hit that woman; who cried out ‘Clubs!’ when I 
might see from far some forty truncheoners draw 
to her succour, which were the hope o’ the Strand, 
where she was quartered. They fell on; I made 


.\ 


[sible— - 


ee > 


fer 


ACT <V.. 


good my place: at length they came to the broom- 
staff to me; I defied ’em still: when suddenly a file 
of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a 
shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine 
honour in, and let ’em win the work: the devil was 
amongst ’em, I think, surely. 

Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play- 
house, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, 
but the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of 
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. 
I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there 
they are like to dance these three days; besides the 
running banquet of two beadles that is to come. 


Enter Lord Chamberlain. 


Cham. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! 
They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, 
Asif we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, 
These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fel- 
There ’s a trim rabble let in: are all these _[lows: 
Your faithful friends 0’ the suburbs ? Weshall have 
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, 
When they pass back from the christening. 

P-0rt. An ’t please your honour, 
We are but men; and what so many may do, 

Not being torn a-pieces, we have done: 
An army cannot rule ’em. 
Cham. As I live, 
If the king blame me for ’t, Ill lay ye all 
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads 
Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves; 
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when 
Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; 
They ’re come already from the christening: 
Go, break among the press, and find a way out 
To let the troop pass fairly; or I ll find 
A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. 

Port. Make way there for the princess. 

Man. . You great fellow, 
Stand close up, or Ill make your head ache. 

Port. You Vv the camlet, get up o’ the rail ; 

Ill peck you o’er the pales else. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— The palace. 


Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord 
Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his 
marshal’s stajj, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bear- 
ing great standing-bowls for the christening-gifts ; then 
four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the 
Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child richly 
habited in a muntle, &c., train borne by u Lady ; then fol- 
lows the Marchioness Dorset, the other godmother, and 
Ladies. The troop puss once about the stage, and Garter 
speaks. 

Gart. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send 
prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high 
and mighty princess of England, Elizabeth! 


Flourish. Enter King and Guard. 


Cran. [Kneeling] And to your royal grace, and 
the good queen, 
My noble partners, and myself, thus pray : 
All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, 
Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, 
May hourly fall upon ye! 


King. Thank you, good lord archbishop: 
What is her name ? 

Cran. Elizabeth. 

King. Stand up, lord. 


[The King kisses the child. 
With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! 
Into whose hand I give thy life. 

Oran. Amen. 

King. My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal : 
I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady, 
When she has so much English. 

Cran. Let me spent, sir, 
For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter 


KING HENRY VIII. 


SCENE V. 


Let none think flattery, for they ’Il find ’em truth. 
This royal infant — heaven still move about her! — 
Though in her cradle, yet now promises 
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 
Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be— 
But few now living can behold that goodness — 
A pattern to all princes living with her, 
And all that shall succeed: Saba was never 
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue 
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces, 
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, 
With all the virtues that attend the good, 
Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her, 
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her: 
She shall be loved and fear’d: her own shall bless 
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, [her ; 
And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with 
In her days every man shall eat in safety, {her: 
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing 
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours: 
God shall be truly known; and those about her 
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, 
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. 
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when 
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden pheenix, 
Her ashes new create another heir, 
As great in admiration as herself; 
So shall she leave her blessedness to one, {ness, 
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of dark- 
Who from the sacred ashes of her honour 
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, 
And so stand fix’d: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 
That were the servants to this chosen infant, 
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him: 
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, 
His honour and the greatness of his name 
Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish, 
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
To all the plains about him: our children’s children 
Shall see this, and bless heaven. 
ing. Thou speakest wonders. 

Oran. She shall be, to the happiness of England, 
An aged princess; many days shall see her, 
And yet no day without a deed to crown it. 


| Would I had known no more! but she must die, 


She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin, 

A most unspotted lily shall she pass 

To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her. 
King. O lord archbishop, 

Thou hast made me now a man! never, before 

This happy child, did I get any thing: 

This oracle of comfort has so pleased me, 

That when I am in heaven I shall desire 

To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. 

I thank ye all. To you, my good lord mayor, 

And your good brethren, I am much beholding ; 

I have received much honour by your presence, 

And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords: 

Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye, 

She will be sick else. This day, no man think 

Has business at his house; for all shall stay : 

This little one shall make it holiday. { Haeunt. 


EPILOGUE. 


’'T is ten to one this play can never please 

All that are here: some come to take their ease, 
And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, 
We have frighted with our trumpets; so, ’t is clear, 
They ’ll say ’t is naught: others, to hear the city 
Abused extremely, and to ery ‘ That ’s witty!’ 
Which we have not done neither: that, I fear, 
All the expected good we’re like to hear 

For this play at this time, is only in 

The merciful construction of good women ; 

For such a one we show’d ’em: if they smile, 
And say ’t will do, I know, within a while 

All the.best men are ours; for tis ill hap, 

If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap. 


509 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4, 


Priam, King of Troy. | 

Hector, 

Troilus, 

Paris, 

Deiphobus, 

Helenus, 

Margarelon, a bastard son of Priam. 

Aineas, 

Antenor, 

Calchas, a Trojan priest, taking part with the 
sreeks. 

Pandarus, uncle to Cressida. 

Agamemnon, the Grecian general. 

Menelaus, his brother. 

Achilles, 

Ajax, 


his sons. 


| 


Trojan commanders. 


Grecian princes, 


Ulysses, 
Nestor, 
Diomedes, 
Patrocius, 
Thersites, a deformed and scurrilous Greciaa. 
Alexander, servant to Cressida. 

Servant to Troilus. 

Servant to Paris. 

Servant to Diomedes. 

Helen, wife to Menelaus. 

Andromache, wife to Hector. 

Cassandra, daughter to Priam, a prophetess. 
Cressida, daughter to Calchas. 


, Grecian princes. 


Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants. 
SCENE-- Troy, and the Grecian camp before #. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page L1x.] 


lead exh Geng Ln OUR Gal bid be 


In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece 
The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed, 
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, 
Fraught with the ministers and instruments 

Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore 

Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay 

Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made 
To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures 
The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, 

With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the quarrel. 
To Tenedos they come; 

And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge 
Their warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains 
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch 

Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city, 
Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, 


And Antenorides, with massy staples 

And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, 

Sperr up the sons of Troy. 

Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, 

On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, 

Sets all on hazard: and hither am I come 

A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence 

Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited 

In like conditions as our argument, 

To tell you, fair beholders, that our play 

Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, 
Beginning in the middle, starting thence away 
To what may be digested in a play. 

Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are: 
Now good or bad, ’t is but the chance of war. 


pve sil Figg 


SCENE I.—Troy. Before Priam’s palace. 


Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus. 


Tro. Call here my varlet; Ill unarm again: 

Why should I war without the walls of Troy, 
That find such cruel battle here within ? 
Each Trojan that is master of his heart, 

Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none. 

Pan. Will this gear ne’er be mended ? [strength, 

Tro. The Greeks are strong and skilful to their 
Iierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant ; 
But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, 

Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, 
Less valiant than the virgin in the night, 
And skilless as unpractised infancy. 

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for 
my part, I 71] not meddle nor make no further. He 
that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs 
tarry the grinding. 


510 


Tro. Have I not tarried ? 
Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the 
Tro. Have I not tarried ? [leavening. 
Pan. Ay, the bolting, but you must tarry the 
Tro. Still have I tarried. 


[bolting. 


Pan. Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the — 


word ‘ hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the 
cake, the heating of the oven and the baking; nay, 
you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance 
to burn your lips. 

Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be, 
Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. 
At Priam’s royal table do I sit: 
And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,— 
So, traitor! ‘When she comes!’ When is she 

thence ? 

Pan. Well, she looked yesternight fairer than 
ever I saw her look, or any woman else. 

Tro. I was about to tell thee: —when my heart, 


| 


, 


ACT I. 


As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, 
Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, 

T have, as when the sun doth light a storm, 
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile: 

But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming gladness, 
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. 

Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than 
Helen’s— well, go to—there were no more com- 
parison between the women: but, for my part, she 
is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, 
praise her: but I would somebody had heard her 
talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your 
sister Cassandra’s wit, but — 

Tro. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,— 
When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown’d, 
Reply not in how many fathoms deep 
They lie indrench’d. I tell thee lam mad 
In Cressid’s love: thou answer’st ‘ she is fair; ’ 
Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart 
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, 
Handlest in thy discourse, O, that her hand, 

In whose comparison all whites are ink, 

Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure 
The cygnet’s down is harsh and spirit of sense 
Tiard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell’st 
As true thou tell’st me, when I say Iloveher; [me, 
But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, 

Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me 
The knife that made it. 

Pan. I speak no more than truth. 

Tro. Thou dost not speak so much. 

Pan. Faith, Ill not meddle in ’t. Let her be as 
she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; an she | 
be not, she has the mends in her own hands. | 

Tro. Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus! 

Pan. I have had my labour for my travail; ill- 
thought on of her and ill-thought on of you; gone 
between and between, but small thanks for my 
labour. [me ? 

Tro. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with 

Pan. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not 
so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she 
would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. 
But what care [? I care not an she were a black- 
a-moor; *tis all one to me. 

Tro. Say I she is not fair ? 

Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She’s 
a fool to stay behind her father; let her to the 
Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her: 
for my part, 1’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the 

Tro. Pandarus,— [matter. 

Pan. Not I. 

Tro. Sweet Pandarus,— 

Pan. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave 
all as I found it, and there an end. 

[Hxit Pandarus. An alarwm. 

Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, 

rude sounds! 
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, 
When with your blood you daily paint her thus. 
1 cannot fight upon this argument ; 
It is too starved a subject for my sword. 
But Pandarus,—O gods, how do you plague me! 
I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; 
And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo, 
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. 
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, 
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we ? 
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl: 
Between our [lium and where she resides, 
Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood, 
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar 
Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark. 


{ 


| 
{ 


| 


Alarum. Enter Atneas. 


Aime. How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not 
afield ? 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


Pan. 
| talk of ? 
_ cousin ? 


SCENE IT, 


Tro. Because not there: this woman’s answer 
For womanish it is to be from thence. [sorts, 
What news, neas, from the field to-day ? 

Aime. That Paris is returned home and hurt. 

Tro. By whom, Aneas ? ; 

LEne. Troilus, by Menelais. 

Tro. Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn ; 
Paris is gored with Menelaus’ horn. [ Alarun. 

Aine. Hark, what good sport is out of town to- 

day ! [‘ may.’ 

Tro. Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were 
But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither ? 

Hine. In all swift haste. 

Tro. Come, go we then together. 


| Mxeunt. 
SCENE II.— The same. A street. 


Enter Cressida and Alexander. 
Cres. Who were those went by ? 


Alex. Queen Hecuba and Helen. 
Cres. And whither go they ? 
Alex. Up to the eastern tower, 


Whose height commands as subject all the vale, 
To see the battle. Hector, whose patience 
Is, as a virtue, fix’d, to-day was moved: 
He chid Andromache and struck his armourer, 
And, like as there were husbandry in war, 
Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, 
And to the field goes he; where every flower 
Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw 
In Hector’s wrath. 
Cres. What was his cause of anger ? 
Alex. The noise goes, this: there is among the 
Greeks 
A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; 
They call him Ajax. 
res. Good; and what of him ? 
Alex. They say he is a very man per se, 
And stands alone. 

Cres. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, 
or have no legs. 

Alex. This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts 
of their particular additions; he is as valiant as the 
lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a 
man into whom nature hath so crowded humours 
that his valour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced 
with discretion: there is no man hath a virtue that 
he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint 
but he carries some stain of it: he is melancholy 
without cause, and merry against the hair: he hath 
the joints of every thing, but every thing so out of 
joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and 
no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight. 

Cres. But how should this man, that makes me 
smile, make Hector angry ? ; 

Alex. They say he yesterday coped Hector in the 
battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame 
whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and 
waking. 

Cres. 

Alex. 


Who comes here ? 
Madam, your uncle Pandarus. 


Enter Pandarus. 


Hector’s a gallant man. 

As may be in the world, lady. 

What ’s that ? what ’s that ? 

Good morrow, uncle Pandarus. 

Good morrow, cousin Cressid: what do you 
Good morrow, Alexander. How do you, 
When were you at [lium ? 

Cres. This morning, uncle, 
Pan. What were you talking of when I caine? 

Was Hector armed and gone ere ye came to Ilium? 

Helen was not up, was she ? 

Ores. Hector was gone, but Helen was not up. 

Pan. Even so: Hector was stirring early. 

Cres. That were we talking of, and of his anger. 
all 


Cres. 
Alex. 
Pan. 
Cres. 


ACT I. 


lek Was he'aipty? |) ee ME BN yet ana cee ee Was he angry ? 

Cres. So he says here. 

Pan. True, he was so: I know the cause too: 
hell lay about him to-day, I can tell them that: 
and there’s Troilus will not come far behind him; 
let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that 

Ores. What, is he angry too ? [too. 

Pan. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man 
of the two. 

Ores. O Jupiter! there ’s no comparison. 

Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hector? 
Do you know a man if you see him ? 

Cres. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. 

Pan. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus. 

Cres. Then you say aS I say; for, I am sure, he 
is not Hector. 


Pan. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some de- 
grees. 

Cres. ’T is just to each of them; he is himself. 

Pan. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he 

Ores. So he is. wer 

Pan. Condition, I had gone barefoot to India. 

Cres. He is not Hector. 


Himself! no, he’s not himself: would a’ 
were himself! Well, ‘the gods are above; time must 
friend or end: well, Troilus, well: I would my 
heart were in her body. No, Hector is not a better 
man than Troilus. 

Cres. Excuse me. 

Pan. He is elder. 

Cres. Pardon me, pardon me. 

Pan. Th’ other’s not come to’t; you shall tell 
me another tale, when th’ other’s come to’t. Hector 
shall not have his wit this year. 

Cres. He shall not need it, if he have his own. 

Pan. Nor his qualities. 

Cres. No matter. 

Pan. Nor his beauty. 

Ores. "T would not become him; his own’s better. 

Pan. You have no judgment, ‘niece: Helen her- 
self swore th’ other day, that Troilus, for a brown 
favour—for so ’tis, 1 must confess,—not brown 
neither ,— 

Ores. N 0, but brown. 

Pan. "Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. 

Cres. To say the truth, true and not true. 

Pan, She praised his complexion above Paris. 

Ores. Why, Paris hath colour enough. 

Pan. So he has. 

Ores. Then Troilus should have too much: if she 
praised him above, his complexion is higher than 
his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, 
is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I 
had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended 
Troilus for a copper nose. 

Pan. I swear to you, I think Helen loves him 
better than Paris. 

Ores. Then she’s a merry Greek indeed. 

Fun. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him 
th’ other day into the compassed window,—and, 
you know, he has not past three or four hairs on 
his chin,— 

Cres. Indeed, a tapster’s arithmetic may soon 
bring his particulars therein to a total. 

Pan. Why, he is very young: and yet will he, 
within three pound, lift as much as his brother 
Hector. 

Cres. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter ? 
Pan. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: 
fe came and puts me her white hand to his cloven 

chin — 

Cres. Juno have merey! how came it cloven ? 

Pan. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled: I think his 
smiling becomes him better than any man in all 

Cres. O, he smiles RAL [ Phrygia. 

Pan. Does he not ? 

Ores. O yes, and ’t were a cloud in autumn. 


512 


TROILUS AND 


corr. PROLLUS AND CRESSIDA, SCENE II, 


Pan. Why, go to, then: but to prove to you that 
Helen loves Troilus, — 

Cres. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you ll 
prove it so. 

Pan. Troilus! why, he esteems her no more than 
I esteem an addle egg. 

Cres. If you love an addle egg as well as you love 
an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ the shell. 

Pan. I cannot choose but laugh, to think how 
| she tickled his chin: indeed, she ‘has a marvellous 
white hand, I must needs confess, — 

Cres. Without the rack. 

Pan. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair 
on his chin. 

Cres. Alas, poor chin! many a wart is richer. 

Pan. But there was such laughing Queen Hec- 
uba laughed that her eyes ran o’er. 
| Cres. With mill-stones. 

Pan. And Cassandra laughed. 
Cres. But there was more temperate fire under 
the pot of her eyes: did her eyes run o’er too? 
Pan. And Hector laughed. 
Cres. At what was all this laughing ? 
Pan. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied 
on Troilus’ chin. (laughed too. 
Cres. An’t had been a green hair, I should have 
Pan. They laughed not so much at the hair as at 
his pretty answer. 
Cres. What was his answer ? 
Pan. Quoth she, ‘ Here’s but two and fifty hairs 
our chin, and one of them is white.’ 
res. This is her question. 
Pan. That’s true; make no question of that. 
‘Two and fifty hairs,? quoth he, ‘and one white: 
that white hair is my tather, and ‘all the rest are his 
‘ Jupiter! ? quoth she, which of these hairs 
is Paris my husband?’ ‘The forked one,’ quoth 
he, ‘pluck ’t out, and give it him.’ But there was 
such laughing! and Helen so blushed, and Paris so 
chafed, and all the rest so laughed, that it passed. 

Cres. So let it now; for it has been a great while 
going by. {think on ’t. 

Pan. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday ; 

Cres. So I do. 

Pan. I’ll be sworn ’tis true; he will weep you, 

an ’t were a man born in April. 

Cres. And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’t were 
a nettle against May. A retreat sounded. 

Pan. Hark! they are coming from the field: shall 
we stand up here, and see them as they pass toward 
Tlium ? good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida. 

Ores. At your pleasure. 

Pan. Here, here, here’s an excellent place; here 
we may see most bravely: I Il tell you them all by 
their names as they pass by; but mark Troilus above 

Cres. Speak not so loud. Loe rest. 


on 


sons.’ 


Aaneas passes. 


Pan. That’s A®neas: is not that a brave man ? 
he’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you: but 
mark Troilus; you shall see anon. 


Antenor passes. 


Cres. Who’s that ? 

Pan. That ’s Antenor: he has a shrewd wit, f can 
tell you; and he’s a man good enough: he’s one 0” 
| the soundest judgments in Troy, whosoever, and a 
| proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I i 
show you Troilus anon: if he see me, you shall see 
him nod at me. 

Ores. Will he give you the nod ? 

Pan. You shall see. 

Ores. If he do, the rich shall have more. 


Hector passes. 


Pan. That’s Hector, that, that, look you, that; 
there ’s a fellow! Go thy way, Heetor! “There ’s a 


i 


ACT I. 


brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he 
looks! there ’s a countenance! is ’t not a brave man? 

Ores. O, a brave man! 

Pan. Isa’ not ? it does a man’s heart good. Look 
you what hacks are on his helmet! look you yonder, 
do you see? look you there: there’s no jesting; 
there ’s laying on, take ’t off who will, as they say: 
there be hacks! 

Cres. Be those with swords ? 

Pan. Swords! any thing, he cares not; an the devil 
come to him, it’s all one: by God’s lid, it does one’s 
heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes 
Paris. ; ' 

Paris passes. 
Look ye yonder, niece; is ’t not a gallant man too, 
is*t not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he 
came hurt home to-day? he’s not hurt: why, this 
will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would I could 
see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon. 


Helenus passes. 


Cres. Who’s that ? 

Pan. That’s Helenus. 
is. That’s Helenus. 
to-day. That’s Helenus. 

Cres. Can Helenus fight, uncle ? 

Pan. Helenus? no. Yes, he’ll fight indifferent 
well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not 
hear the people cry‘ Troilus’? Helenus isa priest. 

Cres. What sneaking fellow comes yonder ? 


Troilus passes. 

Pan. Where? yonder? that’s Deiphobus. ’T is 
Troilus! there’s a man, niece! Hem! Brave 
Troilus! the prince of chivalry! 

Cres. Peace, for shame, peace! 


Pan. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! 
Look well upon him, niece: look you how his sword 
is bloodied, and his helm more hacked than Hector’s, 
and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable 
youth ! he ne’er saw three and twenty. Go thy way, 
Troilus, go thy way! Had Ia sister were a grace, 
or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. 
O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; 
and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye 

Cres. Here come more. [to boot. 


Forces pass. 


Pan. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff 
and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and 
die 1’ the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look; 
the eagles are gone: crows and daws, crows and 
daws! Ihad rather be such a man as Troilus than 
Agamemnon and all Greece. 

Cres. There is among the Greeks Achilles, a bet- 
ter man than Troilus. 

Pan. Achilles! a drayman, a porter, a very camel. 

Cres. Well, well. 

Pan. ‘ Well, well!’ Why, have you any discre- 
tion ? have you any eyes ? do you know what aman 
is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, 
manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, lib- 
erality, and such like, the spice and salt that sea- 
son a man ? 

Ores. Ay, a minced man: and then to be baked 
with no date in the pie, for then the man’s date’s out. 

Pan. You are such a woman! one knows not at 
what ward you lie. 

Cres. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon 
my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to 
defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my 
beauty; and you, to defend all these: and at all 
these wards I lie, at a thousand watches. 

Pan. Say one of your watches. 

Cres. Nay, 1’ll watch you for that; and that’s 
one of the chiefest of them too: if I cannot ward 
what I would not have hit, I can watch you for 

33 


LROPL OS AND 


I marvel where Troilus ' 
I think he went not forth | 


CRESSIDA. SCENE III, 


telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past 
hiding, and then it ’s past watching. 
Pan. You are such another! 


Enter Troilus’s Boy. 
Boy. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you. 
Pan. Where ? 
Boy. At your own house; there he unarms him. 
Pan. Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.] I 
doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece. 
Cres. Adieu, uncle. 
Pan. I’ll be with you, niece, by and by. 
Ores. To bring, uncle ? 
Pan. Ay, a token from Troilus. 
Cres. By the same token, you are a bawd. 
[Heit Pandarus. 
Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, 
He offers in another’s enterprise: 
But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see 
Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be; 
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: 
Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. 
That she beloved knows nought that knows not this: 
Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is: 
That she was never yet that ever knew 
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue. 
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: 
Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech: 
Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear, 
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE ITI.— The Grecian camp. Before 
Agamemnon’s tent. 
Sennet. Hnter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, 


Menelaus, and others. 

Agam. Princes, 
What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks ? 
The ample proposition that hope makes 
Tn all designs begun on earth below 
Fails in the promised largeness: checks and disasters 
Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, 
As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, 
Infect the sound pine and divert his grain 
Tortive and errant from his course of growth. 
Nor, princes, is it matter new to us 
That we come short of our suppose so far 
That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; 
Sith every action that hath gone before, 
Whereof we have record, trial did draw 
Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, 
And that unbodied figure of the thought 
That gave ’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes, 
Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works, 
And call them shames ? which are indeed nought else 
But the protractive trials of great Jove 
To find persistive constancy in men: 
The fineness of which metal is not found 
In fortune’s love; for then the bold and coward, 
The wise and fool, the artist and unread, 
The hard and soft, seem all affined and kin: 
But, in the wind and tempest of her frown, 
Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, 
Puffing at all, winnows the light away: 
And what hath mass or matter, by itself 
Lies rich in virtue and unmingled. 

Nest. With due observance of thy godlike seat, 
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply 
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance 
Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth, 
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail 
Upon her patient breast, making their way 
With those of nobler bulk! 
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage 
The gentle Thetis, and anon behold [cut. 
The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains 


518 


ACT I. 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. SCENE III. 


Bounding between the two moist elements, 
Like Perseus’ horse: where ’s then the saucy boat 
Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now 
Co-rivall’d greatness? Hither to harbour fled, 
Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so 
Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide 
In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness 
The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze 
Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind 
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, [courage 
And flies fled under shade, why, then the thing of 
As roused with rage with rage doth sympathize, 
And with an accent tuned in selfsame key 
Retorts to chiding fortune. 
Ulyss. Agamemnon, 
Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, 
Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit, 
In whom the tempers and the minds of all 
Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks. 
Besides the applause and approbation 
The which, [Zo Agamemnon] most mighty for thy 
place and sway, [out life 
[ To Nest.] And thou most reverend for thy stretch’d- 
I give to both your speeches, which were such 
As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece 
Should hold up high in brass, and such again 
As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, 
Should with a bond of air, strong as the axletree 
On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears 
To his experienced tongue, yet let it please both, 
Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. 
Agam. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be ’t of less 
That matter needless, of importless burden, 
Divide thy lips, than we are confident, 
When rank Thersites opes his mastic Jaws, 
We shall hear music, wit and oracle. 
Ulyss. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, 
And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, 
But for these instances. 
The specialty of rule hath been neglected : 
And, look, how many Grecian tents do stand 
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. 
When that the general is not like the hive 
To whom the foragers shall all repair, 
What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, 
The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. 
The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre 
Observe degree, priority and place, 
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, 
Office and custom, in all line of order; 
And therefore is the glorious planet Sol 
In noble eminence enthroned and sphered 
Amidst the other; whose medicinable eye 
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, 
And posts, like the commandment of a king, 
Sans check to good and bad: but when the planets 
In evil mixture to disorder wander, 
What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! 
What raging of the sea! shaking of earth! 
Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors, 
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate 
The unity and married calm of states 
(Quite from their fixure! € 
Which is the ladder to all high designs, 
Then enterprise is sick! 
Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities, 
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, 
The primogenitive and due of birth, 
Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, 
But by degree, stand in authentic place ?. 
Take but degree away, untune that string, 
And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets 
In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters 
Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores 
And make a sop of all this solid globe: 
Strength should be lord of imbecility, 
And the rude son should strike his father dead: 


514 


[expect | 


O, when degree is shaked, | 


How could communities, | 


Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, 
Between whose endless jar justice resides, 
Should lose their names, and so should justice too. 


| Then every thing includes itself in power, 


Power into will, will into appetite; 
And appetite, an universal wolf, 
So doubly seconded with will and power, 
Must make perforce an universal prey, 
And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, 
This chaos, when degree is suffocate, 
Follows the choking. 
And this neglection of degree it is 
Titat by a pace goes backward, with a purpose 
It hath to climb. The general ’s disdain’d 
By him one step below, he by the next, 
That next by him beneath; so every step, 
Exampled by the first pace that is sick 
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever 
Of pale and bloodless emulation : 
And ’t is this fever that keeps Troy on foot, 
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, 
Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. 
Nest. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d 
The fever whereof all our power is sick. 
Agam. The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, 


| What is the remedy ? 


Ulyss. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns 
The sinew and the forehand of our host, 
Having his ear full of his airy fame, 
Grows dainty of his worth and in his tent 
Lies mocking our designs: with him Patroclus 
Upon a lazy bed the livelong day 
Breaks scurril jests, 
And with ridiculous and awkward action, 
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls, 
He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, 
Thy topless deputation he puts on, 
And, like a strutting player, whose conceit 
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich 
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 
’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage,— 
Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming 
He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks, 
°'T is likea chime a-mending; with terms unsquared, 
Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, 
Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff 
The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, 
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause ; 
Cries ‘ Excellent! ’t is Agamemnon just. 
Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, 
As he being drest to some oration.’ 
That ’s done, as near as the extremest ends 
Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife: 
Yet god Achilles still cries ‘ Excellent! 
’T is Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, 
Arming to answer in a night alarm.’ 
And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age 
Must be the scene of mirth; to cough and spit, 
And, with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget, 
Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport 
Sir Valour dies; cries ‘O, enough, Patroclus; 
Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all 
In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion, 
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, 
Severals and generals of grace exact, 
Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, 
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce, 
Success or loss, what is or is not, serves 
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. 

Nest. And in the imitation of these twain— 
Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns 
With an imperial voice— many are infect. 
Ajax is grown self-will’d, and bears his head 
In such a rein, in full as proud a place 
As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him ; 
Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war, 
Bold as an oracle. and sets Thersites, 


sia 


ACT I. 


A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, 
To match us in comparisons with dirt, 
To weaken and discredit our exposure, 
How rank soever rounded in with danger. 

Ulyss. They tax our policy,and call it cowardice, 
Count wisdom as no member of the war, 
Forestall prescience and esteem no act 
But that of hand: the still and mental parts, 
That do contrive how many hands shall strike, 
When fitness calls them on, and know by measure 
Of their observant toil the enemies’ weight,— 
Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: 
They call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war; * 
So that the ram that batters down the wall, 
For the great swing and rudeness of his poise, 
They place before his hand that made the engine, 
Or those that with the fineness of their souls 
By reason guide his execution. 

Nest. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse 
Makes many Thetis’ sons. [A tucket. 

Fis What trumpet ? look, Menelaus. 

en. From Troy. 


Enter Aineas. 


Agam. What would you ’fore our tent ? 
me. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you? 
le Even this. 
me. May one, that is a herald and a prince, 
Do a fair message to his kingly ears ? 

Agam. With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm 
’Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice 
Call Agamemnon head and general. 

ine. Fair leave and large security. How may 
A stranger to those most imperial looks 
Know them from eyes of other mortals ? 

Agam. 

me. AY; 
I ask, that I might waken reverence, 
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush 
Modest as morning when she coldly eyes 
The youthful Phebus: 
Which is that god in office, guiding men ? 
Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon ? 

Agam. This Trojan scorns us; or the men of Troy 
Are ceremonious courtiers. 

ine. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d, 
As bending angels; that ’s their fame in peace: 
But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, 
Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s 


accord, 
Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aineas, 
Peace, ‘Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips! 
The worthiness of praise distains his worth, 
If that the praised himself bring the praise forth: 
But what the repining enemy commends, 
That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, 
transcends. 

Agam. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aineas ? 

“ine. Ay, Greek, that is my name. 

Agam. What’s your affair, I pray you? 

Hine. Sir, pardon; ’t is for Agamemnon’s ears. 

Agam. He hears nought privately that comes 

from Troy. 

4tine. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him: 
I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, 

To set his sense on the attentive bent, 
And then to speak. 

Agam. Speak frankly as the wind; 

It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour: 
That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake, 
He tells thee so himself. 

Ne. Trumpet, blow loud, 
Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents ; 
And every Greek of mettle, let him know, 

What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. 
| Trumpet sounds. 
We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy 


How! 


PROLTLUS \AiND 


CRESSIDA. SCENE III. 


A prince call’d Hector,— Priam is his father,— 

Who in this dull and long-continued truce 

Is rusty grown: he bade me take a trumpet, 

And to this purpose speak. Kings, princes, lords! 

If there be one among the fair’st of Greece 

That holds his honour higher than his ease, 

That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril, 

That knows his valour, and knows not his fear, 

That loves his mistress more than in confession, 

With truant vows to her own lips he loves, 

And dare avow her beauty and her worth 

In other arms than hers,—to him this challenge. 

Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, 

Shall make it good, or do his best to do it, 

He hath a lady, wiser, fairer, truer, 

Than ever Greek did compass in his arms, 

And will to-morrow with his trumpet call 

Midway between your tents and walls of Troy, 

To rouse a Grecian that is true in love: 

If any come, Hector shall honour him; 

If none, he’ll say in Troy when he retires, 

The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth 

The splinter of a lance. Even so much. 

Agam. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Aineas; 
If none of them have soul in such a kind, 

We left them all at home: but we are soldiers; 

And may that soldier a mere recreant prove, 

That means not, hath not, or is not in love! 

If then one is, or hath, or means to be, 

That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he. 
Nest. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man 

When Hector’s grandsire suck’d: he is old now; 

But if there be not in our Grecian host 

One noble man that hath one spark of fire, 

To answer for his love, tell him from me 

I'll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver 

And in my vantbrace put this wither’d brawn, 

And meeting him will tell him that my lady 

Was fairer than his grandam and as chaste 

As may be in the world: his youth in flood, 

Ill prove this truth with my three drops of blood. 
Ene. Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth! 
Ulyss. Amen. 

Agam. Fair Lord Aneas, let me touch your hand; 
To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. 

Achilles shall have word of this intent ;, 

So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent: 

Yourself shall feast with us before you go 

And find the welcome of a noble foe. 

[| Hxeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor. 

Ulyss. Nestor! 

Nest. What says Ulysses ? 

Ulyss. I have a young conception in my brain; 
Be you my time to bring it to some shape. 

Nest. What is’t ? 

Ulyss. This ’tis: 

Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride 

That hath to this maturity blown up 

In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d, 

Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil, 

To overbulk us all. 

Nest. Well, and how? 

Ulyss. This challenge that the gallant Hector 
However it is spread in general name, [sends, 
Relates in purpose only to Achilles. [stance, 

Nest. The purpose is perspicuous even as sub- 
Whose grossness little characters sum up: 

And, in the publication, make no strain, 

But that Achilles, were his brain as barren 

As banks of Libya,— though, Apollo knows, 

’T is dry enough,— will, with great speed of judg- 

Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose [ment, 

Pointing on him. 

Ulyss. And wake him to the answer, think you? 

Nest. Yes, ’t is most meet : whom may you else op- 
That can from Hector bring his honour off, [pose, 
If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat, 


515 


ACT II. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE Il, 


Yet in the trial much opinion dwells; 
For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute 
With their finest palate: and trust to me, Ulysses, 
Our imputation shall be oddly poised 
In this wild action; for the success, 
Although particular, shall give a scantling 
Of good or bad unto the general; 
And in such indexes, although small pricks 
To their subsequent volumes, there is seen 
The baby figure of the giant mass 
Of things to come at large. It is supposed 
He that meets Hector issues from our choice; 
And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, 
Makes merit her election, and doth boil, 
As ’t were from forth us all, a man distill’d 
Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, [part, 
What heart receives from hence the conquering 
To steel a strong opinion to themselves ? 
Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, 
In no less working than are swords and bows 
Directive by the limbs. 
Ulyss. Give pardon to my speech: 
Therefore tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. 
Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, 
And think, perchance, they ’ll sell; if not, 
The lustre of the better yet to show, 
Shall show the better. Do not consent 
That ever Hector and Achilles meet ; 
For both our honour and our shame in this 
Are dogg’d with two strange followers. | 


Nest. I see them not with my old eyes: what are 
they : 

Ulyss. What glory our Achilles shares from Hee- 
L 


or 

Were he not proud, we all should share with him: 

But he already is too insolent ; 

And we were better parch in Afric sun 

Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, 

Should he ’scape Hector fair: if he were foil’d, 

Why then, we did our main opinion crush 

In taint of our best man. No, make a lottery; 

And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw 

The sort to fight with Hector: among ourselves 

Give him allowance for the better man: 

For that will physic the great Myrmidon 

Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall 

His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends. 

If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, 

We’ll dress him up in voices: if he fail, 

Yet go we under our opinion still 

That we have better men. But, hit or miss, 

Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes: 

Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes. 
Nest. Ulysses, 

Now I begin to relish thy advice; 

And I will give a taste of it forthwith 

To Agamemnon: go we to him straight. 

Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone 

Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’t were their bone. 

[ Hxeunt. 


Wd 


SCENE I1.—A part of the Grecian camp. 


Enter Ajax and Thersites. 

Ajax. Thersites! 

Ther. Agamemnon, how if he had boils? full, 
all over, generally ? 

Ajax. Thersites! 
Ther. And those boils did run? say so: did not 
the general run then? were not that a botchy core ? 

Ajax. Dog! 

Ther. Then would come some matter from him; 
I see none now. 

Ajaz. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear ? 
[ Beating him] Feel, then. 

Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mon- 
grel beef-witted lord! 

Ajax. Speak then, thou vinewedst leaven, speak : 
I will beat thee into handsomeness. 

Ther. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holi- 
ness: but, I think, thy horse will sooner con an ora- 
tion than thou learna prayer without book. Thou 
fc i ye canst thou ? ared murrain 0’ thy jade’s 
tricks ! 

Ajax. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. 

Ther. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou 
strikest me thus ? 

Ajax. The proclamation! 

Ther. Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think. 

Ajax. Do not, porpentine, do not: my fingers itch. 

her. I would thou didst itch from head to foot 
and I had the scratching of thee; I would make 
thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou 
art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as 
another. 

Ajax. I say, the proclamation! 

Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on 
Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his great- 
ness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty, ay, that 
thou barkest at him. 

Ajax. Mistress Thersites! 

Ther. Thou shouldst strike him. 

Ajax. Cobloaf! 


516 


Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with his 
fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. 

Ajax. [Beating him] You whoreson cur! 

Ther. Do, do. 

Ajax. Thou stool for a witch! 

Ther. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou 
hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; 
an assinego may tutor thee; thou scurvyvaliant 
ass! thou art here but to thrash Trojans; and thou 
art bought and sold among those of any wit, likea 
barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will 
begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, 
thou thing of no bowels, thou! 

Ajax. You dog! 

Ther. You scurvy lord! 

Ajax. [Beating him] You cur! [do, do. 

Ther. Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; 


Enter Achilles and Patroclus. 


Achil. Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you 
thus? How now, Thersites! what’s the matter, 
*, You see him there, do you? [man ¥ 
i. Ay; what’s the matter ? 

. Nay, look upon him. 

il. So 1 do: what’s the matter ? 

. Nay, but regard him well. 

il. ‘ Well!’ why, I do so. 

. But yet you look not well upon him; for, 
whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax. 

Achil. I know that, fool. 

Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. 

Ajax. Therefore I beat thee. 

Ther. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he ut- 
ters! his evasions have ears thus long. I haye 
bobbed his brain more than he has beat my bones: 
I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia 
mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. 
This lord, Achilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in 
his belly and his guts in his head, Ill tell you what 
I say of him. 

Achil. What ? . 

Ther. I say, this Ajax— [Ajaz offers to beat him. 


itn 


ACT Il. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE II. 


Achil. Nay, good Ajax. 

Ther. Has not so much wit — 

Achil. Nay, I must hold you. 

Ther. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for 
whom he comes to Aen 

Achil. Peace, fool! 

Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the 
fool will not: he there: that he: look you there. 

Ajax. O thou damned cur! I shall— 

Achil. Will you set your wit to a fool’s? (it. 

Ther. No, I warrant you; fora fool’s will shame 

Patr. Good words, Thersites. 

Achil. What’s the quarrel ? 

Ajax. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour 
of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. 

Ther. I serve thee not. 

Ajax. Well, go to, go to. 

Ther. I serve here voluntary. 

Achil. Your last service was sufferance, ’t was not 
voluntary: no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was 
here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. 

Ther. K’en so; a great deal of your wit, too, lies 
in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall 
have a great catch, if he knock out either of your 
brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no 

Achil. What, with me too, Thersites? —[kernel. 

Ther. There’s Ulysses and old Nestor, whose 
wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on 
their toes, yoke you like draught-oxen and make 
you plough up the wars. 

Achil. What, what ? 

Ther. Yes, good sooth: to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to! 

Ajax. I shall cut out your tongue. 

Ther. "lis no matter; I shall speak as much as 

thou afterwards. 

Patr. No more words, Thersites; peace ! 

Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach 
bids me, shall I? 

Achil. There’s for you, Patroclus. 

Ther. I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I 
come any more to your tents: I will keep where there 
is wit stirring and leave the faction of fools. [ Hzit. 

Patr. A good riddance. [our host: 

Achil. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all 
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, 

Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy 
To-morrow morning call some knight to arms 
That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare 
Maintain —I know not what: ’tis trash. Farewell. 

Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him ? 

Achil. I know not: ’tis put to lottery; otherwise 
He knew his man. 

Ajax. O, meaning you. I will go learn more of 

it. [| Heeunt. 


SCENE II.— Troy. 


Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris, and 
Helenus. 


Pri. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, 
Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: 
‘ Deliver Helen, and all damage else — 
As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, 


A room in Priam’s palace. 


[sumed 


' Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is con- 


In hot digestion of this cormorant war — 

Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t ? 
Hect. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than 

As far as toucheth my particular, I 

Yet, dread Priam, 

There is no lady of more softer bowels, 

More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, 

More ready to cry out ‘ Who knows what follows ?’ 

Than Hector is: the wound of peace is surety, 

Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d 

The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches 

To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go: 

Since the first sword was drawn about this question, 


Every tithe soul, ’mongst many thousand dismes, 
Hath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours: 
If we have lost so many tenths of ours, 
To guard a thing not ours nor worth to us, 
Had it our name, the value of one ten, 
What merit ’s in that reason which denies 
The yielding of her up ? 
Tro. Fie, fie, my brother ! 
Weigh you the worth and honour of a king 
So great as our dread father in a scale 
Of common ounces ? will you with counters sum 
The past proportion of his infinite ? 
And buckle in a waist most fathomless 
With spans and inches so diminutive 
As fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame! [sons, 
Hel. No marvel, though you bite so sharp at rea- 
You are so empty of them. Should not our father 
Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons, 
Because your speech hath none that tells him so ? 
Tro. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother 
priest ; [reasons : 
You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your 
You know an enemy intends you harm; 
You know a sword employ’d is perilous, 
And reason flies the object of all harm: 
Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds 
A Grecian and his sword, if he do set 
The very wings of reason to his heels 
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, 
Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason, 
Let ’s shut our gates and sleep: manhood and honour 
Should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their 
thoughts 
With this cramm’d reason: reason and respect 
Make livers pale and lustihood deject. 
Hect. Brother, she isnot worth what she doth cost 
The holding. 
Tro. What is aught, but as ’t is valued ? 
Hect. But value dwells not in particular will; 
It holds his estimate and dignity 
As well wherein ’t is precious of itself 
As in the prizer: ’tis mad idolatry 
To make the service greater than the god; 
And the will dotes that is attributive 
To what infectiously itself affects, 
Without some image of the affected merit. 
Tro. I take to-day a wife, and my election 
Is led on in the conduct of my will; 
My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, 
Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores 
Of will and judgment: how may I avoid, 
Although my will distaste what it elected, 
The wife I chose? there can be no evasion 
To blench from this and to stand firm by honour: 
We turn not back the silks upon the merchant, 
When we have soil’d them, nor the remainder viands 
We do not throw in unrespective sieve, 
Because we now are full. -It was thought meet 
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks: 
Your breath of full consent bellied his sails ; 
The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce 
And did him service: he touch’d the ports desired, 
And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive, 
He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and 
freshness 
Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning. 
Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt: 
Is she worth keeping ? why, she is a pearl, 
Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships, 
And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. 
If youll avouch ’t was wisdom Paris went — 
As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go,’— 
If you ’ll confess he brought home noble prize — 
As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands, 
And eried ‘ Inestimable!’— why do you now 
The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, 
And do a deed that fortune never did, 


517 


ACT II. 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE. 1d, 


Beggar the estimation which you prized 
Richer than sea and land? O, theft most base, 
That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! 
But, thieves, unworthy of a thing so stol’n, 
That in their country did them that disgrace, 
We fear to warrant in our native place! 
Cas. [Within] Cry, Trojans, cry! 
Prt. What noise ? what shriek is this ? 
Tro. ’T is our mad sister, I do know her voice. 
Cas. [Within] Cry, Trojans! 
Hect., It is Cassandra. 


Enter Cassandra, raving. 


Cas. Cry, Trojans, cry! lend me ten thousand eyes, 
And I will fill them with prophetic tears. 
Hect. Peace, sister, peace! 
Cas. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, 
Soft infancy, that nothing canst but ery, 
Add to my clamours! let us pay betimes 
A moiety of that mass of moan to come. 
Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears! 
Troy must not be, nor goodly Lion stand ; 
Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. 
Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen and a woe: 
Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [Evit. 
Hect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high 
Of divination in our sister work [strains 
Some touches of remorse? or is your blood 
So madly hot that no discourse of reason, 
Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, 


Can qualify the same ? 
d Why, brother Hector, 


v0. 
We may not think the justness of each act 
Such and no other than event doth form it, 
Nor once deject the courage of our minds, 
Because Cassandra’s mad: her brain-sick raptures 
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel 
Which hath our several honours all engaged 
To make it gracious. For my private part, 
Iam no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons: 
And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us 
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen 
To fight for and maintain! 

Par. Else might the world convince of levity 
As well my undertakings as your counsels: 
But I attest the gods, your full consent 
Gave wings to my propension and cut off 
All fears attending on so dire a project. 
For what, alas, can these my single arms ? 
What propugnation is in one man’s valour, 
To stand the push and enmity of those 
This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest, 
Were I alone to pass the difficulties 
And had as ample power as I have will, 
Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done, 
Nor faint in the pursuit. 

Pri. Paris, you speak 
Like one besotted on your sweet delights : 
You have the honey still, but these the gall; 
So to be valiant is no praise at all. 

Par. Sir, I propose not merely to myself 
The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; 
But I would have the soil of her fair rape 
Wiped off, in honourable keeping her. 
What treason were it to the ransack’d queen, 
Disgrace to your great worths and shame to me, 
Now to deliver her possession up 
On terms of base compulsion! Can it be 
That so degenerate a strain as this 
Should once set footing in your generous bosoms ? 
There ’s not the meanest spirit on our party 
Without a heart to dare or sword to draw 
When Helen is defended, nor none so noble 
Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfamed 
Where Helen is the subject; then, I say, 
Well may we fight for her whom, we know well, 
The world’s large spaces cannot parallel. 


518 


Hect. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well, 
And on the cause and question now in hand 
Have glozed, but superficially ; not much 
Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought 
Unfit to hear moral philosophy : 
The reasons you allege do more conduce 
To the hot passion of distemper’d blood 
Than to make up a free determination 
’T wixt right and wrong, for pleasure and revenge 
Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice 
Of any true decision. Nature craves 
All dues be render’d to their owners: now, 
What nearer debt in all humanity 
Than wife is to the husband? If this law 
Of nature be corrupted through affection, 
And that great minds, of partial indulgence 
To their benumbed wills, resist the same, 
There is a law in each well-order’d nation 
To curb those raging appetites that are 
Most disobedient and refractory. 
If Helen then be wife to Sparta’s king, 
As it is known she is, these moral laws 
Of nature and of nations speak aloud 
To have her back return’d: thus to persist 
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, 
But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion 
Is this in way of truth; yet ne’ertheless, 
My spritely brethren, I propend to you 
In resolution to keep Helen still, 
For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence 
Upon our joint and several dignities. [sign : 
Tro. Why, there you touch’d the life of our de- 
Were it not glory that we more affected 
Than the performance of our heaving spleens, 
I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood 
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, 
She is a theme of honour and renown, 
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, 
Whose present courage may beat down our foes, 
And fame in time to come canonize us; 
For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose 
So rich advantage of a promised glory 
As smiles upon the forehead of this action 
For the wide world’s revenue, 
Flect. Tt am yours, 
You valiant offspring of great Priamus. 
I have a roisting challenge sent amongst 
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks 
Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits: 
I was advertised their great general slept, 
Whilst emulation in the army crept: 
This, I presume, will wake him. | Kxeunt. 
SCENE III.— The Grecian camp. Before Achilles’ 
tent, 


Enter Thersites, solus. 


Ther. How now, Thersites! what, lost in the 
labyrinth of thy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax 
carry it thus? he beats me, and I rail at him: O, 
worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise; that 
I could beat him, whilst he railed at me. 7S foot, 
I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I ’ll see 
some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there’s 
Achilles, a rare enginer! If Troy be not taken till 
these two undermine it, the walls will stand till 
they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder- 
darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the 
king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine 
craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little 
less than little wit from them that they have! which 
short-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant 
searce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from 
a spider, without drawing their massy irons and cut- 
ting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole 
camp! or rather, the bone-ache! for that, methinks, 
is the curse dependent on those that war for a 


Bien’ 


ACT II. 


placket. I have said my prayers and devil Envy 
say Amen. What ho! my Lord Achilles! 


Enter Patroclus. 

Patr. Who’sthere? Thersites! Good Thersites, 
come in and rail. | 

Ther. If I could have remembered a gilt counter- 
feit, thou wouldst not have slipped out of my con- 
templation: but it is no matter; thyself upon thy- 
self! The common curse of mankind, folly and igno- 
rance, be thine in great revenue! heaven bless thee 
from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! 
Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death! then 
if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, 
I?ll be sworn and sworn upon ’t she never shrouded 
any but lazars. Amen. Where’s Achilles? 

Patr. What, art thou devout? wast thou in prayer ? 

Ther. Ay: the heavens hear me! 


Enter Achilles. 

Achil. Who’s there ? 

Patr. Thersites, my lord. 

Achil. Where, where? Art thou come? why, my 
cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served 
thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, 
what ’s Agamemnon ? 

Ther. Thy commander, Achilles. 
Patroclus, what ’s Achilles ? 

Patr. Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray 
thee, what ’s thyself ? 

Ther. Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, 
Patroclus, what art thou? 

Patr. Thou mayst tell that knowest. 

Achil. O, tell, tell. 

Ther. Ill decline the whole question. Agamem- 
non commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am 
Patroclus’ knower, and Patroclus is a fool. 

Patr. You rascal! 

Ther. Peace, fool! I have not done. [sites. 

Achil. He is a privileged man. Proceed, Ther- 

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; 
Thersites is a fool, and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a 

Achil. Derive this; come. [fool. 

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command 
Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of 
Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a 
fool, and Patroclus is a fool positive. ; 

Patr. Why am I a fool? 

Ther. Make that demand of the prover. 
fices me-thou art. 


Then tell me, 


It suf- 
Look you, who comes here ? 


Achil. Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. Come 
in with me, Thersites. [ Hatt. 


Ther. Here is such patchery, such juggling and 
such knavery! all the argument is a cuckold and a 
whore; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions 
and bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on 
the subject! and war and lechery confound all! 

[ Hci. 


Hnter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Dio- 
medes, and Ajax. 


Agam. Where is Achilles ? 
Patr. Within his tent; but ill disposed, my lord. 
Agam. Let it be known to him that we are here. 
He shent our messengers; and we lay by 
Our appertainments, visiting of him: 
Let him be told so; lest perchance he think 
We dare not move the question of our place, 


Or know not what we are. 


Patr. I shall say so to him. [Fvit. 

Ulyss. We saw him at the opening of his tent: 
He is not sick. 

Ajax. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you 
may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; 
but, by my head, ’tis pride: but why, why ? let him 
show us the cause. A word, my lord. 

[Takes Agamemnon aside. 


TRODLOUS: AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE III. 


Nest. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him ? 
Ulyss. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him. 
Nest. Who, Thersites ? 

Ulyss. He. 

Nest. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost 
his argument. : 

Ulyss. No, you see, he is his argument that has 
his argument, Achilles. 

Nest. All the better; their fraction is more our 
wish than their faction: but it was a strong com- 
posure a fool could disunite. 

Ulyss. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly 
may easily untie. Here comes Patroclus. 


Re-enter Patroclus. 

Nest. No Achilles with him. 

Ulyss. The elephant hath joints, but none for cour- 
tesy: his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. 

Patr. Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry, 

If anything more than your sport and pleasure 
Did move your greatness and this noble state 
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other 

But for your health and your digestion sake, 
An after-dinner’s breath. 

Agan. Hear you, Patroclus: 
We are too well acquainted with these answers: 
But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn, 
Cannot outfly our apprehensions. 

Much attribute he hath, and much the reason 

Why we ascribe it to him; yet all his virtues, 

Not virtuously on his own part beheld, 

Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss, 

Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, 

Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him, 

We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin, 

If you do say we think him over-proud 

And under-honest, in self-assumption greater 

Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than 
himself 

Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, 

Disguise the holy strength of their command, 

And underwrite in an observing kind 

His humorous predominance; yea, watch 

His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if 

The passage and whole carriage of this action 

Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add, 

That if he overhold his price so much, 

Well none of him; but let him, like an engine 

Not portable, lie under this report : 

‘ Bring action hither, this cannot go to war: 

A stirring dwarf we do allowance give 

Before a sleeping giant.’ Tell him so. 

Patr. I shall; and bring his answer Dre 

nv 

Agam. In second voice we ’ll not be satisfied ; 
We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you. 

[ Hatt Ulysses. 

Ajax. What is he more than another ? 

Agam. No more than what he thinks he is. 

Ajax. Ishesomuch? Do you not think he thinks 
himself a better man than I am? eh 

Agam. No question. [is ? 

Ajax. Will you subscribe his thought, and say he 

Agam. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as 
valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, 
and altogether more tractable. 

Ajax. Why should a man be proud? How doth 
pride grow? I know not what pride is. 

Agam. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your 
virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up him- 
self: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his 
own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in 
the deed, devours the deed in the praise. 

Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the en- 
gendering of toads. 

Nest. Yet he loves himself: is ’t not strange ? 

| Aside. 


519 


ACT III. 


Re-enter Ulysses. 


Ulyss. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow. 
Agam. What’s his excuse ? 
yss. He doth rely on none, 
But carries on the stream of his dispose 
Without observance or respect of any, 
In will peculiar and in self-admission. 
Agam. Why will he not upon our fair request 
Untent his person and share the air with us? 
Ulyss. Things small as nothing, for request’s 
sake only, 
He makes important : possess’d he is with greatness, 
And speaks not to himself but with a pride 
That quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth 
Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse 
That ’twixt his mental and his active parts 
Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages 
And batters down himself: what should I say ? 
He is so plaguy proud that the death-tokens of it 
Cry ‘ No recovery.’ 
Agam. Let Ajax go to him. 
Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent: 
’T is said he holds you well, and will be led 
At your request a little from himself. 
Ulyss. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! 
We ’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes 
When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord 
That bastes his arrogance with his own seam 
And never suffers matter of the world 
Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve 
And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp’d 
Of that we hold an idol more than he ? 
No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord 
Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquired ; 
Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, 
As amply titled as Achilles is, 
By going to Achilles: 
That were to enlard his fat already pride 
And add more coals to Cancer when he burns 
With entertaining great Hyperion. 
This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, 
And say in thunder ‘ Achilles go to him.’ 
Nest. [Aside to Dio.] O, this is well; he rubs the 
vein of him. 
Dio. [Aside to Nest.] And how his silence drinks 
up this applause ! 
Ajax. If I go to him, with my armed fist 
Ill pash him o’er the face. 
Agam. O, no, you shall not go. 
Ajax. An a’ be proud with me, I’ll pheeze his 
Let me go to him. [pride : 
Ulyss. Not for the worth that hangs upon our 
Ajax. A paltry, insolent fellow! [quarrel. 
Nest. How he describes himself! 
Ajax. Can he not be sociable ? 
Ulyss. The raven chides blackness. 
Ajax. I’ll let his humours blood. 


VAN OFS B, 
SCENE I.— Troy. Priam’s palace. 


Enter a Servant and Pandarus. 

Pan. Friend, you! pray you, a word: do not you 
follow the young Lord Paris ? 

Serv. Ay, sir, when he goes before me. 

Pan. You depend upon him, I mean ? 

Serv. Sir, I do depend upon the lord. 

Pan. You depend upon a noble gentleman; I 
must needs praise him. 

Serv. The lord be praised! 

Pan. You know me, do you not ? 

Serv. Faith, sir, superficially. 

520 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE tf. 


Agam. He will be the physician that should be 
the patient. 
Ajax. An all men were 0’ my mind,— 
Ulyss. Wit would be out of fashion. 
Ajax. A’ should not bear it so, a’ should eat 
swords first: shall pride carry it ? 
Nest. An ’t would, you ’ld carry half. 
Ulyss. A’ would have ten shares. 
Ajax. I will knead him; Ill make him supple. 
Nest. He’s not yet through warm: force him with 
praises: pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. 
Ulyss. [To Agam.] My lord, you feed too much 
on this dislike. 
Nest. Our noble general, do not do so. 
Dio. You must prepare to fight without Achilles. 
Ulyss. Why, ’tis this naming of him does him 
Here is a man—but ’tis before his face; [harm. 
I will be silent. 
Nest. Wherefore should you so? 
He is not emulous, as Achilles is. 
Ulyss. Know the whole world, he is as valiant. 
Ajax. A whoreson dog, that shall palter thus 
Would he were a Trojan [with us 
Nest. What a vice were it in Ajax now,— 
Ulyss. If he were proud,— 
Dio. Or covetous of praise,— 
Ulyss. Ay, or surly borne,— 
Dio. Or strange, or self-affected ! [composure ; 
Ulyss. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet 
Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck: 
Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature 
Thrice famed, beyond all erudition: 
But he that disciplined thy arms to fight, 
Let Mars divide eternity in twain, 
And give him half: and, for thy vigour, 
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield 
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, 
Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines 
Thy spacious and dilated parts: here ’s Nestor; 
Instructed by the antiquary times, 
He must, he is, he cannot but be wise: 
But pardon, father Nestor, were your days 
As green as Ajax’ and your brain so temper’d, 
You should not have the eminence of him, 
But be as Ajax. 
Ajax. Shall I call you father ? 
Nest. Ay, my good son. 
Dio. Be ruled by him, Lord Ajax. 
Ulyss. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles 
Keeps thicket. Please it our great general 
To call together all his state of war; 
Fresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow 
We must with all our main of power stand fast: 
And here ’sa lord,— come knights from east to west, 
And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best. 
Agam. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep: 
Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw 
deep. | Hxeunt. 


1B Gt Ee 


Pan. Friend, know me better; I am the Lord 
Pandarus. 

Serv. I hope I shall know your honour better. 

Pan. I do desire it. 

Serv. You are in the state of grace. : 

Pan. Grace! not so, friend; honour and lordshi 
are my titles. [Music within.] What music is this 

Serv. I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts. 

Pan. Know you the musicians ? 

Serv. Wholly, sir. 

Pan. Who play they to? 

Serv. To the hearers, sir. 

Pan. At whose pleasure, friend ? 


ACT III. TROTLUS AND ‘CRESSIDA. SCENE IT. 


Serv. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music. Helen. Falling in, after falling out, may make 
Pan. Command, I mean, friend. them three. 
Serv. Who shall I command, sir ? Pan. Come, come, Ill hear no more of this; Ill 
Pan. Friend, we understand not one another: I | sing you a song now. 
am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At whose elen. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet 
request do these men play ? lord, thou hast a fine forehead. 5 


Serv. That’s to’t indeed, sir: marry, sir, at the Pan. Ay, you may, you may. 
request of Paris my lord, who’s there in person; Helen. Let thy song be love: this love will undo 
with him, the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of; us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupjd! 


beauty, love’s invisible soul,— Pan. Love! ay, that it shall, i’ faith. 
Pan. Who, my cousin Cressida ? Par. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love 
Serv. No, sir, Helen: could you not find out that Pan. In good troth, it begins so. | Sings. 
by her attributes ? Love, love, nothing but love, still more ! 
Pan. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not For, O, love’s bow 
seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Shoots buck and doe: 
Paris from the Prince Troilus: I will make a com- The shaft confounds, 
plimental assault upon him, for my business seethes. Not that it wounds, 
Serv. Sodden business! there’s a stewed phrase eee tickles still ae eer Peg dea 
: : hn! oh! ie! 
peed Enter Paris and Helen, attended. Tes eo ae oun 


Yet that which seems the wound to kill, 

_ Pan. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair | Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he! 
company! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly So dying love lives still: 

guide them! especially to you, fair queen! fair Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha! 

thoughts be your fair pillow! Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha! 


Helen. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. | Heigh-ho! Wien 
Pan. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Helen, In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose. 
Fair prince, here is good broken music. Par. He eats nothing but doves, love, and that 


Par. You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life, | breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, 
you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it ; and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is 
out with a piece of your performance. Nell, he is | love. 


full of harmony. Pan. Is this the generation of love? hot blood, 
Pan. Truly, lady, no. hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers: 
Helen. O, sir — is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s 
Pan. Rude, in sooth ; in good sooth, very rude. | a-field to-day? : 
Par. Well said, my lord! well, you say so in fits. Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and 
Pan. I have business to my lord, dear queen. | all the gallantry of Troy: I would fain have armed 

My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word ? to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How 
Helen. Nay, this shall not hedge us out: well | chance my brother Troilus went not? 

hear you sing, certainly. Helen. He hangs the lip at something: you know 


Pan. Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with | all, Lord Pandarus. 
me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear 


most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus,— how they sped to-day. You ’ll remember your broth- 
Helen. My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,— Par. Toa hair. [er’s excuse ? 
Pan. Go to, sweet queen, go to: —commends Pan. Farewell, sweet queen. _ 

himself most affectionately to you,— Helen. Commend me to your niece. ; 
Helen. You shall not bob us out of our melody: Pan. I will, sweet queen. [ Heit. 

if you do, our melancholy upon your head! [A retreat sounded. 
Pan. Sweet queen, sweet queen! that’s a sweet Far. They’re come from field: let us to Priam’s 

queen, i’ faith. (offence. hall, [you 


Helen. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour | To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo 
Pan. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that | To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles, 
shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such | With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d, 
words; no,no. And, my lord, he desires you, that | Shall more obey than to the edge of steel 
if the king call for him at supper, you will make | Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more 


his excuse. Than all the island kings,—disarm great Hector. 
Helen. My Lord Pandarus,— Helen. ’T will make us proud to be his servant, 
Pan. What says my sweet queen, my very very | Yea, what he shall receive of usin duty __[Paris, 
Sweet queen ? [night 2? | Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, 
Par. What exploit ’s in hand? where sups he to- | Yea, overshines ourself. 
Helen. Nay, but, my lord,— Par. Sweet, above thought I love thee. [Hveunt. 
Pan. What says my sweet queen? My cousin will R 
fallout with you. You must not know where he sups. SCENE II.—The same. Pandarus’ orchard. 
: : : , : 
aay Ae ERM essa : Enter Pandarus and Troilus’ Boy, meeting. 
come, your disposer is sick. ; Pan. How now ! where ’s thy master? at my 
Par. Well, Ill make excuse. cousin Cressida’s ? [thither. 
Pan. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Boy. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him 
Cressida ? no, your poor disposer ’s sick. Pan. O, here he comes. 
Mare a Enter Troilus 
Pan. You spy! what do you spy? Come, give baa ; 
me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. How now, how now ! * Bat 
Helen. Why, this is kindly done. Tro. Sirrah, walk off. Wie [Hawt Boy. 
Pan. My niece is horribly in love with a thing Pan. Have you seen my cousin ? : 
you have, sweet queen. flord Paris. Tro. No, Pandarus; I stalk about her door, 


Helen. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my | Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks 
Pan. He! no, shell none of him; they two are | Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, 
twain. And give me swift transportance to those fields 


521 


ACT III. 


ee 


Where I may wallow in the lily-beds 
Proposed for the deserver! O gentle Pandarus, 
From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings, 
And fly with me to Cressid ! 
Pun. Walk here i’ the orchard, I’ bring her 
straight. | Haxit. 
Tro. Lam giddy; expectation whirls me round. 
The imaginary relish is so sweet 
That it enchants my sense: what will it be, 
When that the watery palate tastes indeed 
Love’s thrice repured nectar ? death, I fear me, 
Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine, 
Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, 
For the capacity of my ruder powers: 
I fear it much; and I do fear besides, 
That I shall lose distinction in my joys; 
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps 
The enemy flying. 


Re-enter Pandarus. 


Pan. She’s making her ready, she ’11 come straight: 
you must be witty now. She does so blush, and 
fetches her wind so short, as if she were frayed with 
a sprite: Ill fetch her. 
she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en spar- 
row. [ Exit. 

Tro. Evensuch a passion doth embrace my bosom : 
My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse ; 

And all my powers do their bestowing lose, 
Like vassalage at unawares encountering 
The eye of majesty, 


Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida. 


Pan. Come, come, what need you blush ? shame’s 
a baby. Here she is now: swear the oaths now to 
her that you have sworn to me. What, are you 
gone again? you must be watched ere you be made 
tame, must you? Come your ways, come your 
ways; an you draw backward, we’ll put youi’ the 
fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw 
this curtain, and let ’s see your picture. Alas the 
day, how loath you are to offend daylight! an ’t were 
dark, you Id close sooner. So, so; rubon, and kiss 
the mistress. How now! a kiss in fee-farm! build 
there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall 
fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon 
as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ the river: go to, 

o to. 
, Tro. You have bereft me of all words, lady. 

Pan. Words pay no debts, give her deeds: but 
she ll bereave you 0’ the deeds too, if she call your 
activity in question. What,billingagain? Here’s 
‘In witness whereof the parties interchangeably ’— 
Come in, come in: I ’ll go get a fire. Exit. 

Ores. Will you walk in, my lord? [thus ! 

Tro. O Cressida, how often have I wished me 
ce Wished, my lord! The gods grant,—O my 
ord ! 

Tro. What should they grant ? what makes this 
pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies 
my sweet lady in the fountain of our love ? 

Cres. More dregs than water, if my fears have 
eyes. 

Tro. Fears make devils of cherubins; they never 
see truly. 

Cres. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds 
safer footing than blind reason stumbling without 
fear: to fear the worst oft cures the worse. 

Tro. O, let my lady apprehend no fear: in all 
Cupid’s pageant there is presented no monster. 

_Ores. Nor nothing monstrous neither ? 

Tro. Nothing, but our undertakings; when we 
vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers ; 
thinking it harder for our mistress to devise impo- 
sition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty 
imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, 
that the will is infinite and the execution confined, 


522 


It is the prettiest villain: | 


TROILUS AND 


| 


ChESSIDA. 


SCENE IT. 
that the desire is boundless and the act a slave to 
limit. 

Ores. They say all lovers swear more performance 
than they are able and yet reserve an ability that 
they never perform, vowing more than the perfection 
of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of 
one. They that have the voice of lions and the act 
of hares, are they not monsters ? 

Tro. Are there such ? such are not we: praise us 
as we are tasted, allow us aS we prove; our head 
shall go bare till merit crown it: no perfection in 
reversion shall have a praise in present: we will not 


_name desert before his birth, and, being born, his 


addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: 

Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can 

say worst shall be a mock for his truth, and what 

truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. 
Cres. Will you walk in, my lord? 


Re-enter Pandarus. 


Pan. What, blushing still? have you not done 
talking yet ? 

Cres. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedi- 
cate to you. 

Pan. I thank you for that: if my lord get a boy 
of you, you ll givehim me. Be true tomy lord: if 
he flinch, chide me for it. 

Tro. You know now your hostages; your uncle’s 
word and my firm faith. 

Pan. Nay,I’ll give my word for her too: our kin- 
dred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they 
are constant being won: they are burs, I can tell 
you; they ’ll stick where they are thrown. [heart. 

Cres. Boldness comes to me now, and brings me 
Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day 
For many weary months. 

Tro. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? 

Cres. Hard to seem won: but I was won, my lord, 
With the first glance that ever — pardon me — 

If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. 

I love you now; but not, till now, so much 

But I might master it: in faith, I lie; 

My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown 
Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! 
Why have I blabb’d ? who shall be true to us, 
When we are so unsecret to ourselves ? 

But, though I loved you well, I woo’d you not; 
And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man, 

Or that we women had men’s privilege 

Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, 
For in this rapture I shall surely speak 

The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, 
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws 
My very soul of counsel! stop my mouth. 

Tro. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence. 

Pan. Pretty, 1’ faith. 

Cres. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me; 

”T was not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss: 


Tam ashamed. O heavens! what have I done? 


For this time will I take my leave, my lord. 
Tro. Your leave, sweet Cressid! » 
Pan. Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow 
morning ,— 
Cres. Pray you, content you. 
Tro. What offends you, lady ? 
Cres. Sir, mine own company. 


v0. 
Yourself. 
Ores. Let me go and try: 
I have a kind of self resides with you; 
But an unkind self, that itself will leave, 
To be another’s fool. I would be gone: 
Where is my wit ? I know not what I speak. 
Tro. Well know they what they speak that speak 
so wisely. [love ; 
Cres. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than 
And fell so roundly to a large confession, 


You cannot shun 


Se 


ACT III. 


To angle for your thoughts: but you are wise, 
Or else you love not, for to be wise and love 
Exceeds man’s might; that dwelis with gods above. 

Tro. O that I thought it could be in a woman — 
As, if it can, I will presume in you— 

To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love ; 
To keep her constancy in plight and youth, 
Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind 

That doth renew swifter than blood decays! 
Or that persuasion could but thus convince me, 
‘hat my integrity and truth to you 

Might be affronted with the match and weight 
Of such a winnow’d purity in love; 

How were I then uplifted! but, alas! 

ft am as true as truth’s simplicity 

And simpler than the infancy of truth. 

Cres. In that I’ll war with you. 

Tro. O virtuous fight 
When right with right wars who shall be most right 
True swains in love shall in the world to come 
Approve their truths by Troilus: when their rhymes, 
ull of protest, of oath and big compare, 

Want similes, truth tired with iteration, 

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, 

As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, 

As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre, 
Yet, after all comparisons of truth, 

As truth’s authentic author to be cited, 

* As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse, 
And sanctify the numbers. 

Cres. Prophet may you be! 

If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, 

When time is old and hath forgot itself, 

When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, 
And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, 

And mighty states characterless are grated 

To dusty nothing, yet let memory, 

From false to false, among false maids in love, 
Upbraid my falsehood! when they ’ve said ‘as false 
AS air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, 

As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer’s calf, 

Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son,’ 

‘Yea,’ let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, 
‘ As false as Cressid.’ 

Pan. Go to, a bargain made: seal it, seal it; I’ 
be the witness. Here I hold your hand, here my 
cousin’s. If ever you prove false one to another, 
since I have taken such pains to bring you together, 
let all pitiful goers-between be called to the world’s 
end after my name; call them all Pandars; let all 
constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, 
and all brokers-between Pandars! say, amen. 

Tro. Amen. 

Cres. Amen. 

Pan. Amen. Whereupon I will show youacham- 
ber with a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak 
of your pretty encounters, press it to death: away! 
And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here 
Bed, chamber, Pandar to providethis gear! [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IIl.—The Grecian camp. Before Achilles’ 
tent. 


Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, 
Ajax, Menelaus, and Calchas. 


Cal. Now, princes, for the service I have done you, 
The advantage of the time prompts me aloud 
To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind 
That, through the sight I bear in things to love, 
I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, 
Incurr’d a traitor’s name; exposed myself, 
From certain and possess’d conveniences, 
To doubtful fortunes; sequestering from me all 
That time, acquaintance, custom and condition 
Made tame and most familiar to my nature, 
And here, to do you service, am become 
As new into the world, strange, unacquainted: 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. 


I do beseech you, as in way of taste, 

To give me now a little benefit, 

Out of those many register’d in promise, 
Which, you say, live to come in my behalf. 

Agam. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make 

demand, ; 

Cal. You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor, 
Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear. 

Oft have you—often have you thanks therefore — 
Desired my Cressid in right great exchange, 
Whom Troy hath still denied: but this Antenor, 
I know, is such a wrest in their affairs 

That their negotiations all must slack, 

Wanting his manage; and they will almost 

Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, 

In change of him: let him be sent, great princes, 
And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence 
Shall quite strike off all service I have done, 

In most accepted pain. 

Agam. Let Diomedes bear him, 
And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have 
What he requests of us. Good Diomed, 

Furnish you fairly for this interchange: 
Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow 
Be answer’d in his challenge: Ajax is ready. 

Dio. This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden 

Which I am proud to bear. 
| Hxeunt Diomedes and Calchas. 


SCENE III. 


Enter Achilles and Patroclus, before their tent. 


Ulyss. Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his tent: 
Please it our general to pass strangely by him, 
As if he were forgot; and, princes all, 
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him: 
I will come last. ’T’is like he ’ll question me 
Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him: 
If so, I have derision medicinable, 
To use between your strangeness and his pride, 
Which his own will shall have desire to drink: 
It may do good: pride hath no other glass 
To show itself but pride, for supple knees 
Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees. 
Agam. We’ll execute your purpose, and put on 
A form of strangeness as we pass along: 
So do each lord, and either greet him not, 
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more 
Than if not look’d on. JI will lead the way. 
Achil. What, comes the general to speak with me ? 
You know my mind, [ ll fight no more ’gainst Troy. 
Agam. What says Achilles? would he aught 
with us? 
Nest. Would you, my lord, aught with the general ? 
Achil. No. 
Nest. Nothing, my lord. 
Agam. The better. 
[Hxeunt Agamemnon and Nestor. 
Achil. Good day, good day. 
Men. How do you? how do you? [ Hxit. 
Achil. What, does the cuckold scorn me? 
Ajax. How now, Patroclus! 
Achil. Good morrow, Ajax. 
Ajax. Ha? 
Achil. Good morrow. 
Ajax. Ay, and good next day too. | Katt. 
Achil. What mean these fellows? Know they 
not Achilles ? [bend, 
Patr. They pass by strangely: they were used to 
To send their smiles before them to Achilles; 
To come as humbly as they used to creep 
To holy altars. 
Achil. What, am I poor of late ? 
°T is certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune, 
Must fall out with men too: what the declined is 
He shall as soon read in the eyes of others 
As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, 
Show not their mealy wings but to the summer, 
And not a man, for being simply man, 
523 


AGTOLIL: 


Hath any honour, but honour for those honours 
That are without him, as place, riches, favour, 
Prizes of accident as oft as merit: 
Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, 
The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, 
Do one pluck down another and together 
Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me: 
Fortune and I are friends: I do enjoy 
At ample point all that I did possess, 
Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out 
Something not worth in me such rich beholding 
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses: 
I'll interrupt his reading. 
How now, Ulysses! 
Ulyss. Now, great Thetis’ son! 
Achil. What are you reading ? 
lyss. A strange fellow here 
Writes me: ‘ That man, how dearly ever parted, 
How much in having, or without or in, 
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, 
Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection ; 
As when his virtues shining upon others 
Heat them and they retort that heat again 
To the first giver.’ 
Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. 
The beauty that is borne here in the face 
The bearer knows not, but commends itself 
To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself, 
That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, 
Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed 
Salutes each other with each other’s form; 
For speculation turns not to itself, 
Till it hath travell’d and is mirror’d there 
Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all. 
Ulyss. I do not strain at the position,— 
It is familiar,— but at the author’s drift; 
Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves 
That no man is the lord of any thing, 
Though in and of him there be much consisting, 
Till he communicate his parts to others ; 
Nor doth he of himself know them for aught 
Till he behold them form’d in the applause 
Where they ’re extended; who, like an arch, re- 
verberates 
The voice again, or, like a gate of steel 
Fronting the sun, receives and renders back 
His figure and his heat. I was much wrapt in this; 
And apprehended here immediately 
The unknown Ajax. 
Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse, 
That has he knows not what. Nature, what things 
Most abject in regard and dear in use! [there are 
What things again most dear in the esteem 
And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow — 
An act that very chance doth throw upon him — 
Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, 
While some men leave to do! 
How some men creep in skittish fortune’s hall, 
Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! 
How one man eats into another’s pride, 
While pride is fasting in his wantonness! 
To see these Grecian lords! — why, even already 
They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, 
As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast 
And great Troy shrieking. 
Achil. I do believe it; for they pass’d by me 
As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me 
Good word nor look: what, are my deeds forgot ? 
Ulyss. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, 
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: [vour’d 
Those scraps are good deeds past; which are de- 
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 
As done: perseverance, dear my lord, 
Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang 
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail 
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; 


524 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. — 


SCENE III. 


—— ae 


For honour travels in a strait so narrow, 

Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; 
For emulation hath a thousand sons 

That one by one pursue: if you give way, 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by 

And leave you hindmost ; 

Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, 

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, [present, 
O’er-run and trampled on: then what they do in 
Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; 
For time is like a fashionable host 

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, 
And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly, 
Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, [seek 
And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue 
Remuneration for the thing it was; 

For beauty, wit, 

High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, 
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 

To envious and calumniating time. 

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, 
That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, 
Though they are made and moulded of things past, 
And give to dust that is a little gilt 

More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. 

The present eye praises the present object: 

Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, 
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; 

Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 

Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, 
And still it might, and yet it may again, 

If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive 

And case thy reputation in thy tent; 

Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, 
Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves 
And drave great Mars to faction. 


Achil. Of this my privacy 
I have strong reasons. 
Ulyss. But ’gainst your privacy 


The reasons are more potent and heroical: 
’T is known, Achilles, that you are in love 
With one of Priam’s daughters. 
Achil. 
Ulyss. Is that a wonder ? 
The providence that’s in a watchful state 
Knows almost every grain of Piutus’ gold, 
Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps, 
Keeps place with thought and almost, like the gods, 
Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. 
There is a mystery — with whom relation 
Durst never meddle —in the soul of state; 
Which hath an operation more divine 
Than breath or pen can give expressure to: 
All the commerce that you have had with Troy 
As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; 
And better would it fit Achilles much 
To throw down Hector than Polyxena: 
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, 
When fame shall in our islands sound her trump, 
And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing, 
‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win, 
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’ 
Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak ; 
The fool slides o’er the ice that you should at 
wit. 
Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you: 
A woman impudent and mannish grown 
Is not more loathed than an effeminate man 
In time of action. I stand condemun’d for this; 
They think my little stomach to the war 
And your great love to me restrains youthus: _ 
Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid 
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, 
And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, 
Be shook to air. 
Achil. 


Ha! known! 


Shall Ajax fight with Hector ? 


mes TE Vin 


Patr. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by 

Achil. I see my reputation is at. stake ; [him. 
My fame is shrewdly gored. 

Patr. O, then, beware ; 
Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves: 
Omission to do what is necessary 
Seals a commission to a blank of danger ; 

And danger, like an ague, subtly taints 
Even then when we sit idly in the sun. 

Achil. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus: 
Ill send the fool to Ajax and desire him 
To invite the Trojan lords after the combat 
To see us here unarm’d: [have a woman’s longing, 
An appetite that I am sick withal, 

To see great Hector in his weeds of peace, 
To talk with him and to behold his visage, 
Even to my full of view. 


Enter Thersites. 


A labour saved! 

Ther. A wonder! 

Achil. What ? [himself. 

Ther. Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for 

Achil. How so? 

Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hec- 
tor, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cud- 
gelling that he raves in saying nothing. 

Achil. How can that be ? 

Ther. Why, he stalks up and down like a pea- 
cock,—a stride and a stand: ruminates like an 
hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set 
down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politic re- 
gard, as who should say ‘There were wit in this 
head, an ’t would out;’ and so there is, but it lies 
as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not 
show without knocking. The man’s undone for 
ever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ the com- 
bat, he U1 break ’t himself in vain-glory. He knows 
not me: I said ‘Good morrow, Ajax;’ and he re- 
plies ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of 
this man that takes me for the general? He’s 
grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. 
A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both 
sides, like a leather jerkin. [Thersites. 

Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, 

Ther. Who, 1? why, he’ll answer nobody: he 


PACT 
SCENE I.— Troy. A street. 


Enter, from one side, Aineas, and Servant with a torch ; 
from the other, Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Dio- 
medes, and others, with torches. 


Par. See, ho! who is that there ? 
Dei. It is the Lord AMneas. 
Aine. Is the prince there in person ? 
Had I so good occasion to lie long [ness 
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly busi- 
Should rob my bed-mate of my company. [Aneas. 
Dio. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord 
Par. A valiant Greek, Aneas,— take his hand,— 
Witness the process of your speech, wherein 
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, 
Did haunt you in the field. 
ine. Health to you, valiant sir, 
During all question of the gentle truce; 
But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance 
As heart can think or courage execute. 
Dio. The one and other Diomed embraces. 
Our bloods are now in calm; and, so long, health! 
But when contention and occasion meet, 
By Jove, 17H play the hunter for thy life 
With all my force, pursuit and policy. 


co 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE I. 


professes not answering: speaking is for beggars; 
he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will put on his 
presence: let Patroclus make demands to me, you 
shall see the pageant of Ajax. — 

Achil. To him, Patroclus: tell him I humbly de- 
sire the valiant Ajax to invite the most yalorous 
Hector to come unarmed to my tent, and to pro- 
cure safe-conduct for his person of the magnani- 
mous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-hon- 
oured captain-general of the Grecian army, Aga- 
memnon, et cetera. Do this. 

Patr. Jove bless great Ajax! 

Ther. Hum! 

Patr. I come from the worthy Achilles,— 

Ther. Ha! 

Patr. Who most humbly desires you to invite 
Hector to his tent,— 

Ther. Hum! 

Patr. And to procure safe-conduct from Agamem- 

Ther. Agamemnon! [non, 

Patr. Ay, my lord. 

Ther. Ha! 

Patr. What say you to’t ? 

Ther. God b’ wi’ you, with all my heart. 

Patr. Your answer, sir. 

Ther. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven 
o’clock it will go one way or other: howsoever, 
he shall pay for me ere he has me. 

Patr. Your answer, sir. 

Ther. Fare you well, with all my heart. 

Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he? 

Ther. No, but he’s out o’ tune thus. What 
music will be in him when Hector has knocked out 
his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, un- 
less the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make cat- 
lings on. [straight. 

Achil. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him 

Ther. Let me bear another to his horse; for that ’s 
the more capable creature. 

Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d 5 
And I myself see not the bottom of it. 

[Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus. 

Ther. Would the fountain of your mind were 
clear again, that I might water an ass at it! I had 
rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ig- 
norance. [ Hatt. 


TVs 


Aine. And thou shall hunt a lion, that will fly 
With his face backward. In humane gentleness, 
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises’ life, 
Welcome, indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear, 

No man alive can love in such a sort 
The thing he means to kill more excellently. 

Dio. We sympathize: Jove, let Aineas live, 

If to my sword his fate be not the glory, 

A thousand complete courses of the sun! 

But, in mine emulous honour, let him die, 
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow! 

Aine. We know each other well. 

Dio. We do; and long to know each other worse. 

Par. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, 
The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. 
What business, lord, so early ? 

Aine. I was sent for to the king; but why, I 

know not. [this Greek 

Par. His purpose meets you: *twas to bring 
To Calchas’ house, and there to render him, 

For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid: 

Let ’s have your company, or, if you please, 
Haste there before us: I constantly do think — 
Or rather, call my thought a certain knowledge — 
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night: 


525 


a | 


BODTILNs 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE II. 


Rouse him and give him note of our approach, 
With the whole quality wherefore: I fear 
We shall be much unwelcome. 

Aine. That I assure you: 
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece 
Than Cressid borne from Troy. 

Par. There is no help; 
The bitter disposition of the time 
Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you. 

Aine. Good morrow, all. [Hatt with Servant. 

Par. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tellmetrue, 
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, 

Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best, 
Myself or Menelaus ? 
} Both alike: 


Dio. 
He merits well to have her, that doth seek her, 
Not making any scruple of her soilure, 
With such a hell of pain and world of charge, 
And you as well to keep her, that defend her, 
Not palating the taste of her dishonour, 
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends: 
He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up 
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; 
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins 
Are pleased to breed out your inheritors: 
Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more; 
But he as he, the heavier for a whore. 
Par. You are too bitter to your countrywoman. 
Dio. She’s bitter to her country: hear me, Paris: 
For every false drop in her bawdy veins 
A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple 
Of her contaminated carrion weight, 
A Trojan hath been slain: since she could speak, 
She hath not given so many good words breath 
As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer’d death. 
Par. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, 
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy: 
But we in silence hold this virtue well, 
Well but commend what we intend to sell. 
Here lies our way. [| Hxewnt. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Troilus and Cressida. 


Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold. 
Cres. Then, sweet my lord, Ill call mine uncle 
He shall unbolt the gates. [down ; 
TO. Trouble him not; 
To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, 
And give as soft attachment to thy senses 
As infants’ empty of all thought! 
Ores. Good morrow, then. 
Tro. I prithee now, to bed. 
Cres. Are you a-weary of me? 
Tro. O Cressida! but that the busy day, 
Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows, 
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, 


I would not from thee. 
Night hath been too brief. 


Court of Pandarus’ house. 


Ores. 
Tro. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights 
she stays 
As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love 
With wings more momentary-swift than thought. 
You will catch cold, and curse me. 
Ores. 
You men will never tarry. 
O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, 
And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s 


Prithee, tarry: 


one up. 
Pan. [Within] What, ’s all the doors open here ? | 


Tro. It is your uncle. 
Cres. A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking: 
I shall have such a life ! 


Enter Pandarus. 


Pan. How now, how now! how go maidenheads? 
Here, you maid! where’s my cousin Cressid ? 
Ror 
O26 


Cres. GO hang yourself, you naughty mocking 
uncle! 
You bring me to do, and then you flout me too. 

Pan. To do what ? to do what ? let her say what: 
what have I brought you to do? 

Cres. Come, come, beshrew your heart! you ll ne’er 
Nor suffer others. [be good, 

Pan. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! ah, poor e¢a- 
pocchia! hast not slept to-night ? would he not, a 
naughty man, let it sleep? a bugbear take him! 

Cres. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock’d 

i’ the head! [Knocking within. 
Who’s that at door? good uncle, go and see. 
My lord, come you again into my chamber: 
You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. 

Tro. Ha, ha! 

Ores. Come, you are deceived, I think of no such 

thing. ' [Knocking within. 
How earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in: 
I would not for half Troy have you seen here. 
[| Hxeunt Troilus and Oressida. 

Pan. Who’s there? what’s the matter ? will you 
beat down the door? How now! what’s the mat- 
ter ? 

Enter Aineas. 

Aine. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. 

Pan. Who’sthere? my Lord Aineas! Bymytroth, 
I knew you not: what news with you so early ? 

ine. Is not Prince Troilus here ? 

Pan. Here! what should he do here ? 

Aine. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him: 
It doth import him much to speak with me. 

Pan. Is he here, say you? ’tis more than I know, 
I’ll be sworn: for my own part, I came in late. 
What should he do here ? 

ine. Who!—nay, then: come, come, you ’ll do 
him wrong ere you ’re ware: you’ll be so true to 
him, to be false to him: do not you know of him, 
but yet go fetch him hither; go. 


Re-enter Troilus. 


Tro. How now! what’s the matter ? 
“Hine. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, 
My matter is so rash: there is at hand 
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, 
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor 
Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith, 
ire the first sacrifice, within this hour, 
We must give up to Diomedes’ hand 
The Lady Cressida. 
Tro. Is it so concluded ? 
“Ene. By Priam and the general state of Troy: 
They are at hand and ready to effect it. 
Tro. How my achievements mock me! 
I will go meet them: and, my Lord Aineas, 

We met by chance; you did not find me here. , 
ine. Good, good, my lord; the secrets of nature 
Have not more gift in taciturnity. 

| Hxeunt Troilus and Alneas. — 
Pan. Is’t possible? no sooner got but lost? The — 
devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad: 
a Peete upon Antenor! I would they had broke’s — 
neck ) 
Re-enter Cressida. 
Cres. How now! what’s the matter? who was — 
Pan. Ah, ha! [here? 4 
Cres. Why sigh you so profoundly ? where’s my — 
lord? gone! Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the — 
matter ? 
Pan. Would I were as deep under the earth as 

I am above! 
Ores. O the gods! what ’s the matter ? 
Pan. Prithee, get thee in: would thou hadst — 
ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death. — 
O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! 
Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I~ 


beseech you, what ’s the matter ? 


ACT IV. 


_ 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. 


SCENE IV. 


Pan. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be 
gone; thou art changed for Antenor: thou must to 
thy father, and be gone from Troilus: ’t will be his 
death ; ’t will be his bane; he cannot bear it. 

Ores. O you immortal gods! I will not go. 

Pan. Thou must. 

Ores. I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father ; 
I know no touch of consanguinity ; 

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me 

As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine! 

Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood, 

It ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, 

Do to this body what extremes you can; 

But the strong base and building of my love 

Is.as the very centre of the earth, 

Drawing all things to it. I’ go in and weep,— 
Pan. Do, do. [cheeks, 
Ores. Tear my bright hair and scratch my praised 

Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart 

With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE ITI.—The same. Street before Pandarus’ 
house. 


Enter Paris, Troilus, Aineas, Deiphobus, An- 
tenor, and Diomedes. 


Par. It is great morning, and the hour prefix’d 
Of her delivery to this valiant Greek 
Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, 
Tell you the lady what she is to do, 
And haste her to the purpose. 
Tro. Walk into her house; 
Ill bring her to the Grecian presently : 
And to his hand when I deliver her, 
Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus 


A priest there offering to it his own heart. [Evit. 
Par. I know what ’tis to love; 

And would, as I shall pity, I could help! 

Please you walk in, my lords. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The same. 


Enter Pandarus and Cressida. 


Pan. Be moderate, be moderate. 

Cres. Why tell you me of moderation ? 
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, 
And violenteth in a sense as strong 
As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it ? 
If I could temporize with my affection, 
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, 
The like allayment could I give my grief: 
My love admits no qualifying dross; 

No more my grief, in such a precious loss. 

Pan. Here, here, here he comes. 


Pandarus’ house. 


Enter Troilus. 
Ah ; sweet ducks! 
Cres. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him. 
Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me 
embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is, 
‘— Q heart, heavy heart, 
Why sigh’st thou without breaking ?’ 
where he answers again, 
* Because thou canst not ease thy smart 
By friendship nor by speaking.’ 
There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away 
nothing, for we may live to have need of such a 
verse: we see it, we see it. How now, lambs ? 
Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity, 
That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy, 
More bright in zeal than the devotion which 
Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me. 
Cres. Have the gods envy ? 
Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case. 
res, And is it true that. I must go from Troy ? 
Tro. A hateful truth. 


Cres. What, and from Troilus too ? 
Tro. From Troy and Troilus. 
Ores. Is it possible ? 
Tro. And suddenly; where injury of chance 
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by 
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips. 
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents 
Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows 
Even in the birth of our own labouring breath: 
We two, that with so many thousand sighs 
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves 
With the rude brevity and discharge of one. 
Injurious time now with a robber’s haste 
Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how: 
As many farewells as be stars in heaven, 
With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them, 
He fumbles up into a loose adieu, 
And scants us with a single famish’d kiss, 
Distasted with the salt of broken tears. 
Hine. [| Within] My lord, is the lady ready ? 
Tro. Hark! you are call’d: some say the Genius so 
Cries ‘come’ to him that instantly must die. 
Bid them have patience; she shall come anon. 
Pan. Where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, 
or my heart will be blown up by the root. [ Exit. 
Cres. I must then to the Grecians ? 
Tro. No remedy. 
Ores. A woful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks! 
When shall we see again ? [heart — 
Tro. Hear me, my love: be thou but true of 
Cres. [true! how now! what wicked deem is this ? 
Tro. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, 
For it is parting from us: 
I speak not ‘ be thou true,’ as fearing thee, 
For I will throw my glove to Death himself, 
That there ’s no maculation in thy heart: 
But ‘ be thou true,’ say I, to fashion in 
My sequent protestation; be thou true, 
And I will see thee. 
Cres. O, you shall be exposed, my lord, to dangers 
As infinite as imminent! but I ll be true. 
Tro. And I’ll grow friend with danger. Wear 
this sleeve. 
Cres. And you this glove. When shall I see you? 
Tro. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels, 
To give thee nightly visitation. 
But yet be true. 
Ores. O heavens! ‘be true’ again! 
Tro. Hear why I speak it, love: 
The Grecian youths are full of quality ; 
They ’re loving, well composed with gifts of nature, 
Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise: 
How novelty may move, and parts with person, 
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy — 
Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin— 
Makes me afeard. 
Cres. O heavens! you love me not. 
Tro. Die I a villain, then! 
In this I do not call your faith in question 
So mainly as my merit: I cannot sing, 
Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, 
Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, [nant: 
To which the Grecians are most prompt and preg- 
But I can tell that in each grace of these 
There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil 
That tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted. 
Cres. Do you think I will? 
Tro. No. 
But something may be done that we will not: 
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, 
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, 
Presuming on their changeful potency. 
Line. [Within] Nay, good my lord,— 
Tro. Gone. kiss; and let us part. 
Par. { Within] Brother Troilus! 
Tro. Good brother, come you hither ; 
And bring Mneas and the Grecian with you. 


527 


OC Lives 


Ores. My lord, will you be true ? 

Tro. Who, 1? alas, it is my vice, my fault: 
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, 
I with great truth catch mere simplicity ; 
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, 
With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. 
Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit 
Is ‘ plain and true; ’ there’s all the reach of it. 


Enter AAneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus, and 
Diomedes. 


Welcome, Sir Diomed! here is the lady 
Which for Antenor we deliver you: 

At the port, lord, I ’ll give her to thy hand; 
And by the way possess thee what she is. 
Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, 
If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword, 
Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe 

As Priam is in Ilion. 

yea ts Fair Lady Cressid, 

So please you, save the thanks this prince expects: 
The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, 
Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed 

You shall be mistress, and command him wholly. 

Tro. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously, 
To shame the zeal of my petition to thee 
In praising her: I tell thee, lord of Greece, 

She is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises 

As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant. 

I charge thee use her well, even for my charge; 

For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, 

Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, 

T’ll cut thy throat. 
10. O, be not moved, Prince Troilus: 

Let me be privileged by my place and message, 

To be a speaker free; when I am hence, 

I?ll answer to my lust: and know you, lord, 

1’ nothing do on charge: to her own worth 

She shall be prized; but that you say ‘ be ’t so,’ 

I ll speak it in my spirit and honour, ‘ no.’ 

Tro. Come, to the port. Ill tell thee, Diomed, 
This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. 
Lady, give me your hand, and, as we walk, 

To our own selves bend we our needful talk. 
{[Hxeunt Troilus, Cressida, and Diomedes. 
[Trumpet within. 

Par. Hark! Hector’s trumpet. 

Eine. How have we spent this morning! 
The prince must think me tardy and remiss, 

That swore to ride before him to the field. 

Par. ’Tis Troilus’ fault: come, come, to field with 

Dei. Let us make ready straight. {him. 

Aine. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity, 
Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels: 
The glory of our Troy doth this day lie 
On his fair worth and single chivalry. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—The Grecian camp. Lists set out. 


Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Pa- 
troclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor, and others. 


Agam. Here art thou in appointment fresh and 
Anticipating time with starting courage. [fair, 
Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, 

Thou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air 
May pierce the head of the great combatant 
And hale him hither. 

Ajax. Thou, trumpet, there ’s my purse. 
Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe; 
Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek 
Outswell the colic of puff’d Aquilon: [blood ; 
Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout 
Thou blow’st for Hector. [Trumpet sounds. 

Ulyss. No trumpet answers. 

Achil. ’T is but early days. 

Agam. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ daugh- 

yss. "Tis he, 1 kenthe manner of hisgait; [ter? 
528 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE VY. 


—— 


He rises on the toe: that spirit of his 
In aspiration lifts him from the earth. 


Enter Diomedes, with Cressida. 


Agam. Is this the Lady Cressid ? 
Dio. Even she. 
Agam. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet 
lady. 
Nest. Our general doth salute you with a kiss. 
Ulyss. Yet is the kindness but particular ; 
’T were better she were kiss’d in general. 
Nest. And very courtly counsel: I ’ll begin. 
So much for Nestor. 
Achil. I?ll take that winter from your lips, fair 
Achilles bids you welcome. [lady : 
Men. I had good argument for kissing once. 
Patr. But that’s no argument for kissing now; 
For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment, 
And parted thus you and your argument. 
Ulyss. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! 
For which we lose our heads to gild his horns. 
Patr. The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine: 
Patroclus kisses you. 
Men. O, this is trim ! 
Patr. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. 
». I’llhave my kiss,sir. Lady, by your leave. 
. In kissing, do you render or receive ? 


Therefore no kiss. 

Men. Ill give you boot, Ill give you three for 

one. 

Cres. You’rean odd man}; give even, or give none, 

Men. An odd man, lady! every man is odd. 

Cres. No, Paris is not; for you know ’tis true, 
That you are odd, and he is even with you. 

Men. You fillip me o’ the head. 

Cres. No, Ill be sworn. 

Ulyss. It were no match, your nail against his horn. 
May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you ? 

Cres. You may. 

Ulyss. I do desire it. 

Ores. Why, beg, then. 

Ulyss. Why then for Venus’ sake, give me akiss, 
When Helen is a maid again, and his. 

Cres. I am your debtor, claim it when ’t is due. 

Ulyss. Never ’s my day, and then a kiss of you. 

Dio. Lady, a word: Ill bring you to your father. 

[Hatt with Cressida. 

Nest. A woman of quick sense. 

Ulyss. Fie, fie upon her! 
There ’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, 
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out 
At every joint and motive of her body. 

O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue, 

That give accosting welcome ere it comes, 

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts 

To every ticklish reader! set them down 

For sluttish spoils of opportunity 

And daughters of the game. 
All. The Trojans’ trumpet. 
Agam. Yonder comes the troop. 


Enter Hector, armed; A®neas, Troilus, and other — 
Trojans, with Attendants. 


Aine. Hail, all you state of Greece! what shall 
be done 
To him that victory commands? or do you purpose 
A victor shall be known ? will you the knights 
Shall to the edge of all extremity 
Pursue each other, or shall be divided 
By any voice or order of the field ? 
Hector bade ask. 
Agam. Which way would Hector have it ? 
ne. He cares not; he ’ll obey conditions. 
Achil. "Tis done like Hector; but securely done, 


[Trumpet within. 


Ls 


ACT IV. 


A little proudly, and great deal misprizing 

The knight opposed. 
Aine. If not Achilles, sir, 

W hat is your name? 
Achil. If not Achilles, nothing. 
Ene. Therefore Achilles: but, whate’er, know 

In the extremity of great and little, {this : 

Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; 

The one almost as infinite as all, 

The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, 

And that which looks like pride is courtesy. 

This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood: 

In love whereof, half Hector stays at home; 

Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek 

This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek. 
Achil. A maiden battle, then ? O, I perceive you. 


Re-enter Diomedes. 


_ Agam. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, 

Stand by our Ajax: as you and Lord Aineas 

Consent upon the order of their fight, 

So be it; either to the uttermost, 

Or else a breath: the combatants being kin 

Half stints their strife before their strokes begin. 
[Ajax and Hector enter the lists. 

Ulyss. They are opposed already. 

ue What Trojan is that same that looks so 

eavy ? 

Ulyss. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight, 
Not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word, 
Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue ; 

Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm’d ; 

His heart and hand both open and both free ; 

For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows; 

Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty, 

Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath ; 

Manly as Hector, but more dangerous ; 

For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes 

To tender objects, but he in heat of action 

Is more vindicative than jealous love: 

They call him Troilus, and on him erect 

A second hope, as fairly built as Hector. 

Thus says Atneas; one that knows the youth 

Even to his inches, and with private soul 

Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. 
[Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight. 

aie They are in action. 
est. Now, Ajax, hold thine own! 

Tro. Hector, thou sleep’st ; 
Awake thee! 

Agam. His blows are well disposed: there, Ajax ! 

Dio. You must no more. { Trumpets cease. 

Aime. - Princes, enough, so please you. 

Ajax. 1am not warm yet; let us fight again. 

Dio. As Hector pleases. 

Hect. Why, then will I no more: 
Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son, 

A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed ; 
The obligation of our blood forbids 
A gory emulation ’twixt us twain: 
Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so ~ 
That thou couldst say ‘ This hand is Grecian all, 
And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg 
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood 
Ktwuns on the dexter cheek, and this sinister 
Bounds in my father’s;’ by Jove multipotent, 
Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member 
Wherein my sword had not impressure made 
Of our rank feud: but the just gods gainsay 
That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother, 
My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword 
Be drain’d! Let me embrace thee, Ajax: 
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms; 
Hector would have them fall upon him thus: 
Cousin, all honour to thee! ; 

] I thank thee, Hector: 


jan. | 
Thou art too gentle and too free a man: 
34 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. 


SCENE V. 


————-- = 


I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence 

A. great addition earned in thy death. 
Hect. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, 

On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st Oyes 

Cries ‘ This is he,’ could promise to himself 

A thought of added honour torn from Hector. 
Aime. There isexpectance here from both the sides, 


| What further you will do. 


Fect. We’ll answer it: 

The issue is embracement: Ajax, farewell. 

Ajax. If I might in entreaties find suecess — 

As seld I have the chance —I would desire 

My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. 

Dio. Tis Agamemnon’s wish, and great Achilles 
Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector. 

Hect. Aineas, call my brother Troilus to me, 
And signify this loving interview 
To the expecters of our Trojan part; 

Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; 

I will go eat with thee and see your knights. 

Ajax. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here. 

Hect. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; 
But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes 
Shall find him by his large and portly size. 

Agam. Worthy of arms! as welcome as to one 
That would be rid of such an enemy; 

But that’s no weleome: understand more clear, 

What ’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with 

And formless ruin of oblivion ; [husks 

But in this extant moment, faith and troth, 

Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, 

Bids thee, with most divine integrity, 

From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome. 
Hect. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon. 
Agam. [To Troilus] My well-famed lord of Troy, 

no less to you. fing: 

Men. Let me confirm my princely brother’s greet- 
You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither. 

Hect: Who must we answer ? 

Aine. The noble Menelaus. 

Hect. O, you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet, 
Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath; [thanks! 
Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove: 
She ’s well, but bade me not commend her to you. 

Men. Name her not now, sir; she’s a deadly theme. 

Hect. O, pardon; I offend. 

Nest. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft 
Labouring for destiny make cruel way [thee, 
Through ranks of Greekish youth, and I have seen 
As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, 
Despising many forfeits and subduements, 

When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ the air, 

Not letting it decline on the declined, 

That I have said to some my standers by 

‘Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life! ’ 

And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, 

When that a ring of Greeks have hemm/’d thee in, 

Like an Olympian wrestling: this have I seen; 

But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel, 

I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, 

And once fought with him: he was a soldier good ; 

But. by great Mars, the captain of us all, 

Never like thee. Let an old man embrace thee; 

And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents. 
ine. Tis the old Nestor. 

Hect. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, 
That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time: 
Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. 

Nest. I would my arms could match thee in con- 
As they contend with thee in courtesy. _[tention, 

Hect. I would they could. 

Nest. Ha! 

By this white beard, I ld fight with thee to-morrow. 

Well, welcome, welcome! —I have seen the time. 
Ulyss. I wonder now how yonder city stands 

When we have here her base and pillar by us. 

Hect. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. 

§29 


*4 


ACT V. 


Ah, sir, there’s many a Greek and Trojan dead, 

Since first I saw yourself and Diomed 

In Lion, on your Greekish embassy. 

Ulyss. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue: 

My prophecy is but half his journey yet; 

For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, 

Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, 

Must kiss their own feet. 

FTect. I must not believe you: 

There they stand yet, and modestly I think, 

The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost 

A drop of Grecian blood: the end crowns all, 

And that old common arbitrator, Time, 

Will one day end it. 

Ulyss. So to him we leave it. 

Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome: 

After the general, I beseech you next 

To feast with me and see me at my tent. 

Achil. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou! 

Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; 

I have with exact view perused thee, Hector, 

And quoted joint by joint. 

TTect. 

Achil. Iam Achilles. 
Hect. Stand fair, I pray thee: let me look on thee. 
Achil. Behold thy fill. 

Flect. Nay, I have done already. 
Achil. Thou art too brief: I will the second time, 

As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. 

_ Hect. O, likea book of sport thou ‘It read me o’er; 
But there ’s more in me than thou understand’st. 
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye ? 

Achil. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his 
body [there ? 

.Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or 
That I may give the local wound a name 
And make distinct the very breach whereout 
Hector’s great spirit flew: answer me, heavens! 

Hect. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man, 
To answer such a question: stand again: 
Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly 
As to prenominate in nice conjecture 
Where thou wilt hit me dead ? 
Achil. I tell thee, yea. 
Hect. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, 
I’ld not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; 


Is this Achilles ? 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE I. 


For Ill not kill thee there, nor there, nor there ; 
But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, 
I ’ll kill thee every where, yea, o’er and o’er. 
You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag; 
His insolence draws folly from my lips; 
But Ill endeavour deeds to match these words, 
Or may I never — 
Ajax. Do not chafe thee, cousin: 
And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, 
Till accident or purpose bring you to ’t: 
You may have every day enough of Hector, 
If you have stomach; the general state, I fear, 
Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. 
Hect. I pray you, let us see you in the field: 
We have had pelting wars, since you refused 
The Grecians’ cause. 
Achil. Dost thou entreat me, Hector ? 
To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; 
To-night all friends. 
Fect. Thy hand upon that match. 
Agam. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my 
There in the full convive we: afterwards, [tent; 


| AS Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall 


Concur together, severally entreat him. 
Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow, 
That this great soldier may his welcome know. 
[| Haeunt all except Troilus and U lysses. 
Tro. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, 
In what place of the field doth Calchas keep ? 
Ulyss. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus: 
There Diomed doth feast with him to-night; 
Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, 
But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view 
On the fair Cressid. 
Tro. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to youso much, 


| After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, 


| 


To bring me thither ? 

Ulyss. You shall command me, sir. 
As gentle tell me, of what honour was 
This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there 
That wails her absence ? 

Tro. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars 
A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord ? 
She was beloved, she loved; she is, and doth: 
But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth. 

[ Exeunt. 


SERED IEN - 


SCENE I.—The Grecian camp. 
tent. 


Before Achilles? 


Enter Achilles and Patroclus. 
Achil. I7ll heat his blood with Greekish wine 
to-night, 
Which with my scimitar I ’ll cool to-morrow. 
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. 
Patr. Here comes Thersites. 


Enter Thersites. | 


Achil. How now, thou core of envy! 
Thou erusty batch of nature, what’s the news ? 
Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, 
and idol of idiot-worshippers, here’s a letter for 
Achil. From whence, fragment ? [thee. 
Ther. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. 
Patr. Who keeps the tent now ? 
Ther. The surgeon’s box, or the patient’s wouni. 
Patr. Well said, adversity! and what need these 
tricks ? 
Ther. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy 
talk: thou art thought to be Achilles’ male varlet. 
Patr. Male varlet, you rogue! what ’s that ? 
Ther. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rot- 


530 


ten diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, 
catarrhs, loads 0’ gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold 
palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, 
bladders full of impost-hume, sciaticas, limekilns i’ 
the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee- 
simple of the tetter, take and take again such pre- 
posterous discoveries ! 

Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, 
what meanest thou to curse thus ? 

Ther. Do I curse thee ? 

Patr. Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson — 
indistinguishable cur, no. 

Ther. No! why art thou then exasperate, thou — 
idle immaterial skein of sleave-silk, thou green sar- 
cenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s 
purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered 
with such waterflies, diminutives of nature ! 

Patr. Out, gall! 

Ther. Finch-egg! 

Achil. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite 
From my great purpose in to-morrow’s battle. 
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, 

A token from her daughter, my fair love, 
Both taxing me and gaging me to keep | 
An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it: 


AT: VY; 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


SCENE II. 


Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay ; 
My major vow lies here, this I ’ll obey. 
Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent: 
This night in banqueting must all be spent. 
Away, Patroclus! [Hxeunt Achilles and Patroclus. 
her. With too much blood and too little brain, 
these two may run mad; but, if with too much 
brain and too little blood they do, Ill be a curer 
of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fel- 
low enough, and one that loves quails; but he has 
not so much brain as ear-wax: and the goodly 
transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the 
buli,— the primitive statue, and oblique memorial 
of cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, 
hanging at his brother’s leg,—to what. form but 
that he is, should wit larded with malice and 
malice forced with wit turn him to? To an ass, 
were nothing; he is both ass and ox: to an ox, 
were nothing; he is both ox and ass. To bea dog, 
a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a 
puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not 
care; but to be Menelaus! I would conspire against 
destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not 
Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, 
I ie not Menelaus. Hoy-day! spirits and 
res! 


Jinter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, | 


Nestor, Menelaus, and Diomedes, with lights. 
Agam. We go wrong, we go wrong. 


Ajax. No, yonder ’tis; 
There, where we see the lights. 
Hect. I trouble you. 


Ajax. No, not a whit. 
Ulyss. Here comes himself to guide you. 


Re-enter Achilles. 


ee eon brave Hector; welcome, princes 

all. 

Agam. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good 
night. 

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. 
Hect. Thanks and good night to the Greeks’ gen- 
Men. Good night, my lord. 

Hect. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus. 
Ther. Sweet draught: ‘sweet’ quoth ’a! sweet 
sink, sweet sewer. 
Achil. Good night and welcome, both at once, to 
those 
That go or tarry. 
Agam. Good night. 
[| Hxeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus. 
Achil. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, 

Keep Hector company an hour or two. 

Dio. I cannot, lord; I have important business, 

The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hec- 
Hect. Give me your hand. [tor. 
Ulyss. [Aside to Troilus] Follow his torch; he 

goes to Calchas’ tent: 

17] keep you company. 
Tro, Sweet sir, you honour me. 
Hect. And so, good ie 

[Exit Diomedes; Ulysses and Troilus following. 
Achil. ome, come, enter my tent. 
[Hxeunt Achilles, Hector, Ajax, and Nestor. 

Ther. ‘That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, 

a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him 

when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses: 

he will spend his mouth, and promise, like Brab- 
bler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers 
foretell it; it is prodigious, there will come some 
change; the sun borrows of the moon, when Dio- 
med keeps his word. I will rather leave to see 

Hector, than not to dog him: they say he keeps a 

Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent: 

I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent 

varlets ! 


pa 


SCENE II.—The same. Before Calchas’ tent. 


Enter Diomedes, 
Dio. What, are you up here, ho? speak. 
Cal. [ Within] Who calls ? 
Dio. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your 
Cal. [Within] She comes to you. [daughter ? 
Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after 
them, Thersites. 
Ulyss. Stand where the torch may not discover us. 


Enter Cressida. 
Tro. Cressid comes forth to him. 


Dio. How now, my charge! 
Cres. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word 
with you. | Whispers. 


Tro. Yea, so familiar! 

Tlyss. She will sing any man at first sight. 

Ther. And any man may sing her, if he can take 
her cliff; she’s noted. 

Dio. Will you remember ? 
| Cres. Remember! yes. 

Dio. Nay, but do, then; 
And let your mind be coupled with your words. 

Tro. What should she remember ? 

Ulyss. List. 

Cres. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to 


[eral. | 


[Evit. | 


Ther. Roguery! [folly, 
Dio. Nay, then,— 
Ores. 1711 tell you what,— 
Dio. Foh, foh! come, tell a pin: you are forsworn. 
Ores. In faith, I cannot: what would you have 
me do? 
Ther. A juggling trick.—to be secretly open. 
Dio. What did youswear you would bestow on me? 
Cres. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; 
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek. 
Dio. Good night. 
Tro. Hold, patience! 
| Ulyss. How now, Trojan! 
Cres. Diomed,— 
Dio. No, no, good-night : Ill be your fool no more. 
Tro. Thy better must. 
Ores. Hark, one word in your ear. 
Tro. O plague and madness! [pray you, 
Ulyss. You are moved, prince; let us depart, 1 
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself 
To wrathful terms: this place is dangerous; 
The time right deadly; I beseech you, go. 
Tro. Behold, I pray you! 
Ulyss. Nay, good my lord, go off : 
You flow to great distraction; come, my lord. 
Tro. 1 pray thee, stay. 
Ulyss. You have not patience; come. 
Tro. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s tor. 
I will not speak a word! [ments, 
Dio. And so, good night. 
| Ores. Nay, but you part in anger. 
TO. Doth that grieve thee ? 
O wither’d truth ! 


Ulyss. Why, how now, lord! 

Tro. By Jove, 
I will be patient. 

Cres. Guardian !— why, Greek ! 


Dio. Foh, foh! adieu; you palter. 
Cres. In faith, I do not: come hither once again. 
Ulyss. You shake, my lord, at something: will 
You will break out. [you go? 
She strokes his cheek ! 
Come, come. 


and potato-finger, tickles these together! 
lechery, fry! 


531 


ACT V. 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. SCENE Il. 


Dio. But will you, then? 
Ores. In faith, I will, la; never trust me else. 
Dio. Give me some token for the surety of it. 
Cres. Ill fetch you one. [ Exit. 
Ulyss. You have sworn patience. 
Tro. Fear me not, sweet lord; 
I will not be myself, nor have cognition 
Of what I feel: I am all patience. 


Re-enter Cressida. 


Ther. Now the pledge; now, now, now! 
Ores. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. 
Tro. O beauty! where is thy faith ? 
Yss. My lord,— 
Tro. I will be patient; outwardly I will. 
Ores. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well. 
He loved me— O false wench! — Give ’t me again. 
Dio. Whose was ’t ? 
Cres. It is no matter, now I have ’t again. 
I will not meet with you to-morrow night: 
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. 
Ther. Now she sharpens: well said, whetstone ! 
Dio. I shall have it. 
What, this ? 


Cres. 
Dio. Ay, that. 
Cres. O, all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge! 
Thy master now lies thinking in his bed 
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, 
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, 
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me; 
He that takes that doth take my heart withal. 
Dio. I had your heart before, this follows it. 
Tro. I did swear patience. 
Cres. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you 
Ill give you something else. {shall not ; 
Dio. I will have this: whose was it ? 
Cres. It is no matter. 
Dio. Come, tell me whose it was. 
Cres. "I was one’s that loved me better than you 
But, now you have it, take it. [will. 
Dio. Whose was it ? 
Cres. By all Diana’s waiting-women yond, 
And by herself, I will not tell you whose. 
Dio. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm, 
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. 
Tro. Wert thou the devil, and worest it on thy 
It should be challenged. fhorn, 
Ores. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past: and yet it 
I will not keep my word. [is not; 
Dio. Why, then, farewell; 
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. 
Cres. You shall not go: one cannot speak a word, 
But it straights starts you. 
Dio. I do not like this fooling. 
Ther. Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not 
you pleases me best. 
Dio. What, shall I come? the hour ? 
Ores. Ay, come:—O Jove!—do come:—I shall 
Dio. Farewell till then. [be plagued. 
Ores. Good night: I prithee, come. 
| Hxit Diomedes. 
‘ ‘roilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee; 
put with my heart the other eye doth see. 
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, 
The error of our eye directs our mind: 
What error leads must err; O, then conclude 
_Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude. [Evit. 
Ther. A proof of strength she could not publish 
more, 
Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’ 
U lyss. All’s done, my lord. 
Tro. It is. 
U lyss. Why stay we, then ? 
Tro. To make a recordation to my soul 
Of every syllable that here was spoke. 
But if L tell how these two did co-act, 
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth ? 
5382 


—_————————————— 
ET 


Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, 

An esperance so obstinately strong, 

That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears, 
As if those organs had deceptious functions, 
Created only to calumniate. 


Was Cressid here ? } 
Ulyss. I cannot conjure, Trojan. 
Tro. She was not, sure. 

Ulyss. Most sure she was. 


Tro. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. 
Ulyss. Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but 
Tro. Let it not be believed for womanhood! [now. 
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage 
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, 
For depravation, to square the general sex 
By Cressid’s rule: rather think this not Cressid. 
Ulyss. What hath she done, prince, that can soil 
our mothers ? 
Tro. Nothing at all, unless that this were she. 
Ther. Willhe swagger himself out on’s own eyes ? 
Tro. This she? no, this is Diomed’s Cressida: 
If beauty have a soul, this is not she; 
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, 
If sanctimony be the gods’ delight, 
If there be rule in unity itself, 
This is not she. O madness of discourse, 
That cause sets up with and against itself! 
Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt 
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason 
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. 
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight 
Of this strange nature that a thing inseparate 
Divides more wider than the sky and earth, 
And yet the spacious breadth of this division 
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle 
As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter. 
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates; 
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven: 
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself; 
The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolved, and 
And with another knot, five-finger-tied, {loosed; 
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, 
The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics 
Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed. 
Ulyss. May worthy Troilus be half attach’d 
With that which here his passion doth express ? 
Tro. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well 
In characters as red as Mars his heart 
Inflamed with Venus: never did young man fancy 
With so eternal and so fix’d a soul. 
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, 
So much by weight hate I her Diomed: 
That sleeve is mine that he Il bear on his helm; 
Were it a casque composed by Vulean’s skill, 
My sword should bite it: not the dreadful spout 
Which shipmen do the hurricano call, 
Constringed in mass by the almighty sun, 
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear 
In his descent than shall my prompted sword 
Falling on Diomed. 
Ther. He’) tickle it for his conecupy. [false! 
Tro. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, 
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, 
And they 711 seem glorious. 
Ulyss. O, contain yourself ; 
Your passion draws ears hither. 


Enter Aineas. 


Aine. [have been seeking you this hour, my lord: 
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; 

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. 

Tro. Have with you, prince. My courteous lord, 
Farewell, revolted fair! and, Diomed, {adieu. 
Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head! 

Ulyss. Ill bring you to the gates. 

Tro. Accept distracted thanks. 

[Exeunt Troilus, Alneas, and Ulysses. 


a 


ACT V. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ESSIDA. SCENE III. 


Ther. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I 
would croak like a raven; I would “bode, I would 
bode. Patroclus will wive me any thing for the in- 
telligence of this whore: the parrot will not do 
more for an almond than he for a commodious 
drab. Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery; 
nothing else holds fashion: a purning devil take 
them! [ Hxit. 


SCENE III.—Troy. Before Priam’s palace. 


eckoutie WuEh Meee toh Gotu itty with fiery truncheon my retire ; 

Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, 

Their eyes o’ergalled with recourse ‘of tears; 

Nor you, my brother, with your true sword ‘drawn, 
Opposed to hinder me, should stop my way, 

But by my ruin. 


Re-enter Cassandra, with Priam. 


Bee ri nat 
Cas. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast: 
te is UE aes ; how if thou lose thy stay, 
10u on him lean 
Enier Hector and Andromache. Fall all eaciner: Dakipranpesaante leer ak 
And. When was my lord so much ungently tem- Pri Come, Hector, come, go back: 
To stop his ears against admonishment ? {per’d, | Thy ‘wife hath dream’ d; thy mother hath had 
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day. visions ; 
Hect. You train me to offend you; get you in: Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself 
By all the everlasting gods, Ill go! Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt 
And. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the | To tell thee that this day is ominous: 
Hect. No more, I say. [day. | Therefore, come back. 
Hect. /Eneas is a-field ; 
And I do stand engaged to many Greeks, 
Even in the faith of valour, to appear 
This morning to them. 
Pri. Ay, but thou shalt not go. 
Hect. I must not break my faith. 
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, 
Let me not shame respect : but eive me leave 
To take that course by your consent and voice, 
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. 
Cas. O Priam, yield not to him! 
And. Do not, dear father. 
Hect. Andromache, I am offended with you: 
Upon the love you bear me, get you in. 
[ Hauit Andromache. 
Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl 
| ae all these bodements. 


Enter Cassandra. 


Cas. Where is my brother Hector ? 
And. Here, sister; arm’d, and bloody in intent. 

Consort with’ me in loud and dear petition, 

Pursue we him on knees; for I have dream’d 

Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night 

Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaugh- 
Cas. O, ’tis true. [ter. 
Bits: Ho! bid my trumpet sound! 
Cas. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet 

brother. [swear. | 

Hect. Be gone, I say: the gods have heard me 
Cas. The eods are deaf to hot and peevish vows: 

They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d 

Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. 
And. O, be persuaded! do not count it holy 


To hurt by being just: it is as lawful, Cas. O, farewell, dear Hector! 
For we would give much, to use violent thefts, | Looks how thou diest! look, “how thy eye turns pale! 
And rob in the behalf of charity. Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents! 
Cas. It isthe purpose that makes strong the vow; Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out! 
But vows to every purpose must not hold: How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth! 
Unarm, sweet Hector. Behold, distraction, frenzy and amazement, 
Hect. Hold you still, I say; Like witless antics, one another meet, 
Mine honour keeps the weather of my ‘tate: And all ery, Hector! Hector ’s dead! O Hector! 
Life every man holds dear; but the brave man Tro. Away! away! 
Holds honour far more precious-dear than life. Cas. Farewell: yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave: 
. : Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [Hvwit. 
Enter Troilus. Hect. You are amazed, my liege, at her exclaim: 
How now, young man! mean’st thou to fight to-day ? | Go in and cheer the town: we’ll forth and fight, 
And. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. 
[Hxit Cassandra. Pri. Farewell: the gods with safety stand about 
Hect. No, faith , young Troilus; doff thy harness, thee ! 
Tam to-day i i’ the vein of chivalry : [youth ; [Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums. 
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, Tro. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, be- 
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. lieve, 
Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy, I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve. 
1’ll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy. 
Tro. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Hinter Pandarus. 
Which better fits a lion than a man. Pan. Do you hear, my lord? do you hear? 
Hect. What vice is that, good Troilus ? chide me Tro. What now? 
for it. Pan. Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl. 
Tro. When many times the captive Grecian falls, Tro. Let me read. 
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, Pan. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick 
You bid them rise, and live. so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; 
Hect. O, ’tis fair play. and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave 
Tro. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector. | you one 0’ these days: and I have a rheum in mine 
mt How now! how now! eyes too,and such an ache in my bones that, unless 
For the love of all the gods, | a man were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on ’t. 
Let Oe leave the hermit pity with our mothers, What says she there ? 
And when we have our armours buckled on, Tro. Words, words, mere words, no matter from 
The venom’d vengeance ride upon our sw ords, the heart; : 
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth. The effect doth operate another way. 
Hect. Fie, savage, fie! [Tearing the letter. 
Tro. Hector, then ’tis wars. Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. 
Hect. Troilus, 1 would not have you fight to-day. My love with words and errors still she feeds ; ; 
Tro. Who should withhold me ? But edifies another with her deeds. 
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars [ Exeunt severally. 
533 


ACT Wi. 


TROILUS AND 


CRESSIDA. 


SCENE VI. 


SCENE IV .— Plains between Troy and the Grecian 
camp. 


Alarums: excursions. Enter Thersites. 


Ther. Now they are clapper-clawing one another ; 
1’ go look on. That dissembling abominable var- 
let, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting fool- 
ish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his belm: 
IT would fain see them meet; that that same young 
Trojan ass, that loves the whore there, might send 
that Greekish whoremasterly villain, with the 
sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of 
a sleeveless errand. O”’ the t’ other side, the policy 
of those crafty swearing rascals, that stale old 
mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog- 
fox, Ulysses. is not proved worth a blackberry : they 
set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against 
that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles: and now is the 


cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will | 


not arm to-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to 
proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill 
opinion. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’ other. 


Enter Diomedes, Troilus following. 


Tro. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river 
I would swim after. 
Dio. Thou dost miscall retire: 
I do not fly, but advantageous care 
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude: 
Have at thee! 
Ther. Hold thy whore, Grecian! —now for thy 
whore, Trojan ! —now the sleeve, now the sleeve! 
[Hxeunt Troilus and Diomedes, fighting. 


Enter Hector. 


Hect. What art thou, Greek ? art thou for Hec- 
Art thou of blood and honour ? {tor’s match ? 
Ther. No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing 
knave: a very filthy rogue. 
Hect. I do believe thee: live. [ Hxit. 
Ther. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; 
but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! 
What ’s become of the wenching rogues? I think 
they have swallowed one another; I would laugh 
at that miracle: yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. 
I ll seek them. [ Hxit. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the plains. 


Enter Diomedes and a Servant. 
Dio. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse; 
Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid: 
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty : 
Tell her I have chastised the amorous Trojan, 
And am her knight by proof. 
[ Hactt. 


Serv. I go, my lord. 


Enter Agamemnon. 


Agam. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas 
Hath beat down Menon: bastard Margarelon 
Hath Doreus prisoner, 

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, 
Upon the pashed corses of the kings ~ 
Epistrophus and Cedius: Polyxenes is slain, 
Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt, 
Patroclus ta’en or slain, and Palamedes 

Sore hurt and bruised: the dreadful Sagittary 
Appals our numbers: haste we, Diomed, 

To reinforcement, or we perish all. 


Enter Nestor. 


Nest. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles; 
And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame. 
There is a thousand Hectors in the field: 
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, 
And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot, 
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls 
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, 


O34 


[Styx, | 


_ And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, 
_ Fall down before him, like the mower’s swath: 
| Here, there, and every where, he leaves and takes, 
_ Dexterity so obeying appetite 
That what he will he does, and does so much 
.That proof is call’d impossibility. 
Enter Ulysses. 

Ulyss. O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles 
Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance: 
Patroclus’ wounds have roused his drowsy blood, 
Together with his mangled Myrmidons, 
That pos handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come 

to him, 

Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend 
And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, 
Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day 
Mad and fantastic execution, 
Engaging and redeeming of himself 
With such a careless force and forceless care 
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning, 
| Bade him win all. ; 
Enter Ajax. 


Ajax. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! [ Heit. 
Dio. Ay, there, there. 
Nest. So, so, we draw together. 


Enter Achilles. 


Achil. Where is this Hector ? 
| Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face ; 
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry: 

Hector! where ’s Hector? I will none but Hector. 


[| Hxeunt. 
SCENE VI.— Another part of the plains. 
Enter Ajax. 


Ajax. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy 
head ! F | 
Enter Diomedes. 
Dio. Troilus, I say! where’s Troilus ? 
Ajax. What wouldst thou ? 
Dio. I would correct him. [office 
Ajax. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my 
Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! what, Troilus! 


Enter Troilus. 


| Tro. O traitor Diomed! turn thy false face, thou 
traitor, 
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse! 
Dio. Ha, art thou there ? 
Ajax. I'll fight with him alone: stand, Diomed. 
Dio. He is my prize; I will not look upon. 
Tro. Come, both you cogging Greeks; have at 
you both! [Hxeunt, fighting. 


Enter Hector. 


Hect. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my young- 
est brother! 


Enter Achilles. 


Achil. Now do I see thee, ha! have at thee, Hector! 
Hect. Pause, if thou wilt. 
Achil. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan: 
Be happy that my arms are out of use: 
My rest and negligence befriends thee now, 
But thou anon shalt hear of me again ; 
Till when, go seek thy fortune. [Hxit. 
Hect. Fare thee well: 
I would have been much more a fresher man, 
| Had I expected thee. How now, my brother! 


Re-enter Troilus. 


Tro. Ajax hath ta’en Aineas: shall it be ? 
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, 
He shall not carry him: Ill be ta’en too, 
Or bring him off: fate, hear me what I say! 
| I reck not though I end my life to-day. { Exi 


P 


- 


ACT V. 


Enter one in sumptuous armour. 

Hect. Stand, stand, thou Greek ; thou art a goodly 
No? wilt thou not? Ilike thy armour well; [mark: 
I?ll frush it and unlock the rivets all, 

But Ill be master of it: wilt thou not, beast, abide? 
Why,then fly on, I’Nhunttheeforthy hide. [Hveunt. 


SCENE VII. — Another part of the plains. 


Enter Achilles, with Myrmidons. 


Achil. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; 
Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel: 
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath: 
And when I have the bloody Hector found, 
Empale him with your weapons round about; 

In fellest manner execute your aims. 
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye: 


It is decreed Hector the great must die. [Hxeunt. 


Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting: then Thersites. 


Ther. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at 
it. Now, bull! now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, “loo! now 
tay double-henned sparrow! ’loo, Paris, loo! The 
bull has the game: ware horns, ho! 

| Hxeunt Paris and Menelaus. 


Enter Margarelon. 

Mar. Turn, slave, and fight. 

Ther. What art thou ? 

Mar. A bastard son of Priam’s. 

Ther. 1 am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am 
a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, 
bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One 
bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one 
bastard? Take heed, the quarrel ’s most ominous 
to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he 
tempts judgment: farewell, bastard. [ Hoit. 

Mar. The devil take thee, coward! | Heit. 


SCENE VIII. — Another part of the plains. 


Enter Hector. 


Hect. Most putrefied core, so fair without, 
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. 
Now is my day’s work done; Ill take good breath: 
Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death. 
[Puts off his helmet and hangs his shield behind him. 


Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. 


Achil. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set ; | 


How ugly night comes breathing at his heels: 
Even with the vail.and darking of the sun, 
To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. 
Hect. 1 am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek. 
Achil. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I 
_ seek. | Hector falls. 
So, Llion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down! 
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. 
On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain, 
‘ Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’ 
[A retreat sounded. 
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part. [lord. 
Myr. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my 
Achil. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the 
And, stickler-like, the armies separates. [earth, 
My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed, 
Pleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. 
[Sheathes his sword. 
Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail ; 
Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IX. — Another part of the plains. 


Enter AGamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, 
Diomedes, and others, marching. Shouts within. 
Agam. Hark! hark! what shout is that ? 
est. Peace, drums! 


TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 


| ' 
[ Within] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain! Achil- 


SCENE X. 


— 


les ! 
Dio. The bruit is, Hector ’s slain, and by Achilles. 
Ajax. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; 
Great Hector was a man as good as he. 
Agam. March patiently along: let one be sent 
To pray Achilles see us at our tent. 
If in his death the gods have us befriended, 
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. 
| Hxeunt, murching. 


SCENE X.— Another part of the plains. 


Enter Aineas and Trojans. 
Hine. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field: 


| Never go home; here starve we out the night. 


| 


Enter Troilus. 
Tro. Hector is slain. 
All. Hector! the gods forbid! 
Tro. He’sdead : and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, 
In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. 
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed! 
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy! 
I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, 
And linger not our sure destructions on! 
Aine. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. 
Tro. You understand me not that tell me so: 
I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death, 
But dare all imminence that gods and men 
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone: 
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba ? 
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d, 
Go in to Troy, and say there, Hector ’s dead: 
There is a word will Priam turn to stone; 
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, 
Cold statues of the youth, and, in a word, 
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away: 
Hector is dead: there is no more to say. 
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, 
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, 
Let Titan rise as early as he dare. [coward 
Ill through and through you! and, thou ereat-sized 
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates: 
I ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, 
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. 
Strike a free march to Troy! with comfort go: 


Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. 


[Hxeunt Aineas and Trojans. 


As Troilus is going out, enter, from the other side, 
Pandarus. 


Pan. But hear you, hear you! 

Tro. Hence, broker-lackey! ignomy and shame 
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thyname!  [Hzwit. 

Pan. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O 
world! world! world! thus is the poor agent de- 
spised! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you 
set a-work, and how ill requited! why should our en- 
deavour be so loved and the performance so loathed ? 
what verse for it ? what instance for it ? Let me see: 


Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing, 
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting ; 
And being once subdued in armed tail, 
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. 


Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted 
As many as be here of pander’s hall, [cloths. 
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; 

Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, 
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. 
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, 

Some two months hence my will shall here be made: 
It should be now, but that my fear is this, 

Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss: 

Till then I ll sweat and seek about for eases, 
And at that time bequeathe you my diseases. [Hxitt. 


5380 


CORIO 


LANUS. 


DKEAMATIS PERSON. 


’ Caius Marcius, afterwards Caius Marcius Co- 
riolanus. 

Titus Lartius, 
Cominius, 
Menenius Agrippa, friend to Coriolanus. 
Sicinius Velutus, 
Junius Brutus, 
Young Marcius, son to Coriolanus. 
A Roman Herald. 
Tullus Aufidius, General of the Volscians. 
Lieutenant to Aufidius. 
Conspirators with Aufidius. 


Generals against the Volscians. 


Tribunes of the people. 


| A citizen of Antium. 

Two Volscian Guards. 

| Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus. 
Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus. 
Valeria, friend to Virgilia. 
Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia. 


tors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Au- 
fidius, and other Attendants. 


SCENE — Rome and the neighbourhood ; Corto and 


Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aidiles, Lic- 
the neighbourhood ; Antium, 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LIx.] 


Fa 4 


SCENE I.— Rome. 


Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, 
and other weapons. 


First Cit. Before we proceed any further, hear me 

All. Speak, speak. [speak. 

First Cit. You are all resolved rather to die than 
to famish ? 

All. Resolved, resolved. 

First Cit. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief 
enemy to the people. 

All. We know ’t, we know ’’t. 

First Cit. Let us kill him, and we ’ll have corn at 
our own price. Is’t a verdict ? 

All. No more talking on ’t; let it be done: away 

Sec. Cit. One word, good citizens. [away ! 

First Cit. We are accounted poor citizens, the 
patricians good. What authority surfeits on would 
relieve us: if they would yield us but the super- 
fluity, while it were wholesome, we might guess they 
relieved us humanely; but they think we are too 
dear: the leanness that afflicts us, the object of our 
misery, is aS an inventory to particularize their 
abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let 
us revenge this with our pikes, ere we become rakes: 
for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, 
not in thirst for revenge. 

Sec. Cit. Would you proceed especially against 
Caius Marcius ? 

All. Against him first: he’s a very dog to the 
commonalty. 

Sec. Cit. Consider you what services he has done 
for his country ? 

First Cit. Very well; and could be content to 
give him good report for ’t, but that he pays him- 
self with being proud. 

Sec. Cit. Nay, but speak not maliciously. 

First Cit. I say unto you, what he hath done fa- 
mously, he did it to that end: though soft-con- 
scienced men can be content to say it was for his 
country, he did it to please his mother, and to be 
partly proud; which he is, even to the altitude of 
his virtue. 

Sec. Cit. What he cannot help in his nature, you 
uecount a vice in him. You must in no way say 
he is covetous. 


A street. 


536 


| First Cit. If I must not, I need not be barren of 
accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in 
repetition. [Shouts within.] What shouts are these ? 
The other side o’ the city is risen: why stay we 
prating here ? to the Capitol! 
All. Come, come. 
First Cit. Soft! who comes here ? 


Enter Menenius Agrippa. 


Sec. Cit. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that 
hath always loved the people. 

First Cit. He’s one honest enough: would all the 
rest were so! 

Men. What work ’s, my countrymen, in hand ? 

where go you 
With bats and clubs? The matter? speak, I pray 
you. 

First Cit. Our business is not unknown to the 
senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what 
we intend to do, which now we’ll show ’em in 
deeds. ‘They say poor suitors have strong breaths : 
they shall know we have strong arms too. 

Men. Why, masters, my good friends, mine 

honest neighbours, 
Will you undo yourselves ? 

First Cit. We cannot, sir, we are undone already. 

Men. I tell you, friends, most charitable care 
Have the patricians of you. For your wants, 
Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well 
Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them 
Against the Roman state, whose course will on 
The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs 
| Of more strong link asunder than can ever 
Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, 

The gods, not the patricians, make it, and 
Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, 
You are transported by calamity 
Thither where more attends you, and you slander 
The helms o’ the state, who care for you like fathers, 
When you curse them as enemies. 

trst Cit. Care for us! True, indeed! They 
ne’er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and 
their store-houses crammed with grain; make 
| edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily 
| any wholesome act established against the rich, and 
| provide more piercing statutes daily, to chain up 


| 


a 


ii 


CORIOLANUS.—Act I., Scene i. 


AGT I. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE I. 


and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, 

they will; and there’s all the love they bear us. 

Men. Either you must 
Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, 

Or be accused of folly. I shall tell you 

A pretty tale: it may be you have heard it; 

But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture 

To stale ’*t a little more. 

First Oit. Well, 1711 hear it, sir: yet you must 
not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale: but, 
an ’t please you, deliver. [bers 

Men. There was a time when all the body’s mem- 
Rebell’d against the belly, thus accused it: 

That only like a gulf it did remain 

I’ the midst o’ the body, idle and unactive, 

Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing 

Like labour with the rest, where the other instru- 

ments ‘ 

Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, 

And, mutually participate, did minister 

Unto the appetite and affection common 

Of the whole body. The belly answer’d — 

First Cit. Well, sir, what answer made the belly ? 

Men. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, 
Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even thus — 
For, look you, I may make the belly smile 
As well as speak — it tauntingly replied 
To the discontented members, the mutinous parts 
That envied his receipt; even so most fitly 
As you malign our senators for that 
They are not such as you. 

First Cit. Your belly’s answer? What! 
The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye, 

The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, 

Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, 

With other muniments and petty helps 

In this our fabric, if that they — 

Men. 

*Fore me, this fellow speaks! 

then ? 

First Cit. Should by the cormorant belly be re- 
Who is the sink 0’ the body,— [strain’d, 

Men. Well, what then ? 

First Cit. The former agents, if they did com- 
What could the belly answer ? [plain, 

Men. I will tell you; 

If you ’ll bestow asmall—of what you have little — 

Patience awhile, you ’ll hear the belly’s answer. 
First Cit. Ye’re long about it. 

Men. Note me this, good friend; 
Your most grave belly was deliberate, 

Not rash like his accusers, and thus answer’d: 

‘True is it, my incorporate friends,’ quoth he, 

‘ That L receive the general food at first, 

Which you do live upon; and fit it is, 

Because I am the store-house and the shop 

Of the whole body: but, if you do remember, 

I send it through the rivers of your blood, 

Even to the court, the heart, to the seat 0’ the brain ; 

And, through the cranks and offices of man, 

The strongest nerves and small inferior veins 

From me receive that natural competency 

Whereby they live: and though that all at once, 

You, my good friends,’— this says the belly, mark 
First Cit. Ay, sir; well, well. [me 
Men. ‘Though all at once cannot 

See what I do deliver out to each, 

Yet-I can make my audit up, that all 

From me do back receive the flour of all, 

And leave me but the bran.’ What say you to ’t ? 
First Cit. It was an answer: how apply you this ? 
Men. The senators of Rome are this good belly, 

And you the mutinous members; for examine 

Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly 

Touching the weal o’ the common, you shall find 

No public benefit which you receive 

But it proceeds or comes from them to you 


What then ? 
What then ? what 


’ 


And no way from yourselves. What do you think, 
You, the great toe of this assembly ? 
First Cit. I the great toe! why the great toe ? 
Men. For that, being one o’ the lowest, basest, 
poorest, 
Of this most wise rebellion, thou go’st foremost : 
Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, 
Lead’st first to win some vantage. 
But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs: 
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; 
The one side must have-bale. 


Enter Caius Marcius. 


Hail, noble Marcius ! 
Mar. Thanks. What’s the matter, you dissen- 
tious rogues, 
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, 
Make yourselves scabs ? 
First Cit. We have ever your good word. 
Mar. He that will give good words to thee will 
flatter . : 
Beneath abhorring. What would you have, youcurs, 
That like nor peace nor war ? the one affrights you, 
The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, 
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; 
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no, 
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, 
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is 
To make him worthy whose offence subdues him 
And curse that justice did it. Who deserves great- 
ness 
Deserves your hate; and your affections are 
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that 
Which would increase his evil. He that depends 
Upon your favours swims with fins of lead 
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust 
With every minute you do change a mind, [ye? 
And call him noble that was now your hate, 
Him vile that was your garland. What’sthematter, 
That in these several places of the city 
You cry against the noble senate, who, 
Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else 
Would feed on one another? What’s their seeking ? 
Men. For corn at their own rates; whereof, they 
The city is well stored. [say, 
lar. Hang ’em! They say! 
They ’ll sit by the fire, and presume to know 


-- What’s done i’ the Capitol; who’s like to rise, 


Who thrives and who declines; side factions and 
give out 

Conjectural marriages; making parties strong 
And feebling such as stand not in their liking 
Below their cobbled shoes. They say there ’s grain 
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth, [enough! 
And let me use my sword, I ld make a quarry 
With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high 
As I could pick my lance. 

Men. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded ; 
For though abundantly they lack discretion, 
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, 


| What says the other troop ? 


Mar. They are dissolved: hang ’em! 
They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth prov- 
erbs 
That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, 
That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent 
Corn for the rich men only: with these shreds [not 
They vented their complainings; which being an- 
swer’d, 
And a petition granted them, a strange one— 
To break the heart of generosity, [caps 
And make bold power look pale —they threw their 
As they would hang them on the horns 0’ the moon, 
Shouting their emulation. 
Men. What is granted them ? 
Mar. Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wis- 
doms, 


537 


ACT TI. 


Of their own choice: one’s Junius Brutus, 
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not —’Sdeath! 
The rabble should have first unroof’d the city, 
ire so prevail’d with me: it will in time 
Win upon power and throw forth greater themes 
For insurrection’s arguing. 
Men. This is strange. 
Mar. Go, get you home, you fragments! 


Enter a Messenger, hastily. 
Mess. Where’s Caius Marcius ? 
Mar. Here: what ’s the matter ? 
Mess. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. 
Mar. I am glad on ’t: then we shall ha’ means to 
Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. [vent 


Enter Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Sen- 
ators; Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus. 


First Sen. Marcius, ’t is true that you have lately 
The Volsces are in arms. [told us; 

Mayr. They have a leader, 
Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to ’t. 

I sin in envying his nobility, 
And were I any thing but what I am, 
I would wish me only he. 

Com. You have fought together. 

Mar. Were half to half the world by the ears and 
Upon my party, I’ld revolt, to make [he 
Only my wars with him: he is a lion 
That I am proud to hunt. 

First Sen. Then, worthy Marcius, 
Attend upon Cominius to these wars. 

Com. It is your former promise. 

Mar. Sir, it is; 

And Iam constant. Titus Lartius, thou 
Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face. 
What, art thou stiff? stand’st out ? 

Tit. No, Caius Marcius; 
Tl] lean upon one crutch and fight with t’ other, 
Ere stay behind this business. 

Men. O, true-bred ! 

First Sen. Your company to the Capitol; where, 
Our greatest friends attend us. {I know, 

it. [To Com.| Lead you on. 
[To Mar.] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; 
Right worthy you priority. 

Com. Noble Marcius! 

First Sen. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; 

Muar. Nay, let them follow: [be gone! 
The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither 
To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutiners, 
Your valour puts well forth: pray, follow. 

[Citizens steal away. Exeunt all but 
Sicinius and Brutus. 

Sic. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius ? 

Bru. He has no equal. [people,— 

Sic. When we were chosen tribunes for the 

Bru. Mark’d you his lip and eyes ? 

Sic. Nay, but his taunts. 

Bru. Being moved, he will not spare to gird the 

Sic. Be-mock the modest moon. [gods. 

Bru. The present wars devour him: he is grown 
‘foo proud to be so valiant. 

Sic. Such a nature, 
Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow 
Which he treads on at noon: but I do wonder 
His insolence can brook to be commanded 
Under Cominius. 

Bru. Fame, at the which he aims, 

In whom already he’s well graced, can not 
Better be held nor more attain’d than by 
A place below the first: for what miscarries 
Shall be the general’s fault, though he perform 
To the utmost of a man, and giddy censure 
Will then ery out of Marcius ‘ O, if he 
Had borne the business! ’ 
Sic. Besides, if things go well, 
538 


CORIOLAN US. 


| 


SCENE IIlI. 


ee 


Opinion that so sticks on Marcius shall 
Of his demerits rob Cominius. 

Bru. Come: 

Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius, 
Though Marcius earn’d them not, and all his faults 
To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed 

In aught he merit not. 

Sic. Let ’s hence, and hear 
How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, 
More than his singularity, he goes 
Upon this present action. 

Bru. Let’s along. [Hveunt. 
SCENE II. —Corioli. 


Enter Tullus Aufidius and certain Senators. 

First Sen. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, 

That they of Rome are enter’d in our counsels 
And know how we proceed. 

Auf. Is it not yours ? 
What ever have been thought on in this state, 
That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome 
Had circumvention ? ’Tis not four days gone 
Since I heard thence; these are the words: I think 
I have the letter here; yes, here it is. {known 
{ Reads] ‘ They have press’d a power, but it is not 
Whether for east or west: the dearth is great ; 

The people mutinous; and it is rumour’d, 
Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, 

Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, 
And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, 
These three lead on this preparation 
Whither ’t is bent: most likely ’tis for you: 
Consider of it.’ 

First Sen. Our army ’s in the field: 

We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready 
To answer us. 

Auf. Nor did you think it folly 
To keep your great pretences veil’d till when 
They needs must show themselves; which in the 

hatching, 
It seem’d, appear’d to Rome. By the discovery 
We shall be shorten’d in our aim, which was 
To take in many towns ere almost Rome 
Should know we were afoot. 

Sec. Sen. Noble Aufidius, 
Take your commission; hie you to your bands: 
Let us alone to guard Corioli: 

If they set down before ’s, for the remove 
Bring up your army; but, I think, you ’ll find 
They ’ve not prepared for us. 

Auf. O, doubt not that; 

IT speak from certainties. Nay, more, 
Some parcels of their power are forth already, 
And only hitherward. I leave your honours. 
If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 
’T is sworn between us we shall ever strike 
Till one can do no more. 
All. The gods assist you | 
Auf. And keep your honours safe ! 


The Senate-house. 


First Sen. Farewell. 
Sec. Sen. Farewell. 
All. Farewell. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Rome. 


Enter Volumnia and Virgilia: they set them down 
on two low stools, and sew. 

Vol. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express your- 
self in a more comfortable sort: if my son were my 
husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence 
wherein he won honour than in the embracements 
of his bed where he would show most love. When 
yet he was but tender-bodied and the only son of 
my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked all 
gaze his way, when for a day of kings’ entreaties a 
mother should not sell him an hour from her behold- 


A room in Marcius’ house. 


a —— 


ACT I. 


ing, I, considering how honour would become such 
a person, that it was no better than picture-like to 


hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, was 


pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to 
findfame. Toacruel war I sent him; from whence 
he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, 
daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing 
he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had 
proved himself a man. [how then ? 

Vir. But had he died in the business, madam ; 

Vol. Then his good report should have been my 
son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me 
profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my 
love alike and none less dear than thine and my 
good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly 
for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out 
of action. 

Enter a Gentlewoman. 

Gent. Madam,the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. 

Vir. Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself. 

Vol. Indeed, you shall not. 

Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum, 

See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair, 

As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him: 
Methinks [ see him stamp thus, and call thus: 
‘Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear, 
Though you were born in Rome:’ his bloody brow 
With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he goes, 
Like to a harvest-man that’s task’d to mow 

Or all or lose his hire. 

Vir. His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood! 

Vol. Away, you fool! it more becomes a man 
Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba, 
When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier 
Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood 
At Grecian sword, contemning. ‘Tell Valeria, 
Weare fit to bid her welcome. 

Vir. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! 

Vol. He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee 
And tread upon his neck. 


Enter Valeria, with an Usher and Gentlewoman. 


Val. My ladies both, good day to you. 
Vol. Sweet madam. 
Vir. Iam glad to see your ladyship. 


Val. How do you both? you are manifest house- | 


keepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, 
in good faith. How does your little son ? 

Vir. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. 

Vol. He had rather see the swords, and hear a 
drum, than look upon his schoolmaster. 

Val. O’ my word, the father’s son: Ill swear, 
*tis a very pretty boy. O”’ my troth, I looked upon 
him o’ Wednesday half an hour together: has such 
a confirmed countenance. I saw him run aftera 
gilded butterfly; and when he caught it, he let it go 
again; and after it again; and over and over he 
comes, and up again; catched it again; or whether 
his fall enraged him, or how ’t was, he did so set his 
teeth and tear it; O, I warrant, how he mammocked 

Vol. One on’s father’s moods. [it ! 

Val. Indeed, la, ’t is a noble child. 

Vir. A crack, madam. 

Val. Come, lay aside your stitchery ; I must have 
you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. 

Vir. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. 

Val. Not out of doors! 

Vol. She shall, she shall. 

Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience: Ill not over 
the threshold till my lord return from the wars. 

Val. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably : 
come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. 

Vir. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her 
with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. 

Vol. Why, I pray you? 

Vir. ’T is not to save labour, nor that I want love. 

Val. You would be another Penelope: yet, they 


[ Hxit Gent. | 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE IV. 


say, all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but 
fill Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would your cam- 
brie were sensible as your finger, that you might leave 
pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. 

Vir. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will 
not forth. , 

Val. In truth, la, go with me; and I’ll tell you 
excellent news of your husband. 

Vir. O, good madam, there can be none yet. 

Val. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came 
news from him last night. 

Vir. Indeed, madam ? 

Val. In earnest, it’s true; I heard a senator 
speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army 
forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, 
with one part of our Roman power: your lord and 
Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; 
they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief 
wars. This is true,on mine honour; andso,I pray, 
go with us. 

Vir. Give me excuse, good madam: I will obey 
you in every thing hereafter. 

Vol. Let her alone, lady: as she is now, she will 
but disease our better mirth. 

Val. In troth, [think she would. Fare you well, 
then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, 
turn thy solemness out o’ door,and go along with us. 

Vir. No, at a word, madam; indeed, I must not. 
I wish you much mirth. 

Val. Well, then, farewell. 


SCENE IV.— Before Corioli. 


Enter, with drum and colours, Marcius, Titus Lartius, 
Captains and Soldiers. To them a Messenger. 


Mar. Yonder comes news. A wager they have 


| Exeunt. 


Lart. My horse to yours, no. {met. 
Mar. T is done. 
Lart. Agreed. 


Mar. Say, has our general met the enemy ? 
Mess. They lie in view; but have not spoke as yet. 
Lart. So, the good horse is mine. 


Mar. I’ buy him of you. 
Lart. No, I?ll nor sell nor give him: lend you him 
I will 


For half a hundred years. Summon the town. 
Mar. How far off lie these armies ? 
- Mess. Within this mile and half. 
Mar. Then shall we hear their ’larum, and they 
ours. 
Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, 
That we with smoking swords may march from 


hence, 
To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. 


They sound a parley. Enter two Senators with others on 
; the walls. 
Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls ? fhe, 
First Sen. No, nora man that fears you less than 
That ’s lesser than alittle. [Drums afar off.| Hark! 
our drums 
Are bringing forth our youth. Well break our walls, 
Rather than they shall pound us up: our gates, — 
Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn’d with 
rushes ; 
They ‘ll open of themselves. [Alarum afar off.] Hark 
you, far off! 
There is Aufidius; list, what work he makes 
Amongst your cloven army. 
Mar. O, they are at it! 
Lart. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! 


Enter the army of the Volsces. 

Mar. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. 
Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight 
With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, 

brave Titus: 
539 


ACT I. CORIOLAN US. SCENE VI. 


They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Piercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take 


Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, | Convenient numbers to make good the city; 

my fellows: Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste . 
He that retires, I ll take him for a Volsce, To help Cominius. 
And he shall feel mine edge. Lart. Worthy sir, thou bleed’st; 


; I ise hath been too viol 
Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their | ee eee Aghia bites 


trenches. te-enter Marcius, cursing. Mar. Sir, praise me not; 


Mar. Allthe contagion of the south ight on you, |} My work hath yet not warm’d me: fare you well: 
You shames of Rome! you herd of — Boils and! The blood I drop is rather physical 


plagues Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus 
Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorr’d | I will appear, and fight. 
Further than seen and one infect another Lart. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, 
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese, Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms 
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman, 


From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! 
All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale ar. Thy friend no less 

With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, | Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell. 

Or, by the fires of heaven, I ’ll leave the foe Lart. Thou worthiest Marcius! [wit Marcius. 
And make my wars on you: look to’t: come on; | Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place; 

If you ’ll stand fast, we ’1l beat them to their wives, | Call thither all the officers 0’ the town, 

As they us to our trenches followed. Where they shall know our mind: away! [Hxeunt. 
Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and Marcius | 


Yollows them to the gates SCENE VI.— Near the camp of Cominius. 


So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds: | Enter Cominius, as it were in retire, with soldiers. 
’T is for the followers fortune widens them, Com. Breathe you, my friends: well fought; we 
Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like. are come off 
| Enters the gates. | Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands, 
First Sol. Fool-hardiness; not I. Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs, 


Bree be thy page! 


Sec. Sol. Nor I. We shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck, 
[Marcius is shut in. | By interims and conveying gusts we have heard 

First Sol. See, they have shut him in. The charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods! 

All. To the pot, I warrant him. | Lead their successes as we wish our own, 


[Alarum continues. | That both our powers, with smiling fronts encoun- 


Reshier Tithe Lartius, | May give you thankful sacrifice. [tering, 


Lart. What is become of Marcius ? Enter a Messenger. 


All. Slain, sir, doubtless. Thy news? 

First Sol. Following the fliers at the very heels, Mess. The citizens of Corioli have issued, 

With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle: — 

Clapp’d to their gates: he is himself alone, I saw our party to their trenches driven, 

To answer all the city. And then I came away. 

Lart. O noble fellow! Com. Though thou speak’st truth, 
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long is ’t 
And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, Mar- Mess. Above an hour, my lord. [since ? 
A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, [cius: Com. ’T isnot amile; briefly we heard their drums: 
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, 
Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible And bring thy news so late ? 

Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and Mess. Spies of the Volsces 
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds, Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel 
Thou madest thine enemies shake, as if the world | Three or four miles about, else had I, sir, 

Were feverous and did tremble. Half an hour since brought my report. 

Pe Peete ET Hed bu tt Com. Who’s yonder, 
e-en er arcius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy. | That does appear as he were flay’d? O gods! 
First Sol. Look, sir. He has the stamp of Marcius; and I have 

- Lart. O, tis Marcius! | Before-time seen him thus. 

Let ’s fetch him off, or make remain alike. Mar [ Within] Come I too late ? 


[They fight, and all enter the city. Com. The shepherd knows not thunder from a 


tabor 
SCENE V.—Oorioli. A street. More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue 


‘ From every meaner man. 
Enter certain Romans, with spoils. y 


First Rom. This will I carry to Rome. Enter Marcius. 

Sec. ftom. And I this. Mar. Come I too late ? 

Third Rom. A murrain on’t! I took this for Com. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, 
silver. [Alarum continues still afar off. | But mantled in your own. 


$ ; ; : | Mar. O, let me clip ye 
Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius with a trumpet. | ty arms as sound as when I woo d, in ae 


Mar. See here these movers that do prize their | As merry as when our nuptial day was done, 


hours And tapers burn’d to bedward ! 
At a crack’d drachm! Cushions, leaden spoons, Jom. Flower of warriors, 
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would How is ’t with Titus Lartius ? 


Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves Mar. As with a man busied about decrees: 
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up: down with them! | ¢ ‘ondemning some to death, and some to exile; 
And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! | Ransoming him, or pitying, threatening the other; — 
There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius, Holding Corioli in the name of Rome, 
540 


ee 


ACT I. 


Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, 


To let him slip at will. 

Com Where is that slave 
Which told me they had beat you to your trenches ? 
Where is he? call him hither. 

_ Mar. Let him alone; 
He did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen, 
The common file—a plague! tribunes for them!— 
The mouse ne’er shunn’d the cat as they did budge 
From itis worse than they. 

Con But how prevail’d you ? 

Mav, Will the time serve to tell? I donot think. 
Where is the enemy ? are you lords o’ the field ? 

If not, why cease you till you are so? 

Com. Marcius, 
We have at disadvantage fought and did 
Retire to win our purpose. 

Mar. How lies their battle? know eur on which 
They have placed their men of trust ? {side 

Com. As I guess, Marcius, 
Their bands i’ the vaward are the Antiates, 
Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius, 
Their very heart of hope. 

Mar. I do beseech you, 
By all the battles wherein we have fought, 
By the blood we have shed together, by the vows 
We have made to endure friends, that you directly 
Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; 
And that you not delay the present, but, 
Filling the air with swords advanced and darts, 
We prove this very hour. 

Com. Though I could wish 
You were conducted to a gentle bath 
And balms applied.to you, yet dare I never 
Deny your asking: take your choice of those 
That best can aid your action. 

Mar. Those are they 
That most are willing. If any such be here — 

As it were sin to doubt —that love this painting 
Wherein you see me smear’d; if any fear 
Lesser his person than an ill report; 
If any think brave death outweighs bad life 
And that his country’s dearer than himself; 
Let him alone, or so many so minded, 
Wave thus, to express his disposition, 
And follow Marcius. 

[They all shout and wave their swords, take 

him up in their arms, and cast - their caps. 

O, me alone! make youa sword of me ? 
If these shows be not outward, which of you 
But is four Volsces? none of you but is 
Able to bear against the great Aufidius 
A shield as hard as his. A certain number, 
Though thanks to all, must I select from all: the 
Shall bear the business in some other fight, — [rest 
As cause will be obey’d. Please you to march ; 
And four shall quickly draw out my command, 
Which men are best inclined. 

Com. March on, my fellows: 
Make good this ostentation, and you shall 


Divide in all with us. [ Exewnt. 


SCENE VII.—The gates of Corioli. 


Titus Lartius, having set a guard wpon Corioli, going 
with drum and trumpet toward. Cominius and Caius 
Marcius, enters with a Lieutenant, other Soldiers, 
and a Scout. 


Lart. So,let the ports be guarded: keep your duties, 
As [ have set them down. If I do send, dispatch 
Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve 
For a short holding: if we lose the field, 

We cannot keep the town. 

Lieu. Fear not our care, sir. 

Lart. Hence, and shut your gates upon’s. 

Our guider, come; to the Roman camp conduct us. 
[ Haeunt. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE IX. 


a 


SCENE VIII.—A field of battle. 


Alarum as in battle. Enter, from opposite sides, 
Marcius and Aufidius. 


Mar. 1711 fight with none but thee; for I do hate 
Worse than a promise-breaker. * — [thee 

Auf. We hate alike: 
Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor 
More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. 

Mar. Let the first budger die the other’s slave, 
And the gods doom him after! 


Auf. If I fly, Marcius, 
Holloa me like a hare. 
Mar. Within these three hours, Tullus, 


Alone I foughtin your Corioli walls, 
And made what work I pleased: ’t i is not my blood 
Wherein thou seest me mask’d; for thy revenge 
Ae up thy power to the highest. 

Wert thou the Hector 
That was the whip of your bragg’d progeny, 
Thou shouldst not scape me here. 

[They fight, and certain Volsces come to the 
aid of Aufidius. Marcius fights till they be 
driven in breathless. 

Officious, and not valiant, you have shamed me 
In your condemned seconds. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IX. —The Roman camp. 


Flourish. <Alarum. A_ retreat is sounded. Flourish. 
Enter, from one side, Cominius with the Romans; 
from the other side, Marcius, with his arm in « scarf. 


Com. If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s 

work, 

Thou ’Idst not believe thy deeds: but Ill report it 

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles, 

Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, 

I’ the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted, 

And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull 
tribunes, 

That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours, 

Shall’ say against their hearts ‘ ‘We thank the gods 

Our Rome hath such a soldier.’ 

Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast, 

Having fully dined before. 


Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the 


, pursuit. 

Lart. O general, 
Here is the steed, we the caparison: 
ae thou beheld — 


Pray now, no more: my mother, 
Who hee a charter to extol her blood, 
When she does praise me grieves me. I have done 
As you have done; that’s what I can; induced 
As you have been; that’s for my country: 
He that has but effected his good will 
Hath overta’en mine act. 
Com. You shall not be 
The grave of your deserving; Rome must know 
The value of her own: ’t were a concealment 
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, 
To hide your doings; and to silence that, 
Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d, 
Would seem but modest : therefore, I beseech you — 
In sign of what you are, not to reward 
What you have done — before our army hear me. 
Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they 
To ae themselves remember’d. {smart 
Con Should they not, 
Well Haient they fester ’gainst ingratitude, 
And tent themselves withdeath. Of all the horses, 
Whereof we have ta’en good and good store, of all 
The treasure in this field achieved and city, 
We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth, 
Before the common distribution, at 
Your only choice. 


O41 


ACT II. 


Mar. I thank you, general ; 
Bunt cannot make my heart consent to take 
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it; 
And stand upon my common part with those 
That have beheld the doing. 

[A long flourish. They allery ‘Marcius! Mar- 
cius!’ cast up their caps and lances: Comin- 
ius and Lartius stand bare. 

Mar. May these same instruments, which you 

profane, 
Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall 
[’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be 
Made all of false-faced soothing! 
When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk, 
Let him be made a coverture for the wars! 
No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d 
My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch,— 
Which, without note, here ’s many else have done,— 
You shout me forth 
in acclamations hyperbolical ; 
As if I loved my little should be dieted 
In praises sauced with lies. 
Com, Too modest are you; 
More cruel to your good report than grateful 
To us that give you truly: by your patience, 
If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, we’ll put you, 
Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, 
Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it 
known, 

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius 
Wears this war’s garland: in token of the which, 
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, 
With all his trim belonging; and from this time, 
For what he did before Corioli, call him, 
With all the applause and clamour of the host, 
Catus MARCIUS CoRIOLANUS! Bear 
The addition nobly ever! 

Flourish. 

All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! 

Cor. I will go wash; 

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive 
Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you. 
I mean to stride your steed, and at all times 
To undercrest your good addition 

To the fairness of my power. 

Com. So, to our tent; 
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write 
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, 
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome 
The best, with whom we may articulate, 

For their own good and ours. 

Lart. T shall, my lord. 

Cor. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now 
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg 
Of my lord general. 

Com. Take ’t; *tis yours. What is ’t? 

Cor. I sometime lay here in Corioli 


CORIOLAN US. 


Trumpets sound, and drums. 


SCENE I. 


_ At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly: 
| He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; 
But then Aufidius was within my view, 
And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity: I request you 
| To give my poor host freedom. 
Com. O, well begg’d! 
Were he the butcher of my son, he should 
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. 
Lart. Marcius, his name ? 
Cor. By Jupiter! forgot. 
I am weary; yea, My memory is tired. 
Have we no wine here 
Con. Go we to our tent: 
The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time 
It should be look’d to: come. EKaeunt, 


SCENE X.—The camp of the Volsces. 


A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, 
bloody, with two or three Soldiers. 


| Auf. The town is ta’en! 

Hirst Sol. ’T will be deliver’d back on good con- 

| Auf. Condition! {dition. 
I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, 

Being a Volsce, be that Iam. Condition! 

What good condition can a treaty find 

I’ the part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, 

I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me, 

And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter 

As often as we eat. By the elements, 

_ If e’er again I meet him beard to beard, 

| He’s mine, or I am his: mine emulation 

| Hath not that honour in ’t it had; for where 

_I thought to crush him in an equal force, 

_ True sword to sword, I ll potch at him some way 

Or wrath or craft may get him. 


Kirst Sol. He’s the devil. 
Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s 
poison’d 


| With only suffering stain by him; for him 

| Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep nor sanctuary, 

| Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, 

The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, 

_ Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up 

_ Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst 

| My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it 

_ At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there, 

| Against the hospitable canon, would I 

Wash my fierce hand in’s heart. Go you to thecity ; 

Learn how ’tis held; and what they are that must 

Be hostages for Rome. 
First Sol. Will not you go? = [you— 
Auf. Iam attended at the cypress grove: I pray 

*T is south the city mills— bring me word thither 

How the world goes, that to the pace of it 

I may spur on my journey. 
first Sol. 


I shall, sir. [Hxeunt. 


eu CBOE Mel Es 


SCENE I. -—— Rome. 


Finter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, 
Sicinius and Brutus. 


Men. The augurer tells me we shall have news 
Bru. Good or bad ? [to-night. 


A public place. 


Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, | 


for they love not Marcius. 
Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. 
Men. Pray you, who does the wolf love ? 
Sic. The lamb. 
Men. Ay,to devour him; asthe hungry plebeians 


Men. He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. 
You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall 
30th. Well, sir. [ask you. 
Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that — 
you two have not in abundance ? all. 
Bru. He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with 

Sic. Especially in pride. 

Bru. And topping all others in boasting. 

Men. This is strange now: do youtwo know how ~ 
you are censured here in the city, I mean of us 0’ the 
right-hand file? do you? 

Both. Why, how are we censured ? 


Men. Because you talk of pride now,— will you t 
_ not be angry ? hi, 


j 


would the noble Marcius. 
Bru. He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. 


42 


AGT il, 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE I. 


Both. Well, well, sir, well. 

Men. Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little 
thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of 
patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be 
angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it 
as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Mar- 
cius for being proud ? 

Bru. We do it not alone, sir. 

Men. I know you can do very little alone; for 


your helps are many, or else your actions would | 


grow wondrous single: your abilities aretoo infant- 
like for doing much alone. 
ihat you could turn your eyes toward the napes of 
your necks, and make but an interior survey of 
your good selves! O that you could! 

Bru. What then, sir? 

Men. Why, then you should discover a brace of 
unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias 
foois, as any in Rome. 

Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough too. 

Men. 1 am known to be a humorous patrician, 
and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop 
of allaying Tiber in ’t; said to be something imper- 
fect in favouring the first complaint; hasty and 
tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that con- 
verses more with the buttock of the night than with 
the forehead of the morning: what I think I utter, 
and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two 
such wealsmen as you are — I cannot call you Lycur- 
guses—if the drink you give me touch my palate 
adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can’t say 
your worships have delivered the matter well, when 
I find the ass in compound with the major part of 
your syllables: and though I must be content to 
bear with those that say you are reverend grave 
men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good 
faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, 
follows it that [ am known well enough too? what 
harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of 
this character, if I be known well enough too ? 

Bru. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. 

Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any 
thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps 
«und legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon 
in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a 
fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of 
three pence to a second day of audience. When 
you are hearing a matter between party and party, 
if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you 
_ make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag 
against all patience; and, in roaring for a chamber- 
pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more en- 
tangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in 
their cause 1s, calling both the parties knaves. You 
are a pair of strange ones. 

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be 
a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary 
bencher in the Capitol. 

Men. Our very priests must become mockers, if 
they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you 
are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is 
not worth the wagging of your beards; and your 
beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff 
a botcher’s cushion, or to be entombed in an ass’s 
pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is 
proud; who, in acheap estimation, is worth all your 
predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure 
some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. 
God-den to your worships: more of your conversa- 
tion would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of 
the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my 
leave of you. [Brutus and Sicinius go aside. 


Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria. 


How now, my as fair as noble ladies,—and the 
moon, were she earthly, no nobler,— whither do 
you follow your eyes so fast ? 


You talk of pride: O| 


Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius ap. 
proaches; for the love of Juno, let’s go. 

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home! 

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most pros- 
perous approbation. 

Men. 'Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. 
Hoo! Marcius coming home! 

Vol. Vir. Nay, ’tis true. 

Vol. Look, here’s a letter from him: the state 
hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s 
one at home for you. 

Men. I will make my very house reel to-night: a 
letter for me! [saw °t. 

Vir. Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I 

Men. A letter for me! it gives me an estate of 
seven years’ health; in which time I will make a 
| lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription 
_in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, 
_ of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not 

wounded ? he was wont to come home wounded. 

Vir. O, no, no, no. 

Vol. O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for ’t. 

Men. So do I too, if it be not too much: brings a’ 
victory in his pocket ? the wounds become him. 

Vol. On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third 
time home with the oaken garland. 

Men. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly ? 

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, 
but Aufidius got off. 

Men. And ’t was time for him too, I’) warrant 
him that: an he had stayed by him, I would not 
have been so fidiused for all the chests in Cerioli, 
and the gold that’s in them. Is the senate pos- 
sessed of this ? 

Vol. Good ladies, let ’s go. Yes, yes, yes; the 
senate has letters from the general, wherein he 
gives my son the whole name of the war: he hath 
in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. 

Val. In troth,there’s wondrous things spokeof him. 

Men. Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not with- 
out his true purchasing. 

Vir. The gods grant them true! 

Vol. True! pow, wow, 

Men. True! I’ll be sworn they are true. Where - 
is he wounded? [To the Tribunes] God save your 
good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has 

/ more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded ? 

. Vol. I’ the shoulder and i’ the left arm: there will 
be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall 
stand for his place. He received in the repulse of 
Tarquin seven hurts i’ the body. 

Men. One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh, — 
there ’s nine that I know. 

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty- 
five wounds upon him. 

Men. Now it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an 
enemy’s grave. [A shout and flourish.] Hark! the 
trumpets. 

Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before lim 
he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears : 
Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie; 
Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die. 


A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius the general, 
and Titus Lartius ; between them, Coriolanus, crowned 
with an oaken garland; with Captains and Soldiers, 
and a Herald. 


Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight 
| Within Corioli gates: where he bath won, 
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these 
In honour follows Coriolanus. 
Welcometo Rome,renowned Coriolanus! [/lourish. 
All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! 
Cor. No more of this; it does offend my heart : 
Pray now, no more. 
Com. Look, sir, your mother ! 


Cor. : 


543 


ATU. CORIOLANUS. SCENE II. 


You have, I know, petition’d all the gods That he will give them make [I as little question 
For my prosperity! [Kneels. | As he is proud to do ’t. 
Vol. Nay, my good soldier, up; TU. I heard him swear, 
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and Were he to stand for consul, never would he 
By deed-achieving honour newly named, — | Appear i’ the market-place nor on him put 
What is it ?— Coriolanus must I call thee ? — ' The napless vesture of humility ; 
But, O, thy wife! _ Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds 
lor. My gracious silence, hail! To the people, beg their stinking breaths. 
Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home, Sic. -T is right. 
‘That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah,mydear, — Bru. It was his word: O, he would miss it rather 
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, | Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him 
And mothers that lack sons. | And the desire of the nobles. 
Men. Now, the gods crown thee! Sic. I wish no better 
Oor. And live you yet? [ToValeria] O my sweet | Than have him hold that purpose and to put it 
lady, pardon. {home: | In execution. 
Vol. I know not where to turn: O, welcome Bru. *T is most like he will. 
And welcome, general: and ye ’re welcome all. Sic. It shall be to him then as our good wills, 
Men. A hundred thousand welcomes. [could weep | A sure destruction. 
And I could laugh, Iam light and heavy. Welcome. Bru. So it must fall out 


A curse begin at very root on’s heart, To him or our authorities. For an end, 

That is not glad to see thee! You are three We must suggest the people in what hatred 

That Rome should dote on: yet,.by the faith of | He still hath held them; that to ’s power he would 
men, not | Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders and 

We have some old crab-trees here at home that will | Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them, 

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors: | In human action and capacity, 


We call a nettle but a nettle and Of no more soul nor fitness for the world 
The faults of fools but folly. Than camels in the war, who have their provand 
Com. Ever right. Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows 
Cor. Menenius ever, ever. For sinking under them. 
Herald. Give way there, and go on! Sic. This, as you say, suggested 
Cor. [To Volumnia and Virgilia] Your hand, | At some time when his soaring insolence 
and yours: Shall touch the people— which time shall not want, 
Ere in our own house I do shade my head, If he be put upon ’t; and that’s as easy 
The good patricians must be visited ; As to set dogs on sheep — will be his fire 
From whom I have received not only greetings, To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze 
But with them change of honours. Shall darken him for ever. 
Vol. T have lived 
To see inherited my very wishes Enter a Messenger. 
And the buildings of my fancy: only Bru. What ’s the matter ? 
There ’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Mess. Y ouaresent for tothe Capitol. ’Tisthought 
Our Rome will cast upon thee. That Marcius shall be consul: 
Cor. Know, good mother, | I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and 
I had rather be their servant in my way The blind to hear him speak : matrons flung gloves, 
Than sway with them in theirs. | Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, 
Com. On, to the Capitol! | Upon him as he pass’d: the nobles bended, 


[Flourish. Cornets. Haxeunt in state, as before. | As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made 
Brutus and Sicinius come forward. | A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts: 
Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared | I never saw the like. 


sights Bru. Let ’s to the Capitol; 
Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse And carry with us ears and eyes for the time, 
Into a rapture lets her baby cry But hearts for the event. 
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins Sic. Have with you. [Hzeunt. 
Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, [dows, 
Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, win- SCENE II.— The same. The Capitol. 


Are smother’d up, leads fill’d, and ridges horsed 


With variable complexions, all agreeing inter two Officers, to lay cushions. 


In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens First Off. Come, come, they are almost here. 

Do press among the popular throngs and puff | How many stand for consulships ? 

To win a vulgar station: our veil’d dames Sec. Off. Three, they say: but ’tis thought of 

Commit the war of white and damask in every one Coriolanus will carry it. 

Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil irst Off. That’s a brave fellow; but he’s ven- 

Of Phoebus’ burning kisses: such a pother geance proud, and loves not the common people. 

As if that whatsoever god who leads him Sec. Off. Faith, there have been many great men 

Were slily crept into his human powers that have flattered the people, who ne’er loved 

And gave him graceful posture. them; and there be many that they have loved, 
Sic. On the sudden, they know not wherefore: so that, if they love they 

I warrant him consul. know not why, they hate upon no better a groun@: 
Bru. Then our office may, therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether 

During his power, go sleep. | they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge 
Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours | he has in their disposition; and out of his noble 

Irom where he should begin and end, but will carelessness lets them plainly see ’t. 

Lose those he hath won. First Off. Uf he did not care whether he had their 
Bru. In that there’s comfort. | love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them 
Sic. Doubt not | neither good nor harm: but he seeks their hate 

The commoners, for whom we stand, but they with greater devotion than they can render it him; 

Upon their ancient malice will forget and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover 


With the least cause these his new honours, which | him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the 
544 


a 


ACT II. 


malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as 
that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love. 

Sec. Off. He hath deserved worthily of his coun- 
try: and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as 
those who, having been supple and courteous to the 
people, bonneted, without any further deed to have 
them at all into their estimation and report: but 
he hath so planted his honours in their eyes, and 
his actions in their hearts, that for their tongues to 
be silent, and not confess so much, were a kind of 
ingr ateful i injury ; to report otherwise, were a malice, 
that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and 
rebuke from every ear that heard it. 

First Off. No more of him; he’s a worthy man: 
make way, they are coming. 


A sennet. Enter, with Lictors before them, Cominius the 
consul, Menenius, Coriolanus, Senators, Sicinius 
and Brutus. The Senators take their places; the 


Tribunes take their places by themselves. Coriolanus 
stands. 
Men. Having determined of the Volsces and 


To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, 
As the main point of this our after-meeting, 
To gratify his noble service that 
Hath thus stood for his country: therefore, please 
Most reverend and grave elders, to desire [you, 
The present consul, and last general 
In our well-found successes, to report 
A little of that worthy work perform’d 
By Caius Marcius Coriolanus, whom 
We met here both to thank and to remember 
With honours like himself. 
First Sen Speak, good Cominius : 
Leave nothing out for length, and make us think 


_ Rather our state ’s defective for requital 


Than we to stretch it out. [Jo the Tribunes] Mas- 
ters 0’ the people, 

We do request your kindest ears, and after, 
Your loving motion toward the common body, 
To yield what passes here. 

Sic. We are convented 
Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts 
Inclinable to honour and advance 
id yee of our assembly. 

Which the rather 


we ehail be blest to do, if he remember 
A kinder value of the people than 
He hath hereto prized them at. 
Men. That’s off, that’s off; 
I would you rather had been silent. Please you 
To hear Cominius speak ? 
Bru. Most willingly ; 
But yet my caution was more pertinent 
Than the rebuke you give it. 
Men. He loves your people; 
But tie him not to be their bedfellow. 
Worthy Cominius, speak. [Coriolanus offers to go 
away. | Nay, keep your place. 
First Sen. Sit, Coriolanus; never shame to hear 
What you have nobly done. 
Cor Your honours’ pardon: 
I had rather have my wounds to heal again 
Than hear say how I got them. 
Bru. Sir, I hope 
My A disbench’d you not. 
No, sir: yet oft, 
When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. 
You soothed not, therefore hurt not: but your 
I love them as they weigh. [people, 
Men. Pray now, sit down. 
Cor. I had rather have one scratch my head 
i’ the sun 
When Hie alarum were struck than idly sit 
To hear my nothings monster’d. [ Hutt. 
Men. Masters of the people, 
Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter — 
30 


CORLOLANUS. 


SCENE II. 


That ’s thousand to one good one— when you now 

He had rather venture all his limbs for honour [see 

Than one on’s ears to hear it ?_ Proceed, Cominius. 
Com. I shall lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus 

Should not be utter’d feebly. It is held 

That valour is the chiefest virtue, and 

Most dignifies the haver: if it be, 

The man I speak of cannot in the world 

Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years, 

When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought 

Beyond the mark of others: our then dictator, 

Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight, 

When with his Amazonian chin he drove 

The bristled lips before him: he bestrid 

An o’er-press’d Roman and i’ the consul’s view 

Slew three opposers: Tarquin’s self he met, 

And struck him on his knee: in that day’s ‘feats, 

When he might act the woman in the scene, 

He proved best man i’ the field, and for his meed 

Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age 

Man-enter’d thus, he waxed like a sea, 

And in the brunt of seventeen battles since 


_ He lurch’d all swords of the garland. For this last, 
Before and in Corioli, let me say, 


I cannot speak him home: he stopp’d the fliers ; 

And by his rare example made the coward 

Turn terror into sport: as weeds before 

A. vessel under sail, so men obey’d 

And fell below his stem: his sword, death’s stamp, 

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot 

He was a thing of blood, whose every motion 

Was timed with dying cries: alone he enter’d 

The mortal gate of the city, which he painted 

With shunless destiny ; aidless came off, 

And with a sudden re-inforcement struck 

Corioli like a planet: now all’s his: 

When, by and by, the din of war gan pierce 

His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit 

Re-quicken’d what in flesh was fatigate, 

And to the battle came he; where he did 

Run reeking o’er the lives of men, as if 

T were a perpetual spoil: and till we call’d 

Both field and city ours, he never stood 

To ease his breast with panting. 
Men. Worthy man! 
First Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the 

Which we devise him. [honours 
Com. Our spoils he kick’d at, 

And look’d upon things precious as they were 

The common muck of the world: he covets less 

Than misery itself would give; rewards 

His deeds with doing them, and is content 

To spend the time to end it. 


Men. 
Let him be call’d for. 
First Sen. 
Off. He doth appear. 
Re-enter Coriolanus. 


Men. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased 
To make thee consul. 


He’s right noble: 


Call Coriolanus. 


or. I do owe them still 
My life and services. 

Men. It then remains 
That you do speak to the people. 

Cor. I do beseech you, 
Let me o’erleap that custom, for I cannot 
Put on the gown, stand naked and entreat them, 
For my wounds’ sake, to give their suffrage: please 
That I may pass this doing. [you 

Sic Sir, the people - 

Must have their voices; neither will they bate 
One jot of ceremony. 

Men. Put them not to ’t: 
Pray you, go fit you to the custom and 
Take to you, as your predecessors have, 
Your honour with your form. 

545 


ACT. 11. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE IIi. 


Cor. It is a part 
That I shall blush in acting, and might well 
Be taken from the people. 

Bru. Mark you that ? 

Cor. To brag unto them, thus I did, and thus; 
Show them the unaching sears which I should hide, 
As if I had received them for the hire 
Of their breath only! 

Men. Do not stand upon ’t. 

We recommend to you, tribunes of the people, 
Our purpose to them: and to our noble consul 
Wish we all joy and honour. 
Senators. 'To Coriolanus come all joy and hon- 
our! [Flourish of cornets. Hxeunt all but Si- 
cinius and Brutus. 

Bru. You see how he intends to use the people. 

Sic. May they perceive’s intent! He will require 
As if he did contemn what he requested [them, 
Should be in them to give. 

Bru. Come, we ’ll inform them 
Of our proceedings here: on the market-place, 

I know, they do attend-us. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter seven or eight Citizens. 


First Cit. Once, if he do require our voices, we 
ought not to deny hin. 
ec. Cit. We may, sir, if we will. 
Third Cit. We have power in ourselves to do it, 
but it is a power that we have no power to do; for 


The Forum. 


if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we | 


are to put. our tongues into those wounds and speak 
for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must 
also tell him our noble acceptance of them. 


ingrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude ; 
of the which we being members, should bring our- 
selves to be monstrous members. 

First Cit. And to make us no better thought of, 
a little help will serve; for once we stood up about 
the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many- 
headed multitude. 

Third Cit. We have been called so of many; not 
that our heads are some brown, some black, some 
auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely 


coloured: and truly I think if all our wits were to | 


issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, 
north, south, and their consent of one direct way 
should be at once to all the points 0’ the compass. 
Sec. Cit. Think youso? Which way do you judge 
my wit would fly? 
Third Cit. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as 


In- | 
eratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be | 


All. Content, content. [Hxeunt Citizens. 

Men. O sir, youare not right: have you not known 
The worthiest men have done ’t ? 

Cor. What must I say ? 
‘I pray, sir,— Plague upon ’t! I cannot bring 
My tongue to such a pace: — Look, sir, my wounds! 

I got them in my country’s service, when 

Some certain of your brethren roar’d and ran 

From the noise of our own drums.’ 

Men. O me, the gods! 
You must not speak of that: you must desire them 
To think upon you. 

Cor. Think upon me! hang ’em! 

IT would they would forget me, like the virtues 

Which our divines lose by ’em. 

Men. You ’ll mar all: 

I ‘ll leave you: pray you, speak to ’em, I pray you, 

In wholesome manner. | Hocit. 
Cor. Bid them wash their faces 

And keep their teeth clean. [/te-enter two of the 

Citizens.} So, here comes a brace. [ve-enter 
a third Citizen] 

You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. 
Third Cit. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought 
Cor. Mine own desert. [you to ’t. 
Sec. Cit. Your own desert! 

Cor. Ay, but not mine own desire. 

Third Cit. How not your own desire ? 

Cor. No, sir, ’t was never my desire yet to trouble 
the poor with begging. 

Third Cit. You must think, if we give you any 
thing, we hope to gain by you. [ship ? 

Cor. Well then, I pray, your price o’ the consul- 

First Cit. The price is to ask it kindly. 

Cor. Kindly! Sir, I pray,let me ha *t: I have 
wounds to show you, which shall be yours in pri- 
vate. Your good voice, sir; what say you? 

Sec. Cit. You shall ha ’t, worthy sir. 

Cor. A match, sir. There’s in all two worthy 
voices begged. I have your alms: adieu. 

Third Cit. But this is something odd. 

Sec. Cit. An ’t were to give again,—but ’tis no 
matter. [ Exeunt the three Citizens. 


Re-enter two other Citizens. 


Cor. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune 
of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the 
customary gown. 

Fourth Cit. You have deserved nobly of your 
country, and you have not deserved nobly. 

Cor. Your enigma? 

Fourth Cit. You have been a scourge to her ene- 
mies, you have been a rod to her friends; you have 


another man’s will; ’tis strongly wedged up in a ; not indeed loved the common people. 


block-head, but if it were at liberty, ’t would, sure, 

Sec. Cit. Why that way ? [southward. 

Third Cit. To lose itself in a fog, where being 
three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth 
would return for conscience sake, to help to get 
thee a wife. 

Sec. Cit. You are never without your tricks: you 
may, you may. 

Third Cit. Are you all resolved to give your 
voices? But that’s no matter, the greater part 
carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, 
there was never a worthier man. 


Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility, with 
Menenius. 


Here he comes, and in the gown of humility: mark 
his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but 
to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, 
and by threes. He’s to make his requests by par- 
ticulars; wherein every one of us has a single hon- 
our, in giving him our own voices with our own 
tongues: therefore follow me, and I ’ll direct you 
how you shall go by him. 


5A6 


} 
| 
| 
| 


Cor. You should account me the more virtuous 
that I have not been common in my love. I will, 
sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a 
dearer estimation of them; ’tis a condition they 
account gentle: and since the wisdom of their — 
choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I 
will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them 
most counterfeitly ; that is, sir, I will counterfeit 
the bewitchment of some popular man and give it 
bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, 
I may be consul. 

Fifth Cit. We hope to find you our friend; and 
therefore give you our voices heartily. 

Fourth Cit. You have received many wounds for 
your country. 

Cor. I will not seal your knowledge with show- 
ing them. I will make much of your voices, and 
so trouble you no further. 

Both Cit. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! 

[ Hxeunt. 

Cor. Most sweet voices! 

Better it is to die, better to starve, 
Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. 


te 


ACT II. 


Why in this woolvish toge should I stand here, 


~ To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear, 


Their needless vouches 2’ Custom calls me to ’t: 
What custom wills, in all things should we do ’t, 
The dust on antique time would lie unswept, 
And mountainous error be too highly heapt 

For truth to o’er-peer. Rather than fool it so, 
Let the high office and the honour go 

To one that would do thus. I am half through; 
The one part suffer’d, the other will I do. 


Re-enter three Citizens more. 


Here come moe voices. 
Your voices: for your voices I have fought ; 
Watch’d for your voices; for your voices bear 
Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six 
I have seen and heard of; for your voices have 
Done: many things, some less, some more: your 
Indeed, I would be consul. [voices: 
Sixth Cit. He has done nobly, and cannot go 
without any honest man’s voice. 
Seventh Cit. Therefore let him be consul: the gods 
give him joy, and make him good friend to the people! ! 
All Cit) Amen, amen. God save thee, noble 
consul! [ Exeunt. 
Cor. Worthy voices! 


Re-enter Menenius, with Brutus and Sicinius. 


Men. You have stood your limitation; and the 
tribunes 
Endue you with the people’s voice: remains 
That, in the official marks invested, you 
Anon do meet the senate. 
Cor. Is this done ? 
Sic. The custom of request you have discharged : 
The people do admit you, and are summon’d 
To meet anon, upon your approbation. 
Cor. Where? at the senate-house ? 
Sic. There, Coriolanus. 
Cor. May I change these garments : 2 
Sic You may, sir. 
Cor. That 1°11 straight do; and, knowing myself 
Repair to the senate-house. [again, 
Men, Ill keep you company. Will you along? 
Bru. We stay here for the people. 
Sic. Fare you well. 
[Hxeunt Coriolanus and Menenius. 
He has it now, and by his looks methinks 
°T is warm at ’s heart. [weeds. 
Bru. With a proud heart he wore his humble _ 
Will you dismiss the people ? 


Re-enter Citizens. 


Sic. How now, my masters! have you chose this 

First Cit. He has our voices, sir. [man ? 

Bru. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. 

Sec. Cit. Amen, sir: to my poor unworthy notice, 
He mock’d us when he begg’d our voices. 


Third Cit. Certainly 
He flouted us downright. 

First Cit. No, ’tis his kind of speech: he did not 

mock us. [says 


Sec. Cit. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but 
He used us scornfully : he should have show’d us 
His marks of merit, wounds received for ’s country. 

Sic. Why, so he did, Lam sure. 

Citizens. No, no; no man saw ’em. 

Third Cit. He said he had wounds, which he 

could show in private; 
And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 
‘[ would be consul,’ says he: ‘aged custom, 
But by your voices, will not so permit me; 
Your voices therefore.’ When we eranted that, 
Here was ‘I thank you for your voices: thank you: 
Your most sweet voices: now you have left your 
voices 


[have no further with you.’ Was not this mockery? 


CORIOLANUS. 


|, Their liberties: 
Than dogs that are as often beat for barking 


SCENE III. 


Sic. Why either were you ignorant to see ’t, 
Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness 
To yield your voices ? 

bru. Could you not have told him 
As you were lesson’d, when he had no power, 

But was a petty servant to the state, 

He was your enemy, ever spake ag ainst 

Your liberties and the charters that you bear 
I’ the body of the weal; and now, arriving 

A place of potency and ° Sway 0 "the state, 

If he should still malignantly remain 

Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might 

Be curses to yourselves ? You should have said 
That as his worthy deeds did claim no less 
Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature 
Would think upon you for your voices and 
Translate his malice towards you into love, 
Standing your friendly lord. 

Sic. Thus to have said, 
As you were fore-advised, had touch’d his spir it’ 
And tried his inclination ; from him pluck’d 
Either his gracious promise, which you might, 

As cause had eall’d you up, have held him to; 

Or else it would have gall’d his surly nature, 
Which easily endures not article 

Tying him to aught ; so putting him to rage, 

You should have ta’en the advantage of his choler 
And pass’d him unelected. 

Bru. Did you perceive 
He did solicit you in free contempt 
When he did need your loves, and do you think 
That his contempt shall not be bruising to you, 
When he hath power to crush? Why, had your 

bodies 
No heart among you? or had you tongues to cry 
Against the rectorship of judgment ? 

Sic. Have you 
Ere now denied the asker ? and now again 
Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow 
Your sued-for tongues ? 

Third Cit. He’s not confirm’d; we may deny him 

Sec. Cit. And will deny him: [yet. 
Ill have five hundred voices of that sound. 

First Cit. I twice five hundred and their friends 

to piece ’em. [friends, 

Bru. Get you hence instantly, and tell those 
They have chose a consul that will from them take 
make them of no more voice 


As therefore kept to do so. 

Sic. Let them assemble, 
And on a safer judgment all revoke 
Your ignorant election; enforce his pride, 
And his old hate unto you; besides, for cet not 
With what contempt he wore the humble weed, 
How in his suit he scorn’d you; but your loves, 
Thinking upon his services, took from you 
The apprehension of his pr esent portance, 
Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion 
After the inveterate hate he bears you. 

Bru. Lay 
A fault on us, your tribunes; that we labour’d, 
No impediment between, but that you must 
Cast your election on him. 

Sic. Say, you chose him 
More after our commandment than as guided 
By your own true affections, and that your minds, 
Pre-occupied with what you rather must do 
Than what you should, made you against the grain 
To voice him consul: lay the fault on us. 

Bru. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to 

you, 

How youngly he began to serve his country. 
How long continued, and what stock he springs of, 
The noble house 0’ the Marcians, from whence camé 
That Ancus Marcius, Numa’s daughter’ $s son, 
Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; 


547 


ALOT TIT. 


Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, 
That our best water brought by conduits hither ; 
And [Censorinus,] nobly named so, 
Twice being [by the people chosen] censor, 
Was his great ancestor. 

Sic. One thus descended, 
That hath beside well in his person wrought 
To be set high in place, we did commend 
To your remembrances: but you have found, 
Scaling his present bearing with his past, 
That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke 
Your sudden approbation. 

Bru. Say, you ne’er had done ’t — 
Harp on that still—but by our putting on: 


DeXd ah @ 


SCENE I.— Rome. A street. 


Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, all the Gentry, 
Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Senators. 


Oor. Tullus Aufidius then had made new head ? 

Lart. He had, my lord; and that it was which 
Our swifter composition. [caused 

Cor. So then the Volsces stand but as at first, 
Ready when time shall prompt them, to make road 
Upon ’s again. 

Com. They are worn, lord consul, so, 
That we shall hardly in our ages see 
Their banners wave again. 

Cor. Saw you Aufidius ? 

Lart. On safe-guard he came to me; and did curse 
Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely 
Yielded the town: he is retired to Antium. 

Cor. Spoke he of me ? 

Lart. He did, my lord. 

Cor. How? what? 

Lart. How often he had met you, sword to sword; 
That of all things upon the earth he hated 
Your person most, that he would pawn his fortunes 
To hopeless restitution, so he might 
Be call’d your vanquisher. 

Cor. At Antium lives he? 

Lart. At Antium. 

Cor. I wish I had a cause to seek him there, 
To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. 


Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 


Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, [them; 
The tongues o’ the common mouth: I do despise 
For they do prank them in authority, 
Sigs nee all noble sufferance. 
ic. 
Cor. Ha! what is that ? 
Bru. It will be dangerous to go on: no further. 
Cor. What makes this change ? 
Men. The matter ? [mon ? 
Com. Hath he not pass’d the noble and the com- 
Bru. Cominius, no. 
Cor. Have I had children’s voices ? 
First Sen. Tribunes, give way; he shall to the 
market-place. 
Bru. The people are incensed against him. 


OC. 
Or all will fall in broil. 
_ Cor. Are these your herd ? 
Must these have voices, that can yield them now 
And straight disclaim their tongues? What are. 

your offices ? [teeth ? 

You being their mouths, why rule you not their 
Have you not set them on ? 
' Men. Be calm, be calm. 

Cor. It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, 
To curb the will of the nobility: 


548 


Pass no further. 


Stop, 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE {f. 


And presently, when you have drawn your number, 
Repair to the Capitol. 

All. We will so: almost all 
Repent in their election. [Exeunt Citizens. 

Bru. Let them go on; 

This mutiny were better put in hazard, 
Than stay, past doubt, for greater: 

If, as his nature is, he fall in rage 

With their refusal, both observe and answer 
The vantage of his anger. 

Sic. To the Capitol, come. 
We will be there before the stream o’ the people; 
And this shall seem, as partly ’tis, their own, 
Which we have goaded onward. [ Hxeunt, 


Bd 8 be 


| Suffer ’t, and live with such as cannot rule 


Nor ever will be ruled. 
Bru. Call *t not a plot: 
The people cry you mock’d them, and of late, 
When corn was given them gratis, you repined ; 
Scandal’d the suppliants for the people, call’d them 
Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. 
Cor. Why, this was known before. 
Bru. Not to them all. 
Cor. Have you inform’d them sithence ? 
Bru. How! I inform them! 
Com. You are like to do such business. 
Not unlike, 
[clouds, 
By yond 


TU. 
Each way, to better yours. 
Cor. Why then should I be consul? 
Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me 

Your fellow tribune. 
Sic. You show too much of that 
For which the people stir: if you will pass 


To where you are bound, you must inquire your way, | 


Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, 
Or never be so noble as a consul, 
Nor yoke with him for tribune. 
Men. Let ’s be calm. 
Com. The people are abused; set on. This pal- 
Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus [tering 
Deserved this so dishonour’d rub, laid falsely 
I’ the plain way of his merit. 
Cor. Tell me of corn! 
This was my speech, and I will speak ’t again — 
Men. Not now, not now. 
First Sen. Not in this heat, sir, now. 
Cor. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, 
I crave their pardons: 
For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them 
Regard me as I do not flatter, and 
Therein behold themselves: I say again, 
In soothing them, we nourish ’gainst our senate 
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, 
Which we ourselves have plough’d for, sow’d, and 
scatter’d, 
By mingling them with us, the honour’d number, 
Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that 
Which they have given to beggars. 
Men. Well, no more. 
First Sen. No more words, we beseech you. 
Cor. How! no more! 
As for my country I have shed my blood, 
Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs 
Coin words till their decay against those measles, 
Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought 
The very way to catch them. 
Bru. You speak o’ the people, 
As if you were a god to punish, not 
A man of their infirmity. 
Sic. °T were well 
We let the people know ’t. 


OT MIL. 


CORIOLANUS 


SCENE I, 


Men. 

Cor. Choler ! 
Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, 
By J ove, ’t would be my mind! 


What, what? his choler ? 


ze, It is a mind 
That shall remain a poison where it is, 
Not poison any further. 
Cor. Shall remain! 
Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you 
His absolute ‘ shall’ ? 
Com. 
Cor. 
O good but most unwise patricians! why, 
You grave but reckless senators, have you thus 
Given Hydra here to choose an officer, 
That with his peremptory ‘ shall,’ being but 
The horn and noise 0’ the monster’s, wants not spirit 
To say he ’ll turn your current in a ditch, 
- And make your channel his? If he have power, 
Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake 
Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn’d, 
Be not as common fools; if you are not, 
Let them have cushions by you. Youare plebeians, 
If they be senators: and they are no less, 
When, both your voices blended, the great’st taste 
Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate, 
And such a one as he, who puts his ‘ shall,’ 
His popular ‘ shall,’ against a graver bench 
Than ever frown’d in Greece. By Jove himself! 
It makes the consuls base: and my soul aches 
To know, when two authorities are up, 
Neither supreme, how soon confusion 
May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take 
The one by the other. 
Com. Well, on to the market-place. 
Cor. Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth 
The corn o’ the storehouse gratis, as ’t was used 
Sometime in Greece,— 
Men. Well, well, no more of that. 
Cor. Though there the people had more absolute 
I say, they nourish’d disobedience, fed [power, 
The ruin of the state. 


*T was from the canon. 
‘Shall’! 


TU. Why, shall the people give 
One that speaks thus their voice ? 

or. I'll give my reasons, 
More worthier than their voices. They know the 

corn 

Was not our recompense, resting wellassured [war, 
That ne’er did service for ’t: being press’d to the 
Even when the navel of the state was touch’d, 
They would not thread the gates. This kindof service 
Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ the war, 
Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show’d 
Most valour, spoke not for them: the accusation 
Which they have often made against the senate, 
All cause unborn, could never be the motive 
Of our so frank donation. Well, what then ? 
How shall this bisson multitude digest 
The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express 
What ’s like to be their words: ‘ We did request it ; 
We are the greater poll, and in true fear 
They gave us our demands.’ Thus we debase 
The nature of our seats and make the rabble 
Call our cares fears; which will in time 
Break ope the locks o’ the senate and bring in 
The crows to peck the eagles. 


Men. Come, enough. 
Bru. Enough, with over-measure. 
Cor. No, take more: 


What may be sworn by, both divine and human, 
Seal what I end withal! This double worship, 

Where one part does disdain with cause, the other 
Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, wis- 


Cannot conclude but by the yea and no [dom, 
Of general ignorance,— it must omit 
Real necessities, and give way the while [lows, 


To unstable slightness: purpose so barr’d, it fol- 


Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech 
You that will be less fearful than discreet, [you,— 
That-love the fundamental part of state 

More than you doubt the change on ’t, that prefer 
A noble life before a long, and wish 

To jump a body with a dangerous physic 

That ’s sure of death without it, at once pluck out 
The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick 

The sweet which is their poison: your dishonour 
Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state 

Of that integrity which should become ’t, 

Not having the power to do the good it would, 
For the ill which doth control ’t. 

Bru. Has said enough. 

Sic. Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer 
As traitors do. 

Cor. Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee! 
What should the people do with these bald tribunes? 
On whom depending, their obedience fails 
To the greater bench: in a rebellion, 

When what’s not meet, but what must be, was law, 
Then were they chosen: in a better hour, 

Let what is meet be said it must be meet, 

And throw their power i’ the dust. 

Bru. Manifest treason ! 

Sic. This a consul? no. 

Bru. The ediles, ho! 


Enter an Addile. 


Let him be apprehended. 
Sic. Go, call the people: [Hxit idile] in whose 
name myself 
Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, 
A foe to the public weal: obey, I charge thee, 
And follow to thine answer. 


Cor. Hence, old goat! 
Senators, &c. We’ll surety him. 
Com. Aged sir, hands off. 


Cor. Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy 
Out of thy garments. [bones 
Sic. Help, ye citizens! 


Enter a rabble of Citizens (Plebeians), with the Aidiles. 


Men. On both sides more respect. 

Sic. Here’s he that would take from you all your, 

Bru. Seize him, ediles! [ power. 

Citizens. Down with him! down with him! 

- Senators, &c. Weapons, weapons, weapons! 
[They all bustle about Coriolanus, crying 

‘Tribunes!’ ‘ Patricians!’ Citizens!’ ‘ What, ho!’ 

‘Sicinius! ? ‘ Brutus!’ ‘ Coriolanus!’ ‘ Citizens! ’ 

‘ Peace, peace, peace!’ ‘Stay, hold, peace!’ 

Men. What is about to be? Iam out of breath; 
Confusion ’s near; I cannot speak. You, tribunes 
To the people! Coriolanus, patience ! 

Speak, good Sicinius. 

Sic. 

Citizens. Let ’s hear our tribune: peace! 

speak, speak. 

Sic. You are at point to lose your liberties : 
Marcius would have all from you; Marcius, 
Whom late you have named for consul. 

Fie, fie, fie! 


Hear me, people; peace! 
Speak, 


Men. 
This is the way to kindle, not to quench. 
First Sen. To unbuild the city and to lay all flat. 
Sic. What is the city but the people? 
Citizens. 
The people are the city. 
Bru. By the consent of all, we were establish’d 
The people’s magistrates. 
Citizens. You so remain. 
Men. And so are like to do. 
Oom. That is the way to lay the city flat; 
To bring the roof to the foundation, 
And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, 
In heaps and piles of ruin. 
Sr. This deserves death. 


549 


True, 


AGT (REE, 


Bru. Or let us stand to our authority, 
Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, 
Upon the part o’ the people, in whose power 
We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy 
Of present death. 
Sic. Therefore lay hold of him; 
Bear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence 
Into destruction cast him. 
fAdiles, seize him! 
yield ! 
Hear me one word; 
but a word. 


Dru. 
Citizens. Yield, Marcius, 


en. 
Beseech you, tribunes, hear me 
4d. Peace, peace! 
Men. [To Brutus] Be that you seem, truly your 
country’s friend, 
And temperately proceed to what you would 
Thus violently redress. 
TU. Sir, those cold ways, 
That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous 
Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him, 
And bear him to the rock. 
Cor. No, I ’ll die here. 
[Drawing his sword. 
There ’s some among you have beheld me fighting: 
Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me. 
Men. Down with that sword! Tribunes, with- 
Bru. Lay hands upon him. [draw awhile. 
Com. Help Marcius, help, | 
You that be noble; help him, young and old! 
Citizens. Down with him, down with him! 
[In this mutiny, the Tribunes, the Aldiles, and 
the People, are beat in. 
Men. Go, get you to your house; be gone, away ! 
All will be naught else. 
Sec. Sen. 
Com. 
We have as many friends as enemies. 
Men. Shall it be put to that ? 
First Sen. The gods forbid! 
I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house; 
Leave us to cure this cause. 
Men. For ’tis a sore upon us, 
You cannot tent yourself: be gone, beseech you. 
Com. Come, sir, along with us. 
Cor. I would they were barbarians—as they are, 
Though in Rome litter’d—not Romans—as they 
are not, 
Though calved i’ the porch 0’ the Capitol — 
Men. Be gone; 
Put not your worthy rage into your tongue; 
One time will owe another. 


Get you gone. 
Stand fast; 


Cor. On fair ground 
I could beat forty of them. 
Com. I could myself 
Take up a brace 0’ the best of them; yea, the two 
But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic; [tribunes: | 
And manhood is call’d foolery, when it stands 
Against a falling fabric. Will you hence, 
Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend 
Like interrupted waters and o’erbear 
What they are used to bear. 
Men. Pray you, be gone: 
Ill try whether my old wit be in request 
With those that have but little: this must be patch’d 
With cloth of any colour. 
Com. Nay, come away. 
[Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, and others. 
A Patrician. This man has marr’d his fortune. 
Men. His nature is too noble for the world: 
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 
Or Jove for ’s power to thunder. His heart ’s his 
mouth: 
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; 
And, being angry, does forget that ever 
He heard the name of death. [A noise within. 
Here’s goodly work! 
Sec. Pat. I would they were a-bed! 


500 


CORIOLAN US. 


SCENE I. 
Men. I would they were in Tiber! What the 
Could he not speak ’em fair ? [vengeance ! 


Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble. 
Where is this viper 


Sic. 
That would depopulate the city and 


Be every man himself ? 
len. You worthy tribunes,— 
Sic. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock 
With rigorous hands: he hath resisted law, 
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial 
Than the severity of the public power 
Which he so sets at nought. 
First Cit. He shall well know 
The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths, 
And we their hands. 
Citizens. He shall, sure on ’t. 
Men. 
Sic. Peace! 
Men. Do not cry havoc, where you should but 
With modest warrant. [hunt 
Sic. Sir, how comes ’t that you 
Have holp to make this rescue ? 
Men. Hear me speak : 
As I do know the consul’s worthiness, 
So can I name his faults,— 


Sir, sir,— 


Sic. Consul! what consul ? 
Men. The consul Coriolanus. 
Bru. He consul ! 


Citizens. No, no, no, no, no. 
Men. If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, good 
people, 
I may be heard, I would crave a word or two; 

The which shall turn you to no further harm 
Than so much loss of time. 
Sic. Speak briefly then; 

For we are peremptory to dispatch 

This viperous traitor: to eject him hence 
Were but one danger, and to keep him here 
Our certain death: therefore it is decreed 
He dies to-night. 

Men. Now the good gods forbid 
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude 
Towards her deserved children is enroll’d 
In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam 
Should now eat up her own! 

Sic. He’s a disease that must be cut away. 

Men. O, he’s a limb that has but a disease; 
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy. 

What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death ? 
Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost — 
Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath, 
By many an ounce—he dropp’d it for his country; 
And what is left, to lose it by his country, 

Were to us all, that do ’t and suffer it, 

A brand to the end o’ the world. 


Sic. This is clean kam. 


Bru. Merely awry: when he did love his country, 


It honour’d him. 

Men. The service of the foot 
Being once gangrened, is not then respected 
For what before it was. 

Bru. We ’ll hear no more. 
Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence; 
Lest his infection, being of catching nature, — 
Spread further. 

Men. One word more, one word. 
This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find 
The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will too late 
Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process; 
Lest parties, as he is beloved, break out, 

And sack great Rome with Romans. 

Bru. If it were so,— 

Sic. What do ye talk ? 

Have we not had a taste of his obedience ? 
Our wdiles smote? ourselves resisted ? Come. 


SA 


Men. Consider this: he has been bred i’ the wars : i 


ACT III. 


CORTODANTES. 


SCENE II 


Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school’d 
In bolted language; meal and bran together 
He throws without distinction. Give me leave, 
Ill go to him, and undertake to bring him 
Where he shall answer, by a lawful form, 
In peace, to his utmost peril. 
First Sen. Noble tribunes, 
It is the humane way: the other course 
Will prove too bloody, and the end of it 
Unknown to the beginning. 
od Noble Menenius, 
Be you then as the people’s officer. 
Masters, lay down your weapons. 
Bru. 
Sic. Meet on the market-place. 
you there: 
Where, if you bring not Marcius, we ’l] proceed 
In our first way. 
Men. I?ll bring him to you. 
[To the Senators] Let me desire your company: he 
must come 
Or what is worst will follow. 
First Sen. Pray you, let’s to him. 
[ Hceunt. 


SCENE II.—A room in Coriolanus’s house. 


Enter Coriolanus with Patricians. 


Cor. Let them pull all about mine ears, present 
Death on the wheel or at wild horses’ heels, [me 
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, 

That the precipitation might down stretch 
Below the beam of sight, yet will I still 
Be thus to them. 

A Patrician. You do the nobler. 

Cor. I muse my mother 
Does not approve me further, who was wont 
To call them woollen vassals, things created 
To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads 
In congregations, to yawn, be still and wonder, 
When one but of my ordinance stood up 
To speak of peace or war. 


Go not home. 
We’ll attend 


_Hnter Volumnia. 


I talk of you: 
Why did you wish me milder? would you have me 
False to my nature? . Rather say I play 
The man I am. 

Vol. O, sir, sir, sir, 

I would have had you put your power well on, 
Before you had worn it out. 

Cor. Let go. 

Vol. You might have been enough the man you 
With striving less to be so: lesser had been _[are, 
The thwartings of your dispositions, if 
You had not show’d them how ye were disposed 
Ere they lack’d power to cross you. 

Cor. Let them hang. 

A Patrician. Ay, and burn too. 


Enter Menenius and Senators. 


Men. Come, come, you have been too rough, 


something too rough: 
You must return and mend it. 

First Sen. There ’s no remedy; 
Unless, by not so doing, our good city 
Cleave in the midst, and perish. 

Vol. Pray, be counsell’d: 
I have a heart as little apt as yours, 

But yet a brain that leads my use of anger 
To better vantage. 

Men. Well said, noble woman! 
Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that 
The violent fit o’ the time craves it as physic 
For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, 
Which I can scarcely bear. 

Cor. What must I do? 


Men. Return to the tribunes. 

Cor. Well, what then ? what then ? 

Men. Repent what you have spoke. 

Cor. For them! I cannot do it to the gods; 
Must I then do ’t to them ? 

Vol. You are too absolute ; 
Though therein you can never be too noble, 

But when extremities speak. Ihave heard you say, 
Honour and policy, like unsever’d friends, 

I’ the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me, 
In peace what each of them by the other lose, 
That they combine not there. 

Cor. Tush, tush! 

Men. A good demand. 

Vol. If it be honour in your wars to seem 
The same you are not, which, for your best ends, 
You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse, 
That it shall hold companionship in peace 
With honour, as in war, since that to both 
It stands in like request ? 

Cor. Why force you this ? 

Vol. Because that now it lies you on to speak 
To the people; not by your own instruction, 

Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you, 
But with such words that are but rooted in 
Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables 
Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. 

Now, this no more dishonours you at all 

Than to take in a town with gentle words, 
Which else would put you to your fortune and 
The hazard of much blood. 

I would dissemble with my nature where 

My fortunes and my friends at stake required 

I should do so in honour: I am in this, 

Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; 
And you will rather show our general louts 

How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em, 
For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard 
Of what that want might ruin. 

Men. Noble lady ! 
Come, go with us; speak fair: you may salve so, 
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss 
Of what is past. 

Vol. I prithee now, my son, 

Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand; 

And thus far having stretch’d it— here be with 
e — 

Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such business 

Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant 

More learned than the ears— waving thy head, 

Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart, 

Now humble as the ripest mulberry 

That will not hold the handling: or say to them, 

Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils 

Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, 

Were fit for thee to use as they to claim, 

In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame 

Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far | 

As thou hast power and person. 

Men. This but done, 
Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; 
For they have pardons, being ask’d, as free 
As words to little purpose. 

ol. Prithee now, 
Go, and be ruled: although I know thou hadst rather 
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf 
Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius. 


Enter Cominius. 


Com. I have been i’ the market-place; and, sir, 
You make strong party, or defend yourself [’tis fit 


_ By calmness or by absence: all’s in anger. 


Men. Only fair speech. 


Com. I think ’t will serve, if he 


| Can thereto frame his spirit. 


Vol He must, and will. 


| ° 
Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. 


551 


HG 3 i a3 to 


Cor. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce ? 
Must I with base tongue give my noble heart 
A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t: 
Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, 
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it 
And throw’t against the wind. ‘To the market- 

place ! 

You have put me now to such a part which never 
I shall discharge to the life. 

Com. Come, come, we ’ll prompt you. 

Vol. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said 
My praises made thee first a soldier, so, 
To have my praise for this, perform a part 
Thou hast not done before. 

Cor. Well, I must do’t: 
Away, my disposition, and possess me 
Some harlot’s spirit! my throat of war be turn’d, 
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe 
Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice 
That babies lulls asleep! the smiles of knaves 
Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboy’s tears take up 
The glasses of my sight! a beggar’s tongue 
Make motion through my lips, and my arm’d knees, 
Who bow’d but in my stirrup, bend like his 
That hath received an alms! I will not do’t, 
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth 
And by my body’s action teach my mind 
A most inherent baseness. 

At thy choice, then: 


ol. 

To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour 

Than thou of them. Come all to ruin; let 

Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear 

Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death 

With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. 

Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it from me, 

But owe thy pride thyself. 
Cor. Pray, be content: 

Mother, I am going to the market-place ; 

Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves, 

Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved 

Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going: 

Commend me to my wife. Ill return consul; 

Or never trust to what my tongue can do 

IT’ the way of flattery further. 


Vol. Do your will. [ Hvit. 


CORIOLAN US. 


SCENE III, 


And when they hear me say ‘It shall be so 
I’ the right and strength o’ the commons,’ be it 
either 

For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, 
If I say fine, cry ‘ Fine;’ if death, cry ‘ Death.’ 
Insisting on the old prerogative 
And power i’ the truth 0’ the cause. 

Ltd. I shall inform them. 

Bru. And when such time they have begun to ery, 
Let them not cease, but with a din confused 
Enforce the present execution 
Of what we chance to sentence. 

Hd. Very well. 

Sic. Make them be strong and ready for this hint, 
When we shall hap to give ’t them. 

Bru. Go about it. [Exit Adile. 
Put him to choler straight: he hath been used 
Ever to conquer, and to have his worth 
Of contradiction: being once chafed, he cannot 
Be rein’d again to temperance; then he speaks 
What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks 
With us to break his neck. 


Sic. Well, here he comes. 


Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, and Cominius, with 
Senators and Patricians. 


Men. Calmly, I do beseech you. 

Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece 
Will ai the knave by the volume. The honour’d 

gods 

Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice 
Supplied with worthy men! plant love among’s! 
Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, 
And not our streets with war! 

First Sen. 

Men. A noble wish. 


Re-enter Aidile, with Citizens. 


Sic. Draw near, ye people. 
4d. List to your tribunes. 

Cor. First, hear me speak. 
Both Tri. Well, say. Peace, ho! 
Cor. Shall I be charged no further than this 
aoe all determine here ? [present ? 
aC. 


Amen, amen. 


Audience! peace, 


I do demand, 


Com. Away! the tribunes do attend you: arm | If you submit you to the people’s voices, 


To answer mildly; for they are prepared 
With accusations, as I hear, more strong 
Than are upon you yet. 
Cor. The word is ‘mildly.’ Pray you, let us go: 
Let them accuse me by invention, I 
Will answer in mine honour. 
Ay, but mildly. 


en. 
Cor. Well, mildly be it then. Mildly! [Hveunt. 
SCENE ITI.— The same. The Forum. 


Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 


Bru. Inthis point charge him home, that he affects 
Tyrannical power: if he evade us there, 
Enforce him with his envy to the people, 
And that the spoil got on the Antiates 
Was ne’er distributed. 


Enter an Z&dile. 


What, will he come ? 
Aid. He ’s coming. 
Bru. How accompanied ? 
4d, With old Menenius, and those senators 
That always favour’d him. 
sic. Have you a catalogue 
Of all the voices that we have procured 
Set down by the poll ? 
Ad. I have; *tis ready. 
Sic. Have you collected them by tribes ? 
Hd. I have. 
Sie. Assemble presently the people hither ; 
502 


[yourself | Allow their officers and are content 


To suffer lawful censure for such faults 
As shall be proved upon you? 
Cor. I am content. 
Men. Lo, citizens, he says he is content: 
The warlike service he has done, consider; think 
Upon the wounds his body bears, which show 
Like graves i’ the holy churchyard. 


Cor. Scratches with briers, 
Scars to move laughter only. 
Men. Consider further, 


That when he speaks not like a citizen, 
You find him like a soldier: do not take 
His rougher accents for malicious sounds, 
But, as I say, such as become a soldier, 
Rather than envy you. 
om. Well, well, no more. 
Cor. What is the matter 
That being pass’d for consul with full voice, 
I am so dishonour’d that the very hour 
You take it off again ? 
Sic. Answer to us. 
Cor. Say, then: ’tis true, I ought so. [take 
Sic. We charge you, that you have contrived to 
From Rome all season’d office and to wind 
Yourself into a power tyrannical ; 
For which you are a traitor to the people. 
Cor. How! traitor! ; 
Men. Nay, temperately; your promise. 
Cor. The fires i’ the lowest hell fold-in the people! 
Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune 


[I say! | 


ACT IV. 


Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, 
In thy hands clutch’d as many millions, in 
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 
* Thou lest ’ unto thee with a voice as free 
As I do pray the gods. 
Sic. ‘Mark you this, people ? 
Citizens. To the rock, to the rock with him! 
Sic. Peace! 
We need not put new matter to his charge: 
What you have seen him do and heard him speak, 
Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, 
Opposing laws with strokes and here defying 
Those whose great power must try him; even this, 
So criminal and in such capital kind, 
Deserves the extremest death. 
ru. But since he hath 
Served well for Rome,— 
Vor. What do you prate of service ? 
Bru. I talk of that, that know it. 
Cor. You? 
Men. Is this the promise that you made your 
Com. Know, I pray you,— [mother ? 
Cor. I ll know no further: 
Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, 
Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger 
But with a grain a day, I would not buy 
Their mercy at the price of one fair word ; 
Nor check my courage for what they can give, 
To have ’t with saying ‘Good morrow.’ 
Sic. For that he has, 
As much as in him lies, from time to time 
Envied against the people, seeking means 
To pluck away their power, as now at last 
Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence 
Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers 
That do distribute it; in the name o’ the people 
And in the power of us the tribunes, we, 
Even from this instant, banish him our city, 
In peril of precipitation 
From off the rock Tarpeian never more 
To enter our Rome gates: i’ the people’s name, 
1 say it shall be so. 
Citizens. It shall be so, it shall be so; let himaway : 
He’s banish’d, and it shall be so. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE I. 


Com. Hear me, my masters, and my common 
friends,— 
Sic. He ’s sentenced; no more hearing. 
Com. Let me speak : 
I have been consul, and can show for Rome 
Her enemies’ marks upon me. Ido love, 
My country’s good with a respect more tender, 
More holy and profound, than mine own life, 
My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase, 
And treasure of my loins; then if I would 
Speak that ,— 
Sic. We know your drift: speak what ? 
Bru. There ’s no more to be said, but he is ban- 


As enemy to the people and his country: [ish’d, 
It shall be so. 
Citizens. It shall be so, it shall be so. [hate 


Cor. You common cry of curs! whose breath I 
As reek 0’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize 
As the dead carcasses of unburied men 
That do corrupt my air, I banish you; 
And here remain with your uncertainty ! 
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts! 
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, 
Fan you into despair! Have the power still 
To banish your defenders; till at length 
Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels, 
Making not reservation of yourselves, 
Still your own foes, deliver you as most 
Abated captives to some nation 
That won you without blows! Despising, 
For you, the city, thus I turn my back: 
There is a world elsewhere. 
[Hxeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, Menenius, 
Senators, and Patricians. 
id. The people’s enemy is gone, is gone! 
Citizens. Our enemy is banish’d! he is gone! 
Hoo! hoo! [Shouting, and throwing up their caps. 
Sic. Go, see him out at gates, and follow him, 
As he hath follow’d you, with all despite ; 
Give him deserved vexation. Let a guard 
Attend us through the city. [come. 
Citizens. Come, come; let ’s see him out at gates; 
The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. 
[ Hxeunt. 


ACT. IV. 


SCENE I.— Rome. Lefore a gate of the city. 


Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Mene- 
nius, Cominius, with the young Nobility of Rome. 
Cor. Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: 

the beast 

With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, 

Where is your ancient courage ? you were used 

To say extremity was the trier of spirits; 

That common chances common men could bear: 

That when the sea was calm all boats alike 

Show’d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows, 

When most struck home, being gentle wounded, 

craves 

A noble cunning: you were used to load me 

With precepts that would make invincible 

The heart that conn’d them. 

Vir. O heavens! O heavens! 
Cor. Nay, I prithee, woman,— 
Vol. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in 

And occupations perish ! [Rome, 
Cor. What, what, what ! 

I shail be loved when I am lack’d. Nay, mother, 

Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say, 

Jf you had been the wife of Hercules, 

Six of his labours you ld have done, and saved 

Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, 

Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother: 


I ll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, 
Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s, 
|! And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime general, 
T have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld 
Heart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women 
’T is fond to wail inevitable strokes, 
As ’tis to laugh at ’em. My mother, you wot well 
My hazards still have been your solace: and 
Believe ’t not lightly —though I go alone, 
Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen 
Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen— your 
Will or exceed the common or be caught [son 
With cautelous baits and practice. 
Vol. My first son, 
Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius 
With thee awhile: determine on some course, 
More than a wild exposture to each chance 
That starts i’ the way before thee. 
O the gods! 


Oor. 

Com. 171 follow thee a month, devise with thee 
Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us 
And we of thee: so if the time thrust forth 
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send 
O’er the vast world to seek a single man, 

And lose advantage, which doth ever cool 
I’ the absence of the needer. 

Cor. Fare ye well: 

Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full 


503 


AGC TAIN. 


Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one 
That ’s yet unbruised: bring me but out at gate. 
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and 
My friends of noble touch, when I am forth, 
Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. 
While I remain above the ground, you shall 
Hear from me still, and never of me aught 
But what is like me formerly. 
Men. That ’s worthily 
As any ear can hear. Come, let ’s not weep. 
If I could shake off but one seven years 
From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, 
I ’ld with thee every foot. 
Cor. 
Come. 


SCENE II. — The same. 


Enter Sicinius, Brutus, and an Addile. 


Sic. Bid them all home; he’s gone, and we ’ll no 
further. 
The nobility are vex’d, whom we see have sided 
In his behalf. 
Bru. Now we have shown our power, 
Let us seem humbler after it is done 
Than when it was a-doing. 
Sic. Bid them home: 
Say their great enemy is gone, and they 
Stand in their ancient strength. 
Bru. Dismiss them home. [Hit Adile. 
Here comes his mother. 


Give me thy hand: 
[ Hxeunt. 


A street near the gate. 


Sic: Let ’s not meet her. 
Bru. Why? 
Sic. They say she’s mad. [way. 


Bru. They have ta’en note of us: keep on your 


Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius. 


Vol. O, ye ’re well met: the hoarded plague o’ the 

Requite your love! [gods 
fen. Peace, peace; be not so loud. 

Vol. If that I could for weeping, you should hear,— 

Nay, and you shall hear some. [Zo Brutus] Will 
you be gone? 
Vir. [To Sicinius] You shall stay too: I would I 
had the power 

To say so to my husband. 

Sic. Are you mankind ? 

Vol. Ay, fool; isthatashame? Note but this fool. 
Was not aman my father? Hadst thou foxship 
To banish him that struck more blows for Rome 
Than thou hast spoken words ? 

Sic. O blessed heavens ! 

Vol. More noble blows than ever thou wise words; 
And for Rome’s good. Ill tell thee what; yet go: 
Nay, but thou shalt stay too: I would my son 
Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, 
His good sword in his hand. 

j What then ? 


Sic. 
Vir. What then! 
He ’ld make an end of thy posterity. 
Vol. Bastards and all. 
Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! 
Men. Come, come, peace. . 
Sic. I would he had continued to his country 
As he began, and not unknit himself 
The noble knot he made. 


Bru. 
Vol. ‘I would he had’! 
rabble: 
Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth 
As I ean of those mysteries which heaven 
Will not have earth to know. 

Bru. Pray, let us go. 

Vol. Now, pray, sir, get you gone: [this :— 
You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear 
As far as doth the Capitol exceed 
The meanest house in Rome, so far my son — 


504 


I would he had. 
*T was you incensed the 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE III. 


This lady’s husband here, this, do you see— 
Whom you have banish’d, does exceed you all. 
Bru. Well, well, we ’ll leave you. 
Sic. Why stay we to be baited 
With one that wants her wits ? 
Vol. Take my prayers with you. 
| Hxeunt Tribunes. 


I would the gods had nothing else to do 


But to confirm my curses! Could I meet ’em 
But once a-day, it would unclog my heart 
Of what lies heavy to ’t. 
Men. You have told them home; 
And, by my troth, you have cause. Youll sup 
with me? 
Vol. Anger ’s my meat; I sup upon myself, 
And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let’s go: 
Leave this faint pe and lament as I do, 
In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. 
Men. Fie, fie, fie! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A highway between Rome and Antium. 


Enter a Roman and a Volsce, meeting. 


Rom. I know you well, sir, and you know me: 
your name, I think, is Adrian. 

Vols. It 1s so, sir: truly, I have forgot you. 

Rom. [ama Roman; and my services are, aS you 
are, against ’em: know you me yet? 

Vols. Nicanor? no. 

Rom. The same, sir. 

Vols. You had more beard when I last saw you; 
but your favour is well approved by your tongue. 
What ’s the newsin Rome? Ihave a note from the 
Volscian state, to find you out there: you have well 
saved me a day’s journey. 

Rom. There hath been in Rome strange insur- 
rections; the people against the senators, patri- 
cians, and nobles. 

Vols. Hath been! is it ended, then? Our state 
thinks not so: they are in a most warlike prepara- 
tion, and hope to come upon them in the heat of 
their division. 

Rom. The main blaze of it is past, but a small 
thing would make it flame again: for the nobles 
receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy 
Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take 
all power from the people and to pluck from them 
their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can 
tell you, and is almost mature for the violent break- 
ing out. 

Vols. Coriolanus banished ! 

Rom. Banished, sir. [Nicanor. 

Vols. You will be welcome with this intelligence, 

Rom. The day serves well for them now. I have 
heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a man’s 
wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband. 
Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in 
these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being 
now in no request of his country. 

Vols. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate 
thus accidentally to encounter you: you have ended 
my business, and I will merrily accompany you 

1ome. 

Rom. I shall, between this and supper, tell you 
most strange things from Rome; all tending to the 
good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, 
say you? 

Vols. A most royal one; the centurions and their 
charges, distinctly billeted, already in the enter- 
tainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning. 

Rom. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and 
am the man, I think, that shall set them in present 
action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad 
of your al i a 

Vols. You take my part from me, sir; I have the 
most cause to be glad of yours. 

Rom. Well, let us go together. [ Exeunt. 


ACT IV. 


SCENE IV.— Antium. Before Aufidius’s house. 


Enter Coriolanus in mean apparel, disguised and 
muffled. 

Cor. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 
*T is 1 that made thy widows: many an heir 
Of these fair edifices "fore my wars 
Have I heard groan and drop: then know me not, 
Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones 
In puny battle slay me. 


Enter a Citizen. 
Save you, sir. 
Cit. And you. 
or. Direct me, if it be your will, 
Where great Aufidius lies: is he in Antium ? 
Cit. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state 
At his house this night. 
or. Which is his house, beseech you ? 
Cit. This, here before you. 
Cor. Thank you, sir: farewell. 
[Hxit Citizen. 
O world,thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, 
Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart, 
Whose house, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise, 
Are still together, who twin, as ’t were, in love 
Unseparable, shall within this hour, 
On a dissension of a doit, break out 
To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes, 
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their 
To take the one the other, by some chance, _ [sleep 
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear 
And interjoin their issues. So with me: [friends 
My birth-place hate I, and my love’s upon 
This enemy town. I’ll enter: if he slay me, 
He does fair justice; if he give me way, 
Ill do his country service. [ Hit. 


SCENE V.—The same. A hall in Aufidius’s house. 


Music within. Enter a Servingman. 
First Serv. Wine, wine, wine! What service is 
here! I think our fellows are asleep. [ Hxit. 


Enter a second Servingman. 


Sec. Serv. Where’s Cotus? my master calls for 
him. Cotus! ‘ [ Heit. 
Enter Coriolanus. 

Cor. A goodly house: the feast smells well; 
Appear not like a guest. [But I 


Re-enter the first Servingman. 


First Serv. What would you have, friend ? whence 
are you? Here’s no place for you: pray, go to the 
door. [ Exit. 

Cor. I have deserved no better entertainment, 
In being Coriolanus. . 


Re-enter second Servingman. 


Sec. Serv. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter 
his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such 
companions? Pray, get you out. 

Cor. Away! 

Sec. Serv. Away! get you away. 

Cor. Now thou ’rt troublesome. 

Sec. Serv. Are you so brave ? I ’ll have you talked 
with anon. 


Enter a third Servingman. The first meets him. 


Third Serv. What fellow’s this ? 

First Serv. A strange one as ever I looked on: 
I cannot get him out o’ the house: prithee, call 
my master to him. [ Retires. 

Third Serv. What have you to do here, fellow ? 
Pray you, avoid the house. [hearth. 

Oor. Let me but stand; I will not hurt your 

Third Serv. What are you? 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE V. 


Oor. A gentleman. 

Third Serv. A marvellous poor one. 

Oor. True, so I am. 

Third Serv. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up 


| some other station; here’s no place for you; pray 


you, avoid: come. 

Cor. Follow your function, go, and batten on 
cold bits. [Pushes him away. 

Third Serv. What, you will not? Prithee, tell 
my master what a strange guest he has here. 

Sec. Serv. And I shall. | Hxctt. 

Third Serv. Where dwellest thou ? 

Cor. Under the canopy. 

Third Serv. Under the canopy ! 

Cor. Ay. 

Third Serv. Where’s that ? 

Cor. I’ the city of kites and crows. 

Third Serv. I’ the city of kites and crows! What 
an ass itis! Then thou dwellest with daws too? 

Cor. No, I serve not thy master. [master ? 

Third Serv. How, sir! do you meddle with my 

Cor. Ay; ’tis an honester service than to meddle 
with thy mistress. [hence! 
Thou pratest, and pratest; serve with thy trencher, 

[Beats him away. Exit third Servingman. 


Enter Aufidius with the second Servingman. 


Auf. Where is this fellow ? 
Sec. Serv. Here, sir: I ld have beaten him like a 
dog, but for disturbing the lords within. — [ Retires. 
Auf. Whence comest thou? what wouldst thou? 
thy name ? 
Why speak’st not ? speak, man: what’s thy name ? 
Cor. If, Tullus, [Unmuffling. 
Not yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not 
Think me for the man I am, necessity 
Commands me name myself. 
Auf. What is thy name? 
Cor. A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears, 
And harsh in sound to thine. 
Auf. Say, what ’s thy name? 
Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face 
Bears a command in ’t; though thy tackle ’s torn, 
Thou show’st a noble vessel: what’s thy name ? 
Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown: know’st thou 
Auf. I know thee not: thy name? [me yet ? 
Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done 
To thee particularly and to all the Volsces 
Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may 
My surname, Coriolanus: the painful service, 
The extreme dangers and the drops of blood 
Shed for my thankless country are requited 
But with that surname; a good memory, 
And witness of the malice and displeasure 
Which thou shouldst bear me: only that name re- 
The cruelty and envy of the people, [mains: 
Permitted by our dastard nobles, who 
Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest ; 
And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be 
Whoop’d out of Rome. Now this extremity 
Hath brought me to thy hearth ; not out of hope— 
Mistake me not—to save my life, for if 
T had fear’d death, of all the men i’ the world 
I would have ’voided thee, but in mere spite, 
To be full quit of those my banishers, 
Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast 
A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge 
Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims 
Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee 
straight, 
And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it 
That my revengeful services may prove 
As benefits to thee, for I will fight 
Against my canker’d country with the spleen 
Of all the under fiends. But if so be 
Thou darest not this and that to prove more fortunes 
Thou ’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am 


555 


ACT IV. 


Longer to live most weary, and present 

My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice: 
Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, 
Since I have ever follow’d thee with hate, 
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast, 
And cannot live but to thy shame, unless 

It be to do thee service. 

Auf. O Marcius, Marcius! 
Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my 
A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter [heart 
Should from yond cloud speak divine things, 

And say ‘’T is true,’ I ld not believe them more 
Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine 
Mine arms about that body, where against 

My grained ash an hundred times hath broke, 
And searr’d the moon with splinters: here I clip 
The anvil of my sword, and do contest 

As hotly and as nobly with thy love 

As ever in ambitious strength I did 

Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, 

I loved the maid I married; never man 

Sigh’d truer breath ; but that I see thee here, 
Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart 
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw 
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee, 
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose 
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, 
Or lose mine arm for ’t: thou hast beat me out 
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since 
Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me; 

We have been down together in my sleep, 
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat, 
And waked half dead with nothing. 
Had we no quarrel else to Rome, but that [cius, 
Thou art thence banish’d, we would muster all 
From twelve to seventy, and pouring war 

Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, 

Like a bold flood o’er-bear. O, come, go in, 

And take our friendly senators by the hands; 
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, 
Who am prepared against your territories, 
Though not for Rome itself. 

Cor. You bless me, gods! 

Auf. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt 
The leading of thine own revenges, take [have 
The one half of my commission; and set down 
As best thou art experienced, since thou know’st 
Thy country’s strength and weakness,— thine own 


ways; 
Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, 
Or rudely visit them in parts remote, 
To fright them, ere destroy. But come in: 
Let me commend thee first to those that shall 
Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! 
And more a friend than e’er an enemy ; 
Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand: most 
welcome! 
[Hxeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. The two 
Servingmen come forward. 

First Serv. Here’s a strange alteration! 

Sec. Serv. By my hand, I had thought to have 
strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my. mind gave 
me his clothes made a false report of him. 

First Serv. What an arm he has! he turned me 
about with his finger and his thumb, as one would 
set up a top. 

Sec. Serv. Nay, I knew by his face that there was 
something in him: he had, sir, a kind of face, me- 
thought,—I cannot tell how to term it. 

First Serv. He had so; looking as it were— would 
I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him 
than I could think. 

Sec. Serv. So did I, I’ll be sworn: he is simply 
the rarest man i’ the world. 

First Serv. I think he is: but a greater soldier 
than he you wot on. 

Sec. Serv. Who, my master ? 

556 


CORIOLANUS. 


Worthy Mar- | 


5S GEN Baas 

First Serv. Nay, it’s no matter for that. 

Sec. Serv. Worth six on him. 

First Serv. Nay, not so neither: but I take him 
to be the greater soldier. 

Sec. Serv. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how 
to say that: for the defence of a town, our general 
is excellent. 

First Serv. Ay, and for an assault too. 


Re-enter third Servingman. 


Third Serv. O slaves, I can tell you news,— news, 
you rascals! {take. 

First and Sec. Serv. What, what, whac ? let ’s par- 

Third Serv. I would not be a Roman, of all na- 
tions; I had as lieve be a condemned man. 

First and Sec. Serv. Wherefore ? wherefore ? 

Third Serv. Why, here’s he that was wont to 
thwack our general, Caius Marcius. 

First Serv. Why do you say ‘thwack our general’? 

Third Serv. I do not say ‘ thwack our general ;’ 
but he was always good enough for him. 

Sec. Serv. Come, we are fellows and friends: he 
was ever too hard for him; I have heard him say 
so himself. 

First Serv. He was too hard for him directly, to 
say the troth on ’t: before Corioli he scotched him 
and notched him like a carbonado. 

Sec. Serv. An he had been cannibally given, he 
might have broiled and eaten him too. 

First Serv. But, more of thy news ? 

Third Serv. Why, he is so made on here within, 
as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end 
o’ the table; no question asked him by any of the 
senators, but they stand bald before him: our gen- 
eral himself makes a mistress of him; sanctifies 
himself with ’s hand and turns up the white o’ the 
eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news 
is, our general is cut i’ the middle and but one half 
of what he was yesterday; for the other has half, 
by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. Hell 
go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by 
the ears: he will mow all down before him, and 
leave his passage polled. 

Sec. Serv. And he’s as like to do ’t as any man I 
can imagine. 

Third Serv. Do ’t! he will do ’t; for, look you, 
sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which 
friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, show 
themselves, as we term it, his friends whilst he’s in 
directitude. 

First Serv. Directitude! what ’s that ? 

Third Serv. But when they shall see, sir, his crest 
up again, and the man in blood, they will out of 
their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all 
with him. 

First Serv. But when goes this forward ? 

Third Serv. To-morrow; to-day; presently; you 
shall have the drum struck up this afternoon: ’tis, 
as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed 
ere they wipe their lips. 

Sec. Serv. Why, then we shall have a stirring 
world again. This peace is nothing, but to rust 
iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. 

First Serv. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds 
peace as far as day does night; it ’s spritely, waking, 
audible, and full of vent. Peace isa very apoplexy, 
lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of 
more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men. 

Sec. Serv. ’Tis so: and as war, in some sort, may 
be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but 
peace is a great maker of cuckolds. 

First Serv. Ay,andit makes men hate one another. 

Third Serv. Reason; because they then less need 
one another. The wars for my money. I hope to 
see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, 
they are rising. 

All. In, in, in, in! [ Hxeunt. 


ACT IV. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE VI. — Rome. 


Enter Sicinius and Brutus. 


Sic. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him ; 
His remedies are tame i’ the present peace 
And quietness of the people, which before 
Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends 
Blush that the world goes well, who rather had, 
Though they themselves did suffer by ’t, behold 
Dissentious numbers pestering streets than see 
Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going 
About their functions friendly. 
Bru. We stood to *t in good time. [Hnter Mene- 
nius.| Is this Menenius ? 
Sic. "Tis he, ’tis he: O, he is grown most kind of 
Both Tri. Hail, sir! [late. 
Hail to you both! 


Men. 
Your Coriolanus 


A public place. 


ic: 
Is not much miss’d, but with his friends: 
The commonwealth doth stand, and so would do, 
Were he more angry at it. 
Men. All’s well; and might have been much bet- 
He could have temporized. (ter, if 
Sic. Where is he, hear you? 
Men. Nay, I hear nothing: his mother and his 
Hear nothing from him. [wife 


Enter three or four Citizens. 


Citizens. The gods preserve you both! 

Sic. God-den, our neighbours. 

Bru. God-den to you all, god-den to you ail. 

First Cit. Ourselves, our wives and children, on 
Are bound to pray for you both. [our knees 

Sic. Live, and thrive! 

Bru. Farewell, kind neighbours: we wish’d Co- 
Had loved you as we did. [riolanus 

Citizens. Now the gods keep you! 

Both Tri. Farewell, farewell. [Hxeunt Citizens. 

Sic. This is a happier and more comely time 
Than when these fellows ran about the streets, 
Crying confusion. : 

Bru. Caius Marcius was 
A worthy officer i’ the war; but insolent, 
O’ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, 
Self-loving ,— 

ie’ And affecting one sole throne, 

Without assistance. 

Men. I think not so. 

Sic. We should by this, to all our lamentation, 
If he had gone forth consul, found it so. 

Bru. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome 
Sits safe and still without him. 


Enter an Z&dile. 

Ad. Worthy tribunes, 
There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, 
Reports, the Volsces with two several powers 
Are enter’d in the Roman territories, 

And with the deepest malice of the war 
Destroy what lies before ’em. 

Men. ’T is Aufidius, 
Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment, 
Thrusts forth his horns again into the world; 
Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for Rome, 
And durst not once peep out. 


ic. Come, what talk you 
Of Marcius ? 


Bru. Go see this rumourer whipped. It 
The Volsces dare break with us. [cannot be 
Men. Cannot be! 


We have record that very well it can, 

And three examples of the like have been 
Within my age. But reason with the fellow, 
Before you punish him, where he heard this, 
Lest you shall chance to whip your information 
And beat the messenger who bids beware 

Of what is to be dreaded. 


SCENE VI. 
Sic. Tell not me: 
I know this cannot be. 
Bru. Not possible. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. The nobles in great earnestness are going 
All to the senate-house: some news is come 
That turns their countenances. 

Sic. T is this slave ;— 
Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes: —his raising ; 
Nothing but his report. 

Mess. Yes, worthy sir, 

The slave’s report is seconded; and more, 
More fearful, is deliver’d. 

Sic. What more fearful ? 

Mess. It is spoke freely out of many mouths— 
How probable I do not know —that Marcius, 
Join’d with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome, 
And vows revenge as spacious as between. 

The young’st and oldest thing. 

Sic. This is most likely! 

Lru. Raised only, that the weaker sort may wish 
os Marcius home again. 

AC: 

Men. This is unlikely: 
He and Aufidius can no more atone 
Than violentest contrariety. 


The very trick on ’t. 


Enter a second Messenger. 


Sec. Mess. You are sent for to the senate: 
A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius 
Associated with Aufidius, rages 
Upon our territories; and have already 
O’erborne their way, consumed with fire, and took 
What lay before them. 


Enter Cominius. 


Com. O, you have made good work! 

Men. What news? what news ? 

Com. You have holp to ravish your own daugh- 
To melt the city leads upon your pates, [ters and 
To see your wives dishonoured to your noses,— 

Men. What’s the news? what’s the news ? 

Com. Your temples burned in their cement, and 
Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined 
Into an auger’s bore. 


Men. Pray now, your news ? 
You have made fair work, I fear me.— Pray, your 
news ? — 
If Marcius should be joined with Volscians,— 
Com. ie 


He is their god: he leads them lke a thing 
Made by some other deity than nature, 

That shapes man better; and they follow him, 
Against us brats, with no less confidence 


| Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, 


Or butchers killing flies. 

Men. You have made good work, 
You and your apron-men; you that stood so much 
Upon the voice of occupation and 
The breath of garlic-eaters! 


Com. He will shake 
Your Rome about your ears. 
Men. As Hercules 


Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair 
Bru. But is this true, sir? [work ! 
Com. Ay; and you’ll look pale 

Before you find it other. All the regions 

Do smilingly revolt ; and who resist 

Are mock’d for valiant ignorance, [him ? 

And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame 

Your enemies and his find something in him. 

Men. We are all undone, unless 

The noble man have mercy. 

Com. Who shall ask it? 

The tribunes cannot do ’t for shame; the people 

Deserve such pity of him as the wolf 


507 


ACT V. 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE I. 


Does of the shepherds: for his best friends, if they 
Should say ‘ Be good to Rome,’ they charged him even 
As those should do that had deserved his hate, 
And therein show’d like enemies. 
Men. ’T is true: 
If he were putting to my house the brand 
That should consume it, I have not the face 
To say ‘ Beseech you, cease.’ You have made fair 
hands, 
You and your crafts! you have crafted fair! 
Com. You have brought 
A trembling upon Rome, such as was never 
So incapable of help. 
Both Tri. Say not we brought it. 
Men. How! Was it we? we loved him; but, 
like beasts 
And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, 
Who did hoot him out 0’ the city. 
But I fear 


om. 

They ’ll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, 
The second name of men, obeys his points 
As if he were his officer: desperation 

Ts all the policy, strength and defence, 

That Rome can make against them. 


Enter a troop of Citizens. 


Men. Here come the clusters. 
And is Aufidius with him? You are they 
That made the air unwholesome, when you cast 
Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at 
Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming; 

And not a hair upon a soldier’s head 

Which will not prove a whip: aS many coxcombs 
As you threw caps up will he tumble down, 

And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter; 
If he could burn us all into one coal, 

We have deserved it. 

Citizens. Faith, we hear fearful news. 

First Cit. - For mine own part, 
When I said, banish him, I said, ’t was pity. 

Sec. Cit. And so did I. 

Third (it. And so did I; and, to say the truth, 
so did very many of us: that we did, we did for 
the best; and though we willingly consented to his 
banishment, yet it was against our will. 

Com. Ye’re goodly things, you voices! 

Men. You have made 
Good work, you and your cry! Shall’s to the Cap- 

Com. O, ay, what else ? fitol ? 

[Hxeunt Cominius and Menenius. 

Sic. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay’d: 
These are a side that would be glad to have 
This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, 
And show no sign of fear. 

First Cit. The gods be good to us! Come, mas- 
ters, let’s home. I ever said we were i’ the wrong 
when we banished him. 

Sec. Cit. So did we all. But, come, let ’s home. 

. [Hxeunt Citizens. 

Bru. I do not like this news. 

Sic. Nor I. 

Bru. Let’s to the Capitol. 
one buy this for a lie! 

ic. 


Would half my wealth 


Pray, let us go. [Exewnt. 


Fae Ol Ae 


SCENE I.— Rome. 


Enier Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus, 
and others. 

Men. No, Il not go: you hear what he hath said 
Which was sometime his general: who loved him 
In a most dear particular. He call’d me father: 

nied 
Stato! 


A public place. 


| Of our design. 


SCENE VII.— A camp, at a small distance from 
vome. 


Enter Aufidius and his Lieutenant. 


Auf. Do they still fly to the Roman ? 

Lieu. I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but 
Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, 
Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; 

And you are darken’d in this action, sir, 
Even by your own. 

Auf. I cannot help it now, 
Unless, by using means, I lame the foot 
He bears himself more proudlier, 
Even to my person, than I thought he would 
When first I did embrace him: yet his nature 
In that ’s no changeling; and I must excuse 
What cannot be amended. 

Lieu. Yet I wish, sir,— 
I mean for your particular,— you had not 
Join’d in commission with him; but either 
Had borne the action of yourself, or else 
To him had left it solely. 

Auf. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, 
When he shall come to his account, he knows not 
What I can urge against him. Although it seems, 
And so he thinks, and is no less apparent 
To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, 
And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, 
Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon 
As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone 
That which shall break his neck or hazard mine, 
Whene’er we come to our account. [Rome ? 

Lieu. Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry 

Auf. All places yield to him ere he sits down; 
And the nobility of Rome are his: 

The senators and patricians love him too: 

The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people 
Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty 

To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome 
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it 

By sovereignty of nature. First he was 

A noble servant to them; but he could not 
Carry his honours even: whether ’t was pride, 
Which out of daily fortune ever taints 


| The happy man; whether defect of judgment, 


To fail in the disposing of those chances 

Which he was lord of; or whether nature, 

Not to be other than one thing, not moving 

From the casque to the cushion, but commanding 

Even with the same austerity and garb [peace 

As he controll’d the war; but one of these — 

As he hath spices of them all, not all, 

For I dare so far free him — made him fear’d, 

So hated, and so banish’d: but he has a merit, . 

To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues | 

Lie in the interpretation of the time: 

And power, unto itself most commendable, 

Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair 

To extol what it hath done. 

One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; 

Rights by rights falter,strengths by strengths do fail. 

Come, let ’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, 

Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine. 
[Exeunt. — 


rr - “a 7 


But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d him; 

A tnile before his tent fall down, and knee 

The way into his mercy; nay, if he coy’d 

To hear Cominius speak, I ll keep at home. 
Com. He would not seem to know me. 
Men. Do you hear? 
Com. Yet one time he did call me by my name: 


| 
| 
{ 
4 
: 
; 


ACT V. 


ae 


CORIOLANUS. 


SCENE II. 


1 urged our old acquaintance, and the drops 
That we have bled together. Coriolanus 
He would not answer to: forbad all names; 
He was a kind of nothing, titleless, 

Till he had forged himself a name o’ the fire 
Of burning Rome. 

Men. Why, so: you have made good work! 
A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome, 
To make coals cheap,— a noble memory ! 

Com. I minded him how royal ’t was to pardon 
When it was less expected: he replied, 

It was a bare petition of a state 
To one whom they had punish’d. 


Men. Very well: 
Could he say less ? 
Com. I offer’d to awaken his regard 


For’s private friends: his answer to me was, 
He could not stay to pick them in a pile 
Of noisome musty chaff: he said ’t was folly, 
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt, 
And still to nose the offence. 

Men. For one poor grain or two! 
I am one of those; his mother, wife, his child, 
And this brave fellow too, we are the grains: 
You are the musty chaff; and you are smelt 
Above the moon: we must be burnt for you. 

Sic. Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid 
In this so never-needed help, yet do not 
Upbraid’s with our distress. But, sure, if you 
Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, 
More than the instant army we can make, 
Might stop our countryman. 


Men. No, I’ not meddle. 
Sic. Pray you, go to him. 
Men. What should I do? 


Bru. Only make trial what your love can do 
For Rome, towards Marcius. 

Men. Well, and say that Marcius 
Return me, as Cominius is return’d, 

Unheard ; what then ? 
But as a discontented friend, grief-shot 
With his unkindness? say ’t be so? 

Sic. Yet your good will 
Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure 
As you intended well. 

Men. I'll undertake ’t: 

I think he ll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip 

And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me. 
He was not taken well; he had not dined: 

The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then 

We pout upon the morning, are unapt 

To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d 
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood 
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls 
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore Ill watch 
Till he be dieted to my request, {him 
And then I ’ll set upon him. 

Bru. You know the very road into his kindness, 
And cannot lose your way. 

Men. Good faith, I ll prove him, 
Speed howit will. I shall ere long have knowledge 
Of my success. [ Hatt. 


Com. 

Sic. Not? 

Com. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye 
Red as *t would burn Rome; and his injury 
The gaoler to his pity. I kneel’d before him; 
°T was very faintly he said ‘ Rise;’ dismiss’d me 
Thus, with his speechless hand: what he would do, 
He sent in writing after me; what he would not, 
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions: 
So that all hope is vain, 
Unless his noble mother, and his wife; 
Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him 
For mercy to his country. Therefore, let ’s hence, 
And with our fair entreaties haste them on. 

[ Hxeunt. 


He 711 never hear him. 


SCENE II.— Entrance of the Volscian camp before 
Rome. Two Sentinels on guard. 


Enter to them, Menenius. 

First Sen. Stay: whence are you ? 

Sec. Sen. Stand, and go back. 

Men. You guard likemen; ’t is well: but, by your 
I am an officer of state, and come [leave, 
To speak with Coriolanus. 

First Sen. From whence ? 

Men. From Rome. 

first Sen. You may not pass, you must return: 

our general 
Will no more hear from thence. 
Sec. Sen. Youll see your Rome embraced with 
fire before 
You ’ll speak with Coriolanus. 

Men. Good my friends, 
If you have heard your general talk of Rome, 

And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks, 
My name hath touch’d your ears: it is Menenius. 

First Sen. Be it so; go back: the virtue of your 

name 

Is not here passable. 

Men. I tell thee, fellow, 
Thy general is my lover: I have been 
The book of his good acts, whence men have read 
His fame unparallel’d, haply amplified ; 
For I have ever verified my friends, 
Of whom he’s chief, with all the size that verity 
Would without lapsing suffer: nay, sometimes, 
Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, 
I have tumbled past the throw; and in his praise 
Have almost stamp’d the leasing: therefore, fellow, 
I must have leave to pass. 

First Sen. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies 
in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, 
you should not pass here; no, though it were as vir- 
tuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back. 

Men. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Mene- 
nius, always factionary on the party of your general. 

Sec. Sen. Howsoever you have been his liar, as 
you say you have, I am one that, telling true under 
him, must say, youcannot pass. Therefore, go back. 

Men. Has he dined, canst thou tell? for I would 
not speak with him till after dinner. 

First Sen. You are a Roman, are you? 

. Men. I am, as thy general is. 

First Sen. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. 
Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the 
very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ig- 
norance, given your enemy your shield think to front 
his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the 
virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied 
intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem 
to be ? Can you think to blow out the intended fire 
your city is ready to flame in, with such weak breath 
as this? No, you are deceived; therefore, back to 
Rome, and prepare for your execution: you are con- 
demned, our general has sworn you out of reprieve 
and pardon. 

Men. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he 
would use me with estimation. 

Sec. Sen. Come, my captain knows you not. 

Men. I mean, thy general. 

First Sen. My general cares not for you. Back, 
IT say, go; lest I let forth your half-pint of blood ; 
back,— that ’s the utmost of your having: back. 

Men. Nay, but, fellow, fellow,— 


Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius. 


Cor. What ’s the matter ? 

Men. Now, you companion, Ill say an errand for 
you: you shall know now that I am in estimation ; 
you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot 
office me from my son Coriolanus: guess, but by my 
entertainment with him, if thou standest not i’ the 


559 


AGTH Vis 


state of hanging, or of some death more long in 
spectatorship, and crueller in suffering; behold 
now presently, and swoon for what ’s to come upon 
thee. [To Cor.] 
synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee 
no worse than thy old father Menenius does! 
my son, my son! thou art preparing fire for us; 
look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly 
moved to come to thee; but being assured none but 


myself could move thee, I have been blown out of | 


your gates with sighs; and conjure thee to pardon 
Rome, and thy petitionary countrymen. The good 
gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it 
upon this varlet here,—this, who, like a block, hath 
denied my access to thee. 
Cor. Away! 
Men. How! away! 
Cor. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs 
Are servanted to others: though I owe 
My revenge properly, my remission lies 
In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, 
Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather 
Than pity note how much. Therefore, be gone. 
Mine ears against your suits are stronger than 
Your gates against myforce. Yet, for IL loved thee, 
Take this along; I writ it for thy sake, 
[ Gives a letter. 
And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, 
I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, 
Was my beloved in Rome: yet thou behold’st! 
Auf. You keep a constant temper. 
[Hxeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. 
First Sen. Now, sir, is your name Menenius ? 
Sec. Sen. ’T is a spell, you see, of much power: 
you know the way home again. 
First Sen. Do you hear how we are shent for 
keeping your greatness back ? 
Sec. Sen. What cause, do you think, I have to 
swoon ? F 
Men. I neither care for the world nor your gen- 
eral: for such things as you, I can scarce think 
there ’s any, ye’re soslight. He that hath a will 
to die by himself fears it not from another: let 
your general do his worst. For you, be that you 
are, long; and your misery increase with your age! 
I say to you, as I was said to, Away! [ Exit. 
First Sen. A noble fellow, I warrant him. 
Sec. Sen. The worthy fellow is our general: he’s 
the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. [Hweunt. 


SCENE III.— The tent of Coriolanus. 


Enter Coriolanus, Aufidius, and others. 


Oor. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow 
Set down our host. My partner in this action, 
You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly 
I have borne this business. 

Auf. Only their ends 
You have respected; stopped your ears against 
The general suit of Rome; never admitted 
A private whisper, no, not with such friends 
That thought them sure of you. 

Cor. This last old man, 
Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome, 
Loved me above the measure of a father; 

Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge 
Was to send him; for whose old love I have, 
Though I show’d sourly to him, once more offer’d 
The first conditions, which they did refuse 
And cannot now accept; to grace him only 
That thought he could do more, a very little 
I have yielded to: fresh embassies and suits, 
Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter 
Will I lend ear to. Ha! what shout is this ? 

[| Shout within. 
Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow 
In the same time ’t is made? I will not. 


560 


The glorious gods sit in hourly | 


O° 


CORIOLANUS. 


| 


SCENE ITIl, 


Enter, in mourning habits, Virgilia, Volumnia, lead- 
ing young Marcius, Valeria, and Attendants. 


My wife comes foremost; then the honour’d mould 
Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand 
The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection! 
All bond and privilege of nature, break ! 

Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. 

What is that curt’sy worth ? or those doves’ eyes, 
Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am 


not 

Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows; 

As if Olympus to a molehill should 

In supplication nod: and my young boy 

Hath an aspect of intercession, which 

Great nature cries ‘ Deny not.’ Let the Volsces 

Plough Rome, and harrow Italy: I 7) never 

Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand, 

As if a man were author of himself 

And knew no other kin. 

Vir. My lord and husband! 
Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. 
Vir. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed 

Makes you think so. 

Cor. Like a dull actor now, 

I have forgot my part, and I am out, 

Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, 

Forgive my tyranny; but do not say 

For that ‘ Forgive our Romans.’ O, a kiss 

Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! 

Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss 

I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip 

Hath virgin’d it e’er since. You gods! I prate, 

And the most noble mother of the world 

Leave unsaluted: sink,myknee,i’ theearth; [Kneels. 

Of thy deep duty more impression show 

Than that of common sons. 

Vol. O, stand up blest ! 

Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint, 

I kneel before thee; and unproperly 

Show duty, as mistaken all this while 

Between the child and parent. [ Kneels. 
Cor. What is this ? 

Your knees to me? to your corrected son ? 

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach 

Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds 

Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun; 

Murdering impossibility, to make 

What cannot be, slight work. 
Vol. Thou art my warrior; 

I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady ? 
Cor. The noble sister of Publicola, 

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle 

That ’s curdied by the frost from purest snow 

And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria! 

Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours, 

Which by the interpretation of full time 

May show like all yourself. 

Cor. The god of soldiers, 

With the consent of supreme Jove, inform 

Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove 

To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ the wars 

Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, 

And saving those that eye thee! 
Vol. Your knee, sirrah. 
Cor. That ’s my brave boy! 

Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, 

Are suitors to you. 

Cor. I beseech you, peace: 

Or, if you ’ld ask, remember this before: 

The thing I have forsworn to grant may never 

Be held by your denials. Do not bid me 

Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate 

Again with Rome’s mechanics: tell me not 

Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not 

To allay my rages and revenges with 

Your colder reasons. 


= 


AON. 
ol. O, no more, no more! 
You have said you will not grant us any thing; 
For we have nothing else to ask, but that 
Which you deny already: yet we will ask; 
That, if you fail in our request, the blame 
May hang upon your hardness: therefore hear us. 
Cor. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we’ll 
Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request ? 
Vol. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment 
And state of bodies would bewray what life 
We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself 
How more unfortunate than all living women 
Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which 
should {[comforts, 
Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with 
Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sor- 
Making the mother, wife and child to see [row ; 
The son, the husband and the father tearing 


CORIOLAN US. 


| Like one i’ the stocks. 


His country’s bowels out. And to poor we 
Thine enmity’s most capital: thou barr’st us 

Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort 

That all but we enjoy; for how can we, 

Alas, how can we for our country pray, 

Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, 
Whereto we are bound ? alack, or we must lose 
The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, 
Our comfort in the country. We must find 

An evident calamity, though we had 

Our wish, which side should win: for either thou 
Must, as a foreign recreant, be led 

With manacles thorough our streets, or else 
Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin, 

And bear the palm for having bravely shed 

Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, 
I purpose not to wait on fortune till 

These wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee 
Rather to show a noble grace to both parts 

Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner 
March to assault thy country than to tread — 
Trust to ’t, thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb, 
That brought thee to this world. 


Ay, and mine, 


Vir. 
That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name 
Living to time. 
Young Mar. A’ shall not tread on me; 
I’) run away till 1 am bigger, but then Ill fight. | 
Cor. Not of a woman’s tenderness to be, 
Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see. 
I have sat too long. [ Rising. 
Vol. Nay, go not from us thus. 
Tf it were so that our request did tend 
To save the Romans, thereby to destroy [us, 
The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn 
As poisonous of your honour: no; our suit 
Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces 
May say ‘ This mercy we have show’d;’ the Romans, 
‘This we received;’ and each in either side 
Give the all-hail to thee, and cry ‘ Be biest [son, 
For making up this peace!’ Thou know’st, great 
The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, 
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit 
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name, 
Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses; 
Whose chronicle thus writ: ‘ The man was noble, 
But with his last attempt he wiped it out; 
Destroy’d his country, and his name remains 
To the ensuing age abhorr’d.’ Speak to me, son: 
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, 
To imitate the graces of the gods; 
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks 0’ the air, 
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt 
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ? 
Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man 
Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: 
He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy: 
Perhaps thy childishness will move him more 
Than can our reasons. There’s no man in the world 


36 


SCENE IV. 


More bound to’s mother; yet here he lets me prate 
Thou hast never in thy life 
Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy, 

When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, 


| Has cluck’d thee to the wars and safely home, 


Loaden with honour. Say my request ’s unjust, 
And spurn me back: but if it be not so, 
Thou art not honest; and the gods will plague thee, 
That thou restrain’st from me the duty which 
To a mother’s part belongs. He turns away: 
Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees 
To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride 
Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end; 
This is the last: so we will home to Rome, 
And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold’s; 
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, 
But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, 
Does reason our petition with more strength 
Than thou hast to deny ’t. Come, let us go: 
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; 
His wife is in Corioli and his child 
Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch: 
IT am hush’d until our city be a-fire, 
And then I’ll speak a little. [He holds her by the 
hand, silent. 
Cor. O mother, mother! 
What have youdone? Behold, the heavens do ope, 
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene 
They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! 
You have won a happy victory to Rome; 
But, for your son,— believe it, O, believe it, 
Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d, 
If not most mortal to him. But, let it come. 
Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, 
I’ frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, 
Were you in my stead, would you have heard 
A mother less ? or granted less, Aufidius ? 
Auf. I was moved withal. 
Cor. I dare be sworn you were: 
And, sir, it is no little thing to make 
Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, 
What peace you ’ll make, advise me: for my part, 
T’ll not to Rome, I 71] back with you; and pray you, 
Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! 
Auf. [Aside] Iam glad thou hast set thy mercy 
and thy honour 
At difference in thee: out of that Il] work 


-Myself a former fortune. 


[The Ladies make signs to Coriolanus. 
Ay, by and by; 

[To Volumnia, Virgilia, &c.. 
But we will drink together; and you shall bear 
A better witness back than words, which we, 
On like conditions, will have counter-seal’d. 
Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve 
To have a temple built you: all the swords 
In Italy, and her confedefate arms, 
Could not have made this peace. 


SCENE IV.— Rome. 


Enter Menenius and Sicinius. 


Men. See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond 
corner-stone ? 

Sic. Why, what of that ? 

Men. If it be possible for you to displace it with 
your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of 
Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. 
But I say there is no hope in’t: our throats are sen- 
tenced and stay upon execution. 

Sic. Is’t possible that so short a time can alter 
the condition of a man? 

Men. There is differency between a grub and a 
butterfly ; yet your butterfly wasagrub. This Mar- 
cius is grown from man to dragon: he has wings: 
he’s more than a creeping thing. 

Sic. He loved his mother dearly. 


561 


Cor. 


[| Heunt. 


A public place. 


ACT V. 


Men. So did he me: and he no more remembers 
his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The 
tartness of his face sours ripe grapes : when he walks, | 
he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks | 
before his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet 
with his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum isa 
battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for 


Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with 
his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eter- 


nity and a heaven to throne in. 
Sic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly. | 
Men. 1 paint him in the character. Mark what 
mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no 
more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; 
that shall our poor city find: and all this is long of | 
Sic. The gods be good unto us! [you, | 
Men. No, in such a case the gods will not be good | 
unto us. When we banished him, we respected not 
them; and, he returning to break our necks, they 
respect not us. 
Enter a Messenger. 
Mess. Sir, if you’ld save your life, fly to your 
house; 
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune 
And hale him up and down, all swearing, if 
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home, 
They ’l) give him death by inches. 


Enter a second Messenger. 
Sic. What’s the news ? 
Sec. Mess. Good news, good news; the ladies have 
prevail’d, 
The Volscians are dislodged, and Marcius gone: 
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, 
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins. 
Sic. Friend, 
Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain ? 
Sec. Mess. As certain as I know the sun is fire: 
Where have vou lurk’d, that you make doubt of it ? 
Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide, 


As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark 
you! [Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; all 
together. 


The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes, 

Tabors and cymbals and the shouting Romans, 

Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout within. 
Men. This is good news: | 

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia 

Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, 

A city full; of tribunes, such as you, 

A sea and land full. You have pray’d well to-day: 

This morning for ten thousand of your throats 

I’Id not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! | 

[Music still, with shouts. 

Sic. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; 

Accept my thankfulness. [next, 
Sec. Mess. Sir, we have all 

Great cause to give great thanks. 


te They are near the city ? 
Sec. Mess. Almost at point to enter. 
Sic. We will meet them, 
And help the joy. [ Exeunt. 
SCENE V.— The same. 


Enter two Senators with Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria, | 
&c., passing over the stage, followed by Patricians, and 
others. 


First Sen. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! 
Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, 
And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before 
Unshout the noise that banish’d Marcius, [them: 
Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; 
Cry ‘ Welcome, ladies, welcome! ’ 


A street near the gate. 


Welcome, ladies, | 
[A flowrish with drums and trumpets. 
[ Hxeunt. 


All, 
Welcome! 


562 


CORIOLAN US. 


SCENE VI. 


SCENE VI.— Antium. <A public place. 


Enter Tullus Aufidius, with Attendants. 


Auf. Go tell the lords o’ the city I am here: 
Deliver them this paper: having read it, 
Bid them repair to the market-place; where I, 
Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, 
Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse 
The city ports by this hath enter’d and 
Intends to appear before the people, hoping 
To purge himself with words: dispatch. 

[ Kxeunt Attendants. 


Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’ 
Faction. 
Most welcome! 
First Con. How is it with our general ? 
Auf. Even so 
As with a man by his own alms empoison’d, 
And with his charity slain. 
Sec. Con. Most noble sir, 
If you do hold the same intent wherein - 


| You wish’d us parties, we ’l] deliver you 
Of your great danger. 


uf. Sir, I cannot tell: 

We must proceed as we do find the people. . 

ThirdCon. The people will remain uncertain whilst 
°T wixt you there’s difference; but the fall of either 
Makes the survivor heir of all. 

Auf, I know it; 
And my pretext to strike at him admits 
A good construction. I raised him, and I pawn’d 


_ Mine honour for his truth: who being so heighten’d, 


He water’d his new plants with dews of flattery, 
Seducing so my friends; and, to this end, 

He bow’d his nature, never known before 

But to be rough, unswayable and free. 

Third Con. Sir, his stoutness 
When he did stand for consul, which he lost 
By lack of stooping,— 

Auf. That I would have spoke of: 
Being banish’d for ’t, he came unto my hearth; 
Presented to my knife his throat: I took him; 
Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way 


_In all his own desires; nay, let him choose a 


Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, 
My best and freshest men; served his designments 


_In mine own person; holp to reap the fame 
| Which he did end all his; and took some pride 
| To do myself this wrong: till, at the last, ri 


[ seem’d his follower, not partner, and 

He waged me with his countenance, as if ) 

I had been mercenary. 4 
First Con. So he did, my lord: 


| The army marvell’d at it, and, in the last, 


When he had carried Rome and that we look’d 


| For no less spoil than glory ,— 


Auf. There was it: a 
For which my sinews shall be stretch’d upon him. ! 
At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are 
As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour 
Of our great action: therefore shall he die, 

And I?ll renew me in his fall. But, hark! 
[Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts 
of the People. 

First Con. Your native town you enter’d like a 


And had no welcomes home; but hereturns, [post, 
Splitting the air with noise. 
Sec. Con. And patient fools, 


Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear 
With giving him glory. 

Third Con. Therefore, at your vantage, 
Ere he express himself, or move the people 
With what he would say, let him feel your sword, 
Which we will second. When he lies along, 
After your way his tale pronounced shall bury 
His reasons with his body. 


ACT AY: 


Auf. Say no more: 
Here come the lords. 


Enter the Lords of the city. 


All the Lords. You are most welcome home. 

Auf. have not deserved it. 
But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused 
What I have written to you? 

Lords. We have. 

First Lord. And grieve to hear ’t. 
What faults he made before the last, I think 
Might have found easy fines: but there to end 
Where he was to begin and give away 
The benefit of our levies, answering us 
With our own charge, making a treaty where 
There was a ylelding,— this admits no excuse. 

Auf. He approaches: you shall hear him. 


Enter Coriolanus, marching with drum and colours ; 
Commoners being with him. 


Cor. Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier, 
No more infected with my country’s love 
Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting 
Under your great command. You are to know 
That prosperously I have attempted and 
With bloody passage led your wars even to 
The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought 

home 
Do more than counterpoise a full third part 
The charges of the action. We have made peace 
With no less honour to the Antiates 
Than shame to the Romans: and we here deliver, 
Subscribed by the consuls and patricians, 
‘Together with the seal o’ the senate, what 
We have compounded on. 

Auf. Read it not, noble lords; 
But tell the traitor, in the high’st degree 
He hath abused your powers. 

Cor. Traitor! how now! 

Auf. 

Cor. 

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius: dost thou think 
I ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name 
Coriolanus in Corioli? 

You lords and heads 0’ the state, perfidiously 
He has betray’d your business, and given up, 
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, 
I say ‘ your city,’ to his wife and mother ; 
Breaking his oath and resolution like 
A twist of rotten silk, never admitting 
Counsel 0’ the war, but at his nurse’s tears 
He whined and roar’d away your victory, 
That pages blush’d at him and men of heart 
Look’d wondering each at other. 
Cor. Hear’st thou, Mars ? 
rk Name not the god, thou boy of tears! 
JOY . 

Auf. No more. 

Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart 
Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave! 
Pardon me, lords, ’t is the first time that ever 
1 was wld, to scold. Your judgments, my grave 

ords, 


Ay, traitor, Marcius! 
Marcius! 


CORIOLANUS. 


Ha! | 


SCENE VI. 


Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion — 
Who wears my stripes impress’d upon him; that 
Must bear my beating to his grave —shall join 
To thrust the lie unto him. 
First Lord. Peace, both, and hear me speak. 
Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, 
Stain all your edges on me. Boy! false hound! 
If you have writ your annals true, ’t is there, 
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I 
Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli: 
Alone I did it. Boy! 
Auf. Why, noble lords, 
Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, 
Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, 
’Fore your own eyes and ears ? 
All Consp. Let him die for °t. 
All the people. ‘ Tear him to pieces.’ ‘ Do it pres- 
ently.’ ‘He killed my son.’ ‘My daughter.’ ‘He 
killed my cousin Marcus.’ ‘ He killed my father.’ 
Sec. Lord. Peace, ho! no outrage: peace! 
The man is noble and his fame folds-in 
This orb 0’ the earth. His last offences to us 
Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, 
And trouble not the peace. 
Cor. O that I had him, 
With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe, 
To use my lawful sword! 
Auf. Insolent villain! 
All Consp. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! 
[The Conspirators draw, and kill Coriolanus: 
Aufidius stands on his body. 
Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold! 
Auf. My noble masters, hear me speak. 
First Lord. O Tullus,— 
Sec. Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour 
will weep. 
Third Lord. Tread not upon him. Masters all, 
be quiet ; 
Put up your swords. [rage, 
Auj. My lords, when you shall know—as in this 
Provoked by him, you cannot—the great danger 
Which this man’s life did owe you, you ’ll rejoice 
That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours 
To call me to your senate, I ’ll deliver 
Myself your loyal servant, or endure 
Your heaviest censure. 
First Lord. Bear from hence his body ; 
‘And mourn you for him: let him be regarded 
As the most noble corse that ever herald 
Did follow to his urn. 
Sec. Lord. His own impatience 
Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. 
Let ’s make the best of it. 
Auf. My rage is gone; 
And Iam struck with sorrow. Take him up. 
Help, three o’ the chiefest soldiers; I ’ll be one. 
Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully : 
Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he 


Hath widow’d and unchilded many a one, 
Which to this hour bewail the injury, 

' Yet he shall have a noble memory. 

| Assist. 


[Hxeunt, bearing the body of Corio- 
lanus. A dead march sounded. 
563 


VAS 
a e9) 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Saturninus, son to the late Emperor of Rome, and 
afterwards declared Emperor. | 

Bassianus, brother to Saturninus; in love with 
Lavinia. 

Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman, General 
against the Goths. 

Marcus Andronicus, tribune of the people, and 
brother to Titus. 

Lucius, | 

Seen agi | sons to Titus Andronicus. 

Martius, | 

Mutius, 

Young Lucius, a boy, son to Lucius. 

Publius, son to Marcus the Tribune. 

Sempronius, 

Caius, 


be to Titus. 
Valentine, 


ZAmilius, a noble Roman. 

Alarbus, 

Demetrius, 

Chiron, 

Aaron, a Moor, beloved by Tamora. 

A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Ro- 
mans, 

Goths and Romans. . 

Tamora, Queen of the Goths. 

Lavinia, daughter to Titus Andronicus. 

A Nurse. 


tm to Tamora. 


Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants. 


SCENE — Rome, and the country near tt. 


[Fer an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LX.] 


BeXs C0 Bin be 


SCENE I.— Rome. Before the Capitol. 

The tomb of the Andronici appearing ; the Tribunes and 
Senators aloft. Hnter, below, from one side, Saturni- 
nus and his Followers; and, from the other side, Bassi- 
anus and his Followers; with drum and colours. 


Sat. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, 

Defend the justice of my cause with arms, 
And, countrymen, my loving followers, 
Plead my successive title with your swords: 
I am his first-born son, that was the last 
That wore the imperial diadem of Rome; 
Then let my father’s honours live in me, 

Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. 

Bas. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my 
If ever Bassianus, Cesar’s son, [right, 
Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, 
Keep then this passage to the Capitol 
And suffer not dishonour to approach 
The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, 

To justice, continence and nobility ; 
But let desert in pure election shine, 
And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. 


Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with the crown. 


Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and by 
Ambitiously for rule and empery, [friends 
Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand 
A special party, have, by common voice, 

In election for the Roman empery, 

Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius 

For many good and great deserts to Rome: 

A nobler man, a braver warrior, 

Lives not this day within the city walls: 

He by the senate is accited home 

From weary wars against the barbarous Goths; 
That, with his sons, a terror to our foes, 

Hath yoked a nation strong, train’d up in arms. 
Ten years are spent since first he undertook 
This cause of Rome and chastised with arms 
Our enemies’ pride: five times he hath return’d 


564 


Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons 

In coffins from the field; 

And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, 
Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, 
Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. 

Let us entreat, by honour of his name, 

Whom worthily you would have now succeed, 
And in the Capitol and senate’s right, 

Whom you pretend to honour and adore, 
That you withdraw you and abate your strength; 
Dismiss your followers and, as suitors should, 
Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. 

Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my 

Bas. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy [thoughts! 
In thy uprightness and integrity, 

And so I love and honour thee and thine, 

Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, 

And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, 

Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament, 

That I will here dismiss my loving friends, 

And to my fortunes and the people’s favour 

Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d, 
[Hxeunt the Followers of Bassianus. 

Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward in my 
I thank you all and here dismiss you all, _ [right, 
And to the love and favour of my country 
Commit myself, my person and the cause. 

[ Exeunt the Followers of Saturninus. 
Rome, be as just and gracious unto me 
As I am confident and kind to thee. 
Open the gates, and let me in. 
Bas. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. 
[Flourish. Saturninus and Bassianus go up into 
' the Capitol. 
Enter a Captain. 

Cap. Romans, make way: the good Andronicus, 
Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion, 
Successful in the battles that he fights, 

With honour and with fortune is return’d 
From where he circumscribed with his sword, 
And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome. 


ACT’T: 


—— ——_—. 


Drums and trumpets sounded. Enter Martius and Mu- 
tius; after them, two Men bearing a coffin covered with 
black; then Lucius and Quintus. After them, Titus 
Andronicus; and then Tamora, with Alarbus, De- 
metrius, Chiron, Aaron, and other Goths, prisoners ; 
Soldiers and People following. The Bearers set down 
the coffin, and Titus speaks, 


Tit. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning 
weeds ! 
Lo, as the bark, that hath discharged her fraught, 
Returns with precious lading to the bay 
J*rom whence at first she weigh’d her anchorage, 
Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, 
To re-salute his country with his tears, 
Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. 
Thou great defender of this Capitol, 
Stand gracious to the rites that we intend! 
Romans, of five and twenty valiant sons, 
Half of the number that King Priam had, 
Behold the poor remains, alive and dead! 
These that survive let Rome reward with love; 
These that I bring unto their latest home, 
With burial amongst their ancestors: 
Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. 
Titus, unkind and careless of thine own, 
Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet, 
‘fo hover on the dreadful shore of Styx ? 
Make way to lay them by their brethren. 
[The tomb is opened. 

There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, 
And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars ! 
O sacred receptacle of my joys, 
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, 
flow many sons of mine hast thou in store, 
That thou wilt never render to me more! 

Luc. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, 
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile 
Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh, 

Before this earthy prison of their bones ; 
That so the shadows be not unappeased, 
Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth. 

Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives, 
The eldest son of this distressed queen. 

Tam. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious con- 
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, [queror, 
A mother’s tears in passion for her son: 

And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, 
O, think my son to be as dear to me! 
Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, 


‘To beautify thy triumphs and return, 


Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke, 

But must my sons be slaughter’d in the streets, 
For valiant doings in their country’s cause ? 
O, if to fight for king and commonweal 

Were piety in thine, it is in these. 

Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood: 
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods ? 
Draw near them then in being merciful: 

Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge: 

Thrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son. 

Titi. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. 
These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld 
Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain 
Religiously they ask a sacrifice : 

To this your son is mark’d, and die he must, 
To appease their groaning shadows that are gone. 

Luc. Away with him! and make a fire straight ; 
And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, 

Let ’s hew his limbs till they be clean consumed. 
[Hxeunt Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and 
Mutius, with Alarbus. 

Tam. O cruel, irreligious piety ! 

Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous ? 

Dem. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. 
Alarbus goes to rest; and we survive 
To tremble under Titus’ threatening looks. 

Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I. 


The self-same gods that arm’d the Queen of Troy 
With opportunity of sharp revenge 

Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent, 

May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths — 

When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen — 
To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. 


fte-enter Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, 
with their swords bloody. 


Luc. See, lord and father, how we have perform’« 
Our Roman rites: Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d, 
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, 
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky. 
Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren, 
And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome. 

Tit. Let it be so; and let Andronicus 
Make this his latest farewell to their souls. 

| Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the ton). 
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; 
Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest, 
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! 
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, 
Here grow no damned grudges; here are no storms, 
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep: 
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons! 


Enter Lavinia. 


Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long ; 

My noble lord and father, live in fame! 

Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears 

I render, for my brethren’s obsequies ; 

And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy, 
Shed on the earth, for thy return to Rome: 

O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, 
Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud! 

Tit. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved 
The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! 
Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days, 

And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise! 


Enter, below, Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes ; 
re-enter Saturninus and Bassianus, attended. 


Marc. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, 
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome! 
Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Mar- 
cus. [wars, 
Mare. And welcome, nephews, from successful 
You that survive, and you that sleep in fame! 
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, 
That in your country’s service drew your swords: 
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, 
That hath aspired to Solon’s happiness 
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed. 
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, 
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, 
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust, 
This palliament of white and spotless hue; 
And name thee in election for the empire, 
With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons: 
Be candidatus then, and put it on, 
And help to set a head on headless Rome. 
Tit. A better head her glorious body fits 
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness: 
What should I don this robe, and trouble you? 
Be chosen with proclamations to-day, 
To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life, 
And set abroad new business for you all ? 
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, 
And led my country’s strength successfully, 
And buried one and twenty valiant sons, 
Kxnighted in field, slain manfully in arms, 
In right and service of their noble country : 
Give me a Staff of honour for mine age, 
But not a sceptre to control the world: 
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. —_ [pery. 
Marc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the em- 
Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell? 


565 


ACT I. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I, 


Tit. Patience, Prince Saturninus. 
Sat. Romans, do me right: 
Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them 
not 
Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor. 
Andronicus, would thou wert shipp’d to hell, 
Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts! 
Luc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good 
That noble-minded Titus means to thee! 
Tit. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee 
The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves. 
Bas. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, 
But honour thee, and wiil do till I die: 
My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, 
I will most thankful be; and thanks to men 
Of noble minds is honourable meed. 
Tit. People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here, 
I ask your voices and your suffrages : 
Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus ? 
Tribunes. 'To gratify the good Andronicus, 
And gratulate his safe return to Rome, 
The people will accept whom he admits. 
Tit. Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I make, 
That you create your emperor’s eldest son, 
Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, 
Refiect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth, 
And ripen justice in this commonweal: 
Then, if you will elect by my advice, 
Crown him, and say ‘ Long live our emperor! ’ 
Marc. With voices and applause of every sort, 
Patricians and plebeians, we create 
Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, 
And say ‘ Long live our Emperor Saturnine! ’ 
[A long flourish till they come down. 
Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done 
To us in our election this day, 
I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, 
And will with deeds requite thy gentleness: 
And, for an onset, Titus, to advance 
Thy name and honourable family, 
Lavinia will I make my empress, 
Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart,’ 
And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse: 
Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee ? 
Tit. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match 
L hold me highly honour’d of your grace: 
And here in sight of Rome to Saturnine, 
King and commander of our commonweal, 
The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate 
My sword, my chariot and my prisoners; 
Presents well worthy Rome’s imperial lord: 
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, 
Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet. 
Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life! 
How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts 
Rome shall record, and when I do forget 
The least of these unspeakable deserts, 
Romans, forget your fealty to me. 
Tit. [To Tamora] Now, madam, are you prisoner 
to an emperor; 
To him that, for your honour and your state, 
Will use you nobly and your followers. 
Sat. A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue 
That I would choose, were I to choose anew. 
Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance: 
Though chance of war hath wrought this change 
of cheer, 
Thou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome: 
Princely shall be thy usage every way. 
Rest on my word, and let not discontent 
Daunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you 
Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. 
Lavinia, you are not displeased with this ? 
Lav. Not I, my lord; sith true nobility 
Warrants these words in princely courtesy. 
Sat. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go: 
Ransomless here we set our prisoners free: 


566 


Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. 


[Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora in dumb show. 
Bas. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. 
[Seizing Lavinia. 
Tit. How, sir! are you in earnest then, my lord? 
Bas. Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal 
To do myself this reason and this right. 
Marc. ‘Suum cuique’ is our Roman justice: 
This prince in justice seizeth but his own. 
Tuc. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live. 
Tit. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s 
Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surprised! [guard ? 
Sat. Surprised! by whom ? 
Bas. By him that justly may 
Bear his betroth’d from all the world away. 
| Hxeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia. 
Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, 
And with my sword Ill keep this door safe. 
[Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. 
Tit. Follow, my lord, and I 71] soon bring her back. 
Mut. My lord, you pass not here. 


Tit. _ What, villain boy! 
Barr’st me my way in Rome? [Stabbing Mutius. 
Mut. Help, Lucius, help! [Dies. 


[During the fray, Saturninus, Tamora, Deme- 
trius, Chiron and Aaron go out and re-enter, 
above. ; 

Re-enter Lucius. 
Luc. My lord, you are unjust, and, more than so, 
In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. 
Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine; 
My sons would never so dishonour me: 
Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor. 

Tuc. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, 
That is another’s lawful promised love. [ Hcit. 
Sat. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not, 

Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock: 
I ll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once; 
Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, 
Confederates all thus to dishonour me. 
Was there none else in Rome to make a stale, 
But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, 
Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine, 
That said’st I begg’d the empire at thy hands. 
Tit. O monstrous! what reproachful words are 
these ? {piece 
Sat. But go thy ways; go, give that changing 
To him that flourish’d for her with his sword: 
A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy ;_ 
One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, 
To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. 
Tit. These words are razors to my wounded heart. 
Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora,Queen of Goths, 
That like the stately Phoebe ’mongst her nymphs 
Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, 
If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice, 
Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, 
And will create thee empress of Rome. 
Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? 
And here I swear by all the Roman gods, 
Sith priest and holy water are so near 
And tapers burn so bright and every thing 
In readiness for Hymenezeus stand, 
I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, 
Or climb my palace, till from forth this place 
I lead espoused my bride along with me. : 
Tam. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I 
If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, [Swear, 
She will a handmaid be to his desires, 
A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. [company 
Sat. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, ac- 
Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, 
Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, 
Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered : 
There shall we consummate our spousal rites. 
[ Exeunt all but Titus. 
Tit. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. 


ACT <1. 


Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, 
Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs ? 


Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. 


Marc. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! 
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. 

Tit. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, 
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed 
That hath dishonour’d all our family ; 

Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons! 

Luc. But let us give him burial, as becomes; 
Give Mutius burial with our brethren. 

Tit. Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb: 
This monument five hundred years hath stood, 
Which I have sumptuously re-edified: 

Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors 
Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls: 
Bury him where you can; he comes not here. 

Marc. My lord, this is impiety in you: 

My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him; 
He must be buried with his brethren. 

Sole } Ana shall, or him we will accompany. 

Tit. ‘And shall!’ what villain was it spake that 

word ? [here. 

Quin. He that would vouch it in any place but 

Tit. What, would you bury him in my despite ? 

Marc. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee 
To pardon Mutius and to bury him. 

Tit. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, 
And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast 
My foes I do repute you every one; [wounded : 
So, trouble me no more, but get you gone. 

Mart. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. 

Quin. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried. 

[Marcus and the Sons of Titus kneel. 

Mare. Brother, for in that name doth nature 

plead ,— [speak ,— 

Quin. Father, and in that name doth nature 

Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. 

Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,— 

Luc. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,— 

Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter 
His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, 

That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause. 
Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous: 
The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax 
That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son 
Did graciously plead for his funerals: 
Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, 
Be barr’d his entrance here. 
bbe Rise, Marcus, rise. 
The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, 
To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome! 
Well, bury him, and bury me the next. 
| Mutius is put into the tomb. 
Inc. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with 
thy friends, 
Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. 

All. [Kneeling] No man shed tears for noble Mu- 
He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. [tius; 

Marc. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps, 
How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths 
Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome ? 

Tit. 1 know not, Marcus; but I know it is: 
Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell: 

Is she not then beholding to the man 
That brought her for this high good turn so far ? 
Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. 


Flourish. Re-enter, from one side, Saturninus attended, 
Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, and Aaron; from the 
other, Bassianus, Lavinia, and others. 


Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize: 
God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride! 

Bas. And you of yours, my lord! I say no more, 
Nor wish no less; and so, I take my leave. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I. 


Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, 
Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. 

Bas. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own, 
My truth-betrothed love and now my wife ? 

But let the laws of Rome determine all ; 
Meanwhile I am possess’d of that is mine. 

Sat. ’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us; 
But, if we live, we ’ll be as sharp with you. 

Bas. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, 
Answer I must and shall do with my life. 

Only thus much I give your grace to know: 
By all the duties that I owe to Rome, 

This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, 

Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d ; 

That in the rescue of Lavinia 

With his own hand did slay his youngest son, 
In zeal to you and highly moved to wrath 
To be controll’d in that he frankly gave: 
Receive him, then, to favour, Saturnine, 
That hath express’d himself in all his deeds 
A father and a friend to thee and Rome. 

Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds: 
°T is thou and those that have dishonour’d me. 
Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge, 
How I have loved and honour’d Saturnine! 

Tam. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora 
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, 
Then hear me speak indifferently for all; 

And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. 

Sat. What, madam! be dishonour’d openly, 
And basely put it up without revenge ? 

Tam. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend 
IT should be author to dishonour you! 

But on mine honour dare I undertake 

For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all; 

Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs: 
Then, at my suit, look graciously on him; 

Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, 

Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. 

[Aside to Sat.] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at 
Dissemble all your griefs and discontents: _ [last; 
You are but newly planted in your throne; 

Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, 

Upon a just survey, take Titus’ part, 

And so supplant you for ingratitude, 

Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, 

Yield at entreats; and then let me alone: 

I'll find a day to massacre them all 

And raze their faction and their family, 

The cruel father and his traitorous sons, 

To whom I sued for my dear son’s life, 

And make them know what ’t is to let a queen 
Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. 


Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus ; 

Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart 

That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. 
Sat. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail’d. 
Tit. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord: 

These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. 
Tam. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, 

A Roman now adopted happily, 

And must advise the emperor for his good. 

This day all quarrels die, Andronicus; 

And let it be mine honour, good my lord, 

That I have reconciled your friends and you. 

For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d 

My word and promise to the emperor, 

That you will be more mild and tractable. 

And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia; 

By my advice, all humbled on your knees, 

You shall ask pardon of his majesty. ee 
Luc. We do, and vow to heaven and to his high- 

ness, 

That what we did was mildly as we might, 

Tendering our sister’s honour and our own. 
Marc. That, on mine honour, here I do protest. 


067 


ACT II. TITUS ANDRONICUS. SCENE I. 


ee Ne 


Sat. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. I found a friend, and sure as death I swore 
Tam. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be | I would not part a bachelor from the priest. 
friends: Come, if the emperor’s court can feast two brides, 

The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. 
I will not be denied: sweet heart, look back. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. 

Sat. Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother’s here, Tit. To-morrow, an it please your majesty 
And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats, To hunt the panther and the hart with me, 
I do remit these young men’s heinous faults: With horn and hound we ’Il give your grace bonjour. 
Stand up. Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. 
Layinia, though you left me like a churl, [Plourish. Heeunt. 


ee 6) 11 Ea Be Bs 


SCENE I.— Rome. Before the palace. Dem. Not I, till I have sheathed 
A My rapier in his bosom and withal 
inter Aaron. Thrust these reproachful speeches down his throat 
Aar. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top, That he hath breathed in my dishonour here. 

Safe out of fortune’s shot; and sits aloft, Chi. For that I am prepared and full resolved. 
Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning flash ; Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy 
Advanced above pale envy’s threatening reach. tongue, 
As when the golden sun salutes the morn, And with thy weapon nothing darest perform! 
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Aar. Away, I say! 
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach, Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, 
And overlooks the highest peering hills; This petty brabble will undo us all. 
So Tamora: Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous 
Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, It is to jet upon a prince’s right ? 
And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. What, is Lavinia then become so loose, 
Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts, | Or Bassianus so degenerate, 
To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, That for her love such quarrels may be broach’d 
And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long | Without controlment, justice, or revenge ? 
Hast prisoner held, fetter’d in amorous chains Young lords, beware! an should the empress know 
And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes This discord’s ground, the music would not please. 
Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Chi. I care not, I, knew she and all the world: 
Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! I love Lavinia more than all the world. _—[choice: 
I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, Dem. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner 
To wait upon this new-made empress. - Lavinia is thine elder brother’s hope. 
To wait, said I? to wanton with this queen, Aar. Why, are yemad? or know ye not, in Rome 
This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, How furious and impatient they be, 
This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine, And cannot brook competitors in love ? 
And see his shipwreck and his commonweal’s. I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths 
Holloa! what storm is this ? By this device. 


Enter D tri d Chi sh a. Chi. Aaron, a thousand deaths 
A A cephalad RORY RE UEIUG: Would I propose to achieve her whom I love. 
Dem. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants Aar. To achieve her! how? 
edge, Dem. Why makest thou it so strange ? 
And manners, to intrude where I am graced; She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d; 
And may, for aught thou know’st, affected be. She is a woman, therefore may be won; 
Chi. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. 
And so in this, to bear me down with braves. What, man! more water glideth by the mill 
’T is not the difference of a year or two Than wots the miller of; and easy it is 
Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate: Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know: 
Lam as able and as fit as thou Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, 
To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace; Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge. 
And that my sword upon thee shall approve, Aar. [Aside] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may. 
And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love. Dem. Then why should he despair that knows to 
Aar. [Aside] Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not | With words, fair looks and liberality ? {court it 
keep the peace. What, hast not thou full often struck a doe 
Dem. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised, | And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose # [so 
Gave you a dancing rapier by your side, Aar. Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or 
Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends ? | Would serve your turns. 


Ee 


(ro to; have your lath glued within your sheath Chi. Ay, so the’ turn were served. 
Till you know better how to handle it. Dem. Aaron, thou hast hit it. 
Chi. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have, Aar. Would you had hit it too! 


r 


Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. Then should not we be tired with this ado. 
Dem. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [They draw. | Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools 
Aar. [Coming forward] Why, how now, lords! | To square for this ? would it offend you, then, 

So near the emperor’s palace dare you draw, That both should speed ? 


And maintain such a quarrel openly ? Chi. Faith, not me. 

Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge: Dem. Nor me, so I were one, 

I would not for a million of gold Aar. For shame, be friends, and join for that you 
The cause were known to them it most concerns; | ’T is policy and stratagem must do ar: 
Nor would your noble mother for much more That you affect; and so must you resolve, 

Be so dishonour’d in the court of Rome. That what you cannot as you would achieve, 

For shame, put up. You must perforce accomplish as you may. 


568 


ACT. It. 


Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste 
Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. 
A speedier course than lingering languishment 
Must we pursue, and I have found the path. 
My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; 
There will the lovely Roman ladies troop: 
The forest walks are wide and spacious; 
And many unfrequented plots there are 
Fitted by kind for rape and villany: 
Single you thither then this dainty doe, 
And strike her home by force, if not by words: 
This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. 
Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit 
To villany and vengeance consecrate, 
Will we acquaint with all that we intend: 
And she shall file our engines with advice, 
That will not suffer you to square yourselves, 
But to your wishes’ height advance you both. 
The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame, 
The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears: 
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull; 
There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your 
turns; 
There serve your lusts, shadow’d from heaven’s eye, 
And revel in Lavinia’s treasury. 
Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. 
Dem. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream 
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, 
Per Styga, per manes vehor. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A _ forest near Rome. 
of hounds heard. 


Enter Titus Andronicus, with Hunters, &c., Mar- 
cus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. 


Tit. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, 
The fields are fragrant and the woods are green : 
Uncouple here and let us make a bay 
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride 
And rouse the prince and ring a hunter’s peal, 
That all the court may echo with the noise. 

Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, 

To attend the emperor’s person carefully : 

I have been troubled in my sleep this night, 
But dawning day new comfort hath inspired. 


A cry of hounds, and horns winded in a peal. Enter Sat- 
urninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Demetrius, 
Chiron, and Attendants. 


Many good morrows to your majesty ; 
Madam, to you as many and as good: 
I promised your grace a hunter’s peal. 

Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lord; 
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. 

Bas. Lavinia, how say you ? 

Lav. I say, no; 

I have been broad awake two hours and more. 

Sat. Come on, then ; horse and chariots let us have, 
And to our sport. [To Tamora] Madam, now shall 
Our Roman hunting. [ye see 

Marc. I have dogs, my lord, 

Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, 
And climb the highest promontory top. 

Tit. And I have horse will follow where the game 

Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain. 


hound, 


SCENE III. — A lonely part of the forest. 


Enter Aaron, with a bag of gold. 
Aar. He that had wit would think that I had none, 
To bury so much gold under a tree, 
And never after to inherit it. 
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly 
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE ill. 


Which, cunningly effected, will beget 
A very excellent piece of villany: 
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest 
. | Hides the gold. 
That have their alms out of the empress’ chest. 


Enter Tamora. 


Tam. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad, 
When everything doth make a gleeful boast ? 
The birds chant melody on every bush, 
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, 
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind 
And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground: 
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, 
And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, 
Replying sbrilly to the well-tuned horns, 
As if a double hunt were heard at once, 
Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise; 
And, after conflict such as was supposed 
The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy’d, 
When with a happy storm they were surprised 
And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave, 
We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms, 
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber ; 
Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds 
Be unto us as is a nurse’s song 
Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. 

Aar. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, 
Saturn is dominator over mine: 


| What signifies my deadly-standing eye, 
Horns and cry | 
| My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls 


My silence and my cloudy melancholy, 


Even as an adder when she doth unroll 

To do some fatal execution ? 

No, madam, these are no venereal signs: 

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, 

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. 

Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, 

Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, 

This is the day of doom for Bassianus: 

His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, 

Thy sons make pillage of her chastity 

And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood. 

Seest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee, 

And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. 

Now question me no more; we are espied ; 

Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty, 

Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction. 
Tam. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! 
Aar. No more, great empress; Bassianus comes: 

Be cross with him; and I'll go fetch thy sons 

To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be. [ Hartt. 


Enter Bassianus and Lavinia. 


Bas. Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress, 
Unfurnish’d of her well-beseeming troop ? 
Or is it Dian, habited like her, 
Who hath abandoned her holy groves 
To see the general hunting in this forest ? 
Tam. Saucy controller of our private steps! 
Had I the power that some say Dian had, 
Thy temples should be planted presently 
With horns, as was Actzon’s; and the hounds 


| Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs, 


| Unmannerly intruder as thou art! 
Dem. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor | 


Lav. Under your patience, gentle empress, 


; '?T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning ; 
But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. [Exeunt. | 


And to be doubted that your Moor and you 

Are singled forth to try experiments: 

Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day ! 

’T is pity they should take him for a cea 
Bas. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian 

Doth make your honour of his body’s hue, 

Spotted, detested, and abominable. : 

Why are you sequester’d from all your train, 

Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, 

And wander’d hither to an obscure plot, 


O69 


ACT It. 


Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, 
If foul desire had not conducted you? 
Tav. And, being intercepted in your sport, 
Great reason that my noble lord be rated 
For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, 
And let her joy her raven-colour’d love; 
This valley fits the purpose passing well. 
Bas. The king my brother shall have note of this. 
Lav. Ay,for these slips have made him noted long: 
Good king, to be so mightily abused! 
Tam. Why have I patience to endure all this ? 


Enter Demetrius and Chiron. 
Dem. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious 
mother ! 
Why doth your highness look so pale and wan ? 

Tam. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale ? 
These two have ’ticed me hither to this place: 

A barren detested vale, you see it is; 

The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, 
O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe : 
Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds, 
Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven: 

And when they show’d me this abhorred pit, 
They told me, here, at dead time of the night, 
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, 
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, 
Would make such fearful and confused cries 

As any mortal body hearing it 

Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. 
No sooner had they told this hellish tale, 

But straight they told me they would bind me here 
Unto the body of a dismal yew, 

And leave me to this miserable death: 

And then they call’d me foul adulteress, 
Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms 
That ever ear did hear to such effect: 

And, had you not by wondrous fortune come, 
This vengeance on me had they executed. 
Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life, 

Or be ye not henceforth call’d my children. 

Dem. This is a witness that I am thy son. 

[Stabs Bassianus. 

Chi. And this for me, struck home to show my 

strength. [Also stabs Bassianus, who dies. 

Lav. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Ta- 
For no name fits thy nature but thy own!  [mora, 

gs Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my 

Oys, 
Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s 
wrong. 

Dem. Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her; 
First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw: 
This minion stood upon her chastity, 

Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, 
And with that painted hope braves your mightiness: 
And shall she carry this unto her grave ? 

Chi. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch. 
Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, 

And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. 

Tam. But when ye have the honey ye desire, 
Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. 


Chi. I warrant you, madam, we will make that | 


Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy  [sure. 
That nice-preserved honesty of yours. 
Lav. O Tamora! thou bear’st a woman’s face,— 
Tam. I will not hear her speak; away with her! 
Lav. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. 
Dem, Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory 
To see her tears; but be your heart to them 
As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. [dam ? 
Lav. When did the tiger’s young ones teach the 
O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee; 
The milk thou suck’dst from her did turn to marble ; 
Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. 
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike: 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE IIl. 


Chi. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself 
a bastard ? 
Lav. ’Tis true; the raven doth not hatch a lark: 

Yet have I heard,—O, could I find it now! — 

The lion moved with pity did endure 

To have his princely paws pared all away: 

Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, 

The whilst their own birds famish in their nests: 

O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, 

Nothing so kind, but something pitiful! 

Tam. I know not what it means; away with her! 
Lav. O, let me teach thee! for my father’s sake, 

That gave thee life, when well he might have slain 

Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. [thee, 
Tam. Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me, 

Even for his sake am I pitiless. 

Remember, boys, I pour’d forth tears in vain, 

To save your brother from the sacrifice ; 

But fierce Andronicus would not relent: 

Therefore, away with her, and use her as you wiil, 

The worse to her, the better loved of me. 

Lav. O Tamora, be call’d a gentle queen, 

And with thine own hands kill me in this place! 

Tor *tis not life that I have begg’d so long; 

Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. {me go. 
Tam. What begg’st thou, then ? fond woman, let 
Lav. °Tis present death I beg; and one thing 

That womanhood denies my tongue to tell: [more 

O, keep me from their worse than killing lust, 

And tumble me into some loathsome pit, 

Where never man’s eye may behold my body: 

Do this, and be a charitable murderer. 

Tam. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee: 

No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. 

Dem. Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long. 
Lav. Nograce? nowomanhood? Ah, beastly crea- 


The blot and enemy to our general name! __[ture! 
Confusion fall— 
Chi. Nay, then I ‘ll stop your mouth. Bring thou 


her husband: 
This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. 
[Demetrius throws the body of Bassianus into the 
pit; then exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, drag- 
ging off Lavinia. 

Tan. Farewell, my sons: see that you make her 
Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed, [sure. 
Till all the Andronici be made away. 

Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, 


And let my spleenful sons this trull deflour. [ Heit. 


Re-enter Aaron, with Quintus and Martius. 

Aar. Come on, my lords, the better foot before: 
Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit 
Where I espied the panther fast asleep. 

Quin. My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes. 

Mart. And mine, I promise you; were ’t not for 
Wellcould I leave our sport to sleep awhile. [shame, 


[Falls into the pit. 
Quin. What, art thou fall’n? What subtle hole 
is this, 


| Whose mouth is cover’d with rude-growing briers, 
| Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed bl 


ood 
As fresh as morning’s dew distill’d on flowers ? 
A very fatal place it seems to me. 


Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall ? 


Mart. O brother, with the dismall’st object hurt 
That ever eye with sight made heart lament! © 
Aar. [Aside] Now will I fetch the king to find 
them here, 
That he thereby may give a likely guess 
How these were they that made away his a 
ile 
- Mart. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out 
From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole ? 
Quin. I am surprised with an uncouth fear: 
A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints: 


| To Chiron] Do thou entreat her show a woman pity. My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. 


570 


ACT II. 


Mart. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart, 

Aaron and thou look down into this den, 

And see a fearful sight of blood and death. 

ui. Aaron is gone; and my compassionate 

Will not permit mine eyes once to behold [heart 

The thing whereat it trembles by surmise: 

O, tell me how it is; for ne’er till now 

Was [ a child to fear I know not what. 

Mart. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here, 

All on a heap, like to a slaughter’d lamb, 

In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. 

Quin. If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he ? 
Mart. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear 

A precious ring, that lightens all the hole, 

Which, like a taper in some monument, 

Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks, 

And shows the ragged entrails of the pit: 

So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus 

When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. 

O brother, help me with thy fainting hand— 

If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath — 

Out of this fell devouring receptacle, 

As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth. [out ; 
Quin. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee 

Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, 

J may be pluck’d into the swallowing womb 

Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. 

1 have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. 
Mart. Nor Inostrength to climb without thy help. 
Quin. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again, 

Till thou art here aloft, or I below; 

Thou canst not come to me: [ come to eee na 

wm. 
Enter Saturninus with aren Ht, Moat 
Sat. Along with me: Ill see what hole is here, 

And what he is that now is leap’d into it. 

Say, who art thou that lately didst descend 

Into this gaping hollow of the earth ? 

Mart. The unhappy son of old Andronicus; 

Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, 

To find thy brother Bassianus dead. 

Sat. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest: 

He and his lady both are at the lodge 

Upon the north side of this pleasant chase; 

*T is not an hour since I left him there. 

Mart. We know not where you left him all alive; 

But, out, alas! here have we found him dead. 


Re-enter Tamora, with Attendants; Titus An- 
dronicus, and Lucius. 


Tam. Where is my lord the king ? [grief. 
Sat. Here, Tamora, though grieved with killing 
Tam. Where is thy brother Bassianus ? 

Sat. Now to the bottom dost thou search my 
Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. [wound : 
Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, 

The complot of this timeless tragedy ; 
And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold 
In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. 
[She giveth Saturnine a letter. 
Sat. [Reads] ‘An if we miss to meet him hand- 
somely — 
Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’t is we mean— 
Do thou so much as dig the grave for him: 
Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy reward 
Among the nettles at the elder-tree 
Which overshades the mouth of that same pit 
Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. 
Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.’ 
O Tamora! was ever heard the like? 
This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. 
Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out 
That should have murder’d Bassianus here. 
Aar. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. 
Sat. [To Titus] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of 
bloody kind, 
Have here bereft: my brother of his life. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE IV. 


Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison: 
There let them bide until we have devised 
Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. 

Tam. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous 
How easily murder is discovered ! [thing ! 

Tit. High emperor, upon my feeble knee 
I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, 

That this fell fault of my accursed sons, 
Accursed, if the fault be proved in them,— 

Sat. If it be proved! you see it is apparent. 
Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you? 

Tam. Andronicus himself did take it up. 

Tit. I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail; 
For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow 
They shall be ready at your highness’ will 
To answer their suspicion with their lives. 

Sat. Thoushalt not bail them: see thou follow me. 
Some bring the murder’d body, some the murderers : 
Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain; 
For, by my soul, were there worse end than death, 
That end upon them should be executed. 

Tam. Andronicus, I will entreat the king: 

Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough. 

Tit. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with 

them. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Another part of the forest. 


Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia, ravished ; 
her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 


Dem. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, 
Who ’t was that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee! 
Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning 
An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. [so, 
Dem. See, how with signs and tokens she can 
scrowl. [hands. 
Chi. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy 
Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to 
And so let’s leave her to her silent walks. [wash; 
Chi. An ’t were my case, I should go hang myself. 
Dem. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the 
cord. [| Hxeunt Demetrius and Chiron. 


Enter Marcus. 


Mar. Who is this? my niece, that flies away so 
Cousin, a word: where is your husband ? {fast ! 
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! 
If I do wake, some planet strike me down, 

That I may slumber in eternal sleep! 

Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands 
Have lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare 
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, 
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep 
And might not gain so great a happiness [in, 
As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me ? 
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, 

Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind, | 
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, 

Coming and going with thy honey breath. 

But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee, 
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy Longue. 
Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame! 
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, 

As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, 

Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face 
Blushing to be encounter’d with a cloud. 

Shall I speak for thee ? shall I say ’tis so ? 

O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast, 
That I might rail at him, to ease my mind! 
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d, 

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. 

Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, 

And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind : 

But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; 

A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, 

And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, 

That could have better sew’d than Philomel. 


571 


ACISELT. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I, 


O, had the monster seen those lily hands 
Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, 

And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, 
He would not then have touch’d them for his life! 
Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony 

Which that sweet tongue hath made, 

He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep 


, PXGOME 
SCENE I.—Rome. A street. 


Enter Judges, Senators and Tribunes, with Martius 
and Quintus, bound, passing on to the place of execution ; 
Titus going before, pleading. 

Tit. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay ! 

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent 

In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept ; 

For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed; 

For all the frosty nights that I have watch’d ; 

And for these bitter tears, which now you see 

Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks; 

Be pitiful to my condemned sons, 

Whose souls are not corrupted as ’t is thought. 

For two and twenty sons I never wept, 

Because they died in honour’s lofty bed. 

[Lieth down; the Judges, &c. pass by him, 
and Haxeunt. 

For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write 

My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears: 

Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite ; 

My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush. 

O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain, . 

That shall distil from these two ancient urns, 

Than youthful April shall with all his showers: 

In summer’s drought Ill drop upon thee still ; 

In winter with warm tears I ll melt the snow, 

And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, 

So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood. 


Enter Lucius, with his sword drawn. 


O reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men! 
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death ; 
And let me say, that never wept before, 
My tears are now prevailing orators. 
Luc. O noble father, you lament in vain: 
The tribunes hear you not; no man is by; 
And you recount your sorrows to a stone. 
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. 
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,— 
Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. 
Tit. Why, ’tis no matter, man: if they did hear, 
They would not mark me, or if they did mark, 
They would not pity me, yet plead I must; 
And bootless unto them ay 
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; 
Who, though they cannot answer my distress, 
Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, 
For that they will not intercept my tale: 
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet 
Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; 
And, were they but attired in grave weeds, 
Rome could afford no tribune like to these. 
A stone is soft as wax,—tribunes more hard than 
A stone is silent, and offendeth not, [stones ; 
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to 


death. [ Feises. 
But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon 
drawn ? 


Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death: 
For which attempt the judges have pronounced 
My everlasting doom of banishment. 

Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee. 
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive 


572 


As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. 

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind; 

For such a sight will blind a father’s eye: 

One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads ; 
What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes? 
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee: 
O, could our mourning ease thy misery! [ Hzeuni. 


dig Bs Bb. 
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers ? 
Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey 
But me and mine: how happy art thou, then, 


From these devourers to be banished! 
But who comes with our brother Marcus here ? 


Enter Marcus and Lavinia. 


Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; 

Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break: 
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. 

Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it, then. 

Marc. This was thy daughter. 

Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is. 

Ine. Ay me, this object kills me! 

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. 
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand . 
Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight ? 
What fool hath added water to the sea, 

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy ? 
My grief was at the height before thou camest, 
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds. 
Give me a sword, Ill chop off my hands too; 
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;_ 
And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life; 
In bootless prayer have they been held up, 

And they have served me to effectless use: 

Now all the service I require of them 

Is that the one will help to cut the other. 

°T is well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; 
For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain. 

Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d 

thee ? 

Marc. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, 
That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence, 
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, 
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung 
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear! 

Tuc. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed ? 

Marc. O, thus I found her, straying in the park, 
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer 
That hath received some unrecuring wound. 

Tit. It was my deer; and he that wounded her 
Hath hurt me more than had he kill’d me dead: 
For now I stand as one upon a rock 
Environ’d with a wilderness of sea, 

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by waye, 
Expecting ever when some envious surge 

Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. 

This way to death my wretched sons are gone; 
Here stands my other son, a banish’d man, 

And here my brother, weeping at my woes: 

But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn, 
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. 
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, 

It would have madded me: what shall I do 

Now I behold thy lively body so ? 

Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears; 
Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr’d thee: 
Thy husband he is dead ; and for his death 

Thy brothers are condemn’d, and dead by this. 
Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her! 
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears 
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew 
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d. 


ACT III, 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I. 


Marc. Perchance she weeps because they kill’d 
her husband ; 

Perchance because she knows them innocent. 

Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, 

Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. 

No, no, they would not do so foul a deed ; 

Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. 

Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips; 

Or make some sign how I may do thee ease: 

Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, 

And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, 

Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks 

Tlow they are stain’d, as meadows, yet not dry, 

With miry slime left on them by a. flood ? 

And in the fountain shall we gaze so long 

Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, 

And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears ? 

Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine ? 

Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows 

Pass the remainder of our hateful days ? 

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues, 

Plot some device of further misery, 

To make us wonder’d at in time to come. __ [grief, 
Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your 

See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. 

Marc. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine 
eyes. 
J Led At Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot 

Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, 

For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own. 
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. 
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: 

Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say 

That to her brother which I said to thee: 

His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, 

Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. 

O, what a sympathy of woe is this, 

As far from help as Limbo is from bliss! 


Enter Aaron. 


Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor 
Sends thee this word,—that, if thou love thy sons, 
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, 

Or any one of you, chop off your hand, 

And send it to the king: he for the same 
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive; 
And that shall be the ransom for their fault. 

Tit. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! 
Did ever raven sing so like a lark, 

That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise ? 
With all my heart, I ll send the emperor 

My hand: 

Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off ? 

Lue. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine, 
That hath thrown down so many enemies, 

Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: 
My youth can better spare my blood than you; 
And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives. 

Mare. Which of your hands hath not defended 
And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe, [Rome, 
Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle ? 

O, none of both but are of high desert: 

My hand hath been but idle; let it serve 

To ransom my two nephews from their death; 
Then have I kept it to a worthy end. 

Aar. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, 
For fear they die before their pardon come. 

Marc. My hand shall go. 

Tuc. By heaven, it shall not go! 

Tit. Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as 

these 
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. 

Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, 
Let me redeem my brothers both from death. 

Marc. And, for our father’s sake and mother’s 
| care, 

Now let me show a brother’s love to thee. 


Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. 
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an axe. 
Mare. But I will use the axe. 
[Hxeunt Lucius and Marcus. 
Tit. Come hither, Aaron; Il] deceive them both: 
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. 
Aar. [Aside] If that be call’d deceit, I will be 
honest, 
And never, whilst I live, deceive men so: 
But Ill deceive you in another sort, 
And that you ’ll say, ere half an hour pass. 
[Cuts off Titus’s hand. 


Re-enter Lucius and Marcus. 


Tit. Now stay your strife: what shall be is dis- 
Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand: [patch’d. 
Tell him it was a hand that warded him 
From thousand dangers; bid him bury it; 

More hath it merited; that let it have. 

As for my sons, say I account of them 

As jewels purchased at an easy price; 

And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. 

Aar. I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand 
Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. 

[ Aside] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany 
Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! 

Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, 
Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [ Eyvit. 
Tit. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, 

And bow this feeble ruin to the earth: 

If any power pities wretched tears, [me ? 

To that I call! [To Lav.] What, wilt thou kneel with 

Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our 

prayers ; 

Or with our sighs we ’ll breathe the welkin dim, 

And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds 

When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. 
Marc. O brother, speak with possibilities, 

And do not break into these deep extremes. 

Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ? 
Then be my passions bottomless with them. 

Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament. 

Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, 
Then into limits could I bind my woes: 

‘When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? 
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, 
Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face ? 
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? 

I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! 

She is the weeping welkin, I the earth: 

Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; 
Then must my earth with her continual tears 
Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d ; 

For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, 

But like a drunkard must I vomit them. 

Then give me leave, for losers will have leave 

To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. 


Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand. 


Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid 
For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. 
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons ; 

And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back ; 
Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d ; 
That woe is me to think upon thy woes 
More than remembrance of my father’s death. [ Hit. 
Marc. Now let hot tna cool in Sicily, 
And be my heart an ever-burning hell! 
These miseries are more than may be borne. 
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal; 
But sorrow flouted at is double death. 
Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a 


wound, 
And yet detested life not shrink thereat ! 
That ever death should let life bear his name, 
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! 
[Lavinia kisses Titus. 
573 


ACT III. 


Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless 
As frozen water to a starved snake. 
Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end ? 
Marc. Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; 
Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads, 
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; 
Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight 
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, 
Even like a stony image, cold and numb. 
Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs: 
Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand 
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight 
The closing up of our most wretched eyes: 
Now is atime to storm; why art thou still ? 
Tit. Ha, ha, ha! 
Marc. Why dost thou laugh ? it fits not with this 
hour. 
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed: 
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, 
And would usurp upon my watery eyes, 
And make them blind with tributary tears: 
Then which way shall I tind Revenge’s cave ? 
For these two heads do seem to speak to me, 
And threat me I shall never come to bliss 
Till all these mischiefs be return’d again 
Even in their throats that have committed them. 
Come, let me see what task I have to do. 
You heavy people, circle me about, 
That I may turn me to each one of you, 
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. 
The vow is made. -Come, brother, take a head; 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


And in this hand the other will I bear. 
Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d: these arms! 
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy 
teeth. 
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight; 
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay: 
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there: 
And, if you love me, as I think you do, 
Let ’s kiss and part, for we have much to do. 
| Kxeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia. 


Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, 
The wofull’st man that ever lived in Rome: 
Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, 
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life: 
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister ; 

O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! 
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives 

But in oblivion and hateful griefs. 

If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; 
And make proud Saturnine and his empress 
Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. 
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power, 


To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. { Havit. 


SCENE II.— A room in Titus’s house. 
set out. 


A banquet 


Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, 
a Boy. 


Tit. So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more 
Than will preserve just so much strength in us 
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. 
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot : 
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, 
And cannot passionate our tenfold grief 
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine 
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; 
Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, 
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 
Then thus I thump it down. 
| To Lavinia.] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk 

in signs ! 
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, 
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. 
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; 
574 


SCENE II. 


Or get some little knife between thy teeth, 
And just against thy heart make thou a hole: 
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall 
May run into that sink, and soaking in 
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. 
Marc. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay 
Such violent hands upon her tender life. 
Tit. Hownow! hassorrow made thee dote already? 
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but LI. 
What violent hands can she lay on her life ? 
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands; 
To bid AMneas tell the tale twice o’er, 
How Troy was burnt and he made miserable ? 
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, 
Lest we remember still that we have none. 
Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, 
As if we should forget we had no hands, 
If Marcus did not name the word of hands! 
Come, let ’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this: 
Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; 
I can interpret all her martyr’d signs; 
She says she drinks no other drink but tears, 
Brew’d with her sorrow, mesh’d upon her cheeks: 
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; 
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect 
As begging hermits in their holy prayers: 
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, 
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, 
But I of these will wrest an alphabet 
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. 
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep 
laments: 
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. 
Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, 
Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness. 
Tit. Peace, tender sapling ; thou art made of tears, 
And tears will quickly melt thy life away. 
| Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. 
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ? 
Marc. At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly. 
Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill’st my heart ; 
Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny: 
A deed of death done on the innocent 
Becomes not Titus’ brother: get thee gone; 
I see thou art not for my company. 
Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly. 
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother ? 
How would he hang his slender gilded wings, 
And buzz lamenting doings in the air! 
Poor harmless fly, 
That, with his pretty buzzing melody, 
Came nee to make us merry! and thou hast kili’d 
iim. 
Marc. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour’d 


. fly, 
Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him. 
Lit. Oy Coe 
Then pardon me for reprehending thee, 
For thou hast done a charitable deed. 
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him; 
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor 
Come hither purposely to poison me.— 
There ’s for thyself, and that ’s for Tamora. 
Ah, sirrah ! 
Yet, I think, we are not brought so low, 
But that between us we can kill a fly 
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. 
iene Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on 

im, 
He takes false shadows for true substances. 

- Tit. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me: 
Ill to thy closet; and go read with thee 
Sad stories chanced in the times of old. 
Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young, 
And thou shalt read when mine begin to oe 


ACT IV. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE I. 


ese LAE: 


SCENE I. — Rome. 


finter young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him, and 
the boy flies from her, with books under his arm. Then 
enter Titus and Marcus. 


Young Luc. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt 
Lavinia 
Follows me every where, I know not why: 
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes. 
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. 
Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine 
aunt. 
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. 
Young Luc. Ay, when my father was in Rome 
she did. {signs ? 
Mare. What means my niece Lavinia by these 
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she 
mean : 
See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee: 
Somewhither would she have thee go with her. 
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care 
Read to her sons than she hath read to thee 
Sweet poetry and Tully’s Orator. 
Mare. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies 
thee thus ? ' [guess, 
Young Luc. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I 
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her: 
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft, 
Extremity of griefs would make men mad ; 
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy 
Ran mad through sorrow: that made me to fear; 
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt 
Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did, 
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth: 
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly,— 
Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt: 
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, 
I will most willingly attend your ladyship. 
Mare. Lucius, I will. 
[Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books 
which Lucius has let fall. 
Tit. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means 
Some book there is that she desires to see. 
Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. 
But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d: 
Come, and take choice of all my library, 
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens 
Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed. 
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ? 
Marc. I think she means that there was more 
than one 
Confederate in the fact: ay, more there was; 
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. 
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so ? 
Young Luc. Grandsire, ’t is Ovid’s Metamorpho- 
My mother gave it me. [Ses ; 
Marc. For love of her that ’s gone, 
Perhaps she cull’d it from among the rest. 
Tit. Soft! see how busily she turns the leaves! 


What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read ? 
This is the tragic tale of Philomel, 
And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape; 
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. 
Marc. See, brother, see; note how she quotes the 
leaves. [girl, 
Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet 
Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was, 
Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ? 
See, see! : 
Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt — 
O, had we never, never hunted there ! — 
Pattern’d by that the poet here describes, 
By nature made for murders and for rapes. 


Titus’s garden. 


[Helping her. | 


* 


{ 
i 


| 
| 
| 


[this ? | 


Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a den, 
Unless the gods delight in tragedies ? [friends, 

Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but 
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed: 
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, 
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed ? 

Marc. Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, [by me. 
Inspire me, that I may this treason find ! 


| My lord, look here: look here, Lavinia: 


This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, 
This after me, when I have writ my name 
Without the help of any hand at all. 

[He writes his name with his staff, and guides it 

with feet and mouth. 

Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift ! 
Write thou, good niece; and here display, at last, 
What God will have discover’d for revenge: 
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, 


| That we may know the traitors and the truth! 


[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with 
her stumps, and writes. 
Tit. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ ? 
‘Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.’ 
Marc. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora 
Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ? 
Tit. Magni Dominator poli, 


| Tam lentus audis scelera ? tam lentus vides ? 


Marc. O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know 
There is enough written upon this earth 


| To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts 


And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. 

My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel ; 

And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope; 

And swear with me, as, with the woful fere 

And father of that chaste dishonour’d dame, 

Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape, 

That we will prosecute by good advice 

Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, 

And see their blood, or die with this reproach. 
Tit. "Tis sure enough, an you knew how. 

But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware: 

The dam will wake; and, if she wind you once, 

She’s with the lion deeply still in league, 


_ And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, 


And when he sleeps will she do what she list. 


| You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone; 
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass, 

And with a gad of steel will write these words, 

| And lay it by: the angry northern wind 


_And where’s your lesson, then ? 


Will blow these sands, like Sibyl’s leaves, abroad, 
Boy, what say 
you? 

Young Luc. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, 
Their mother’s bed-chamber should not be safe 
For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. 

Mare. Ay,that’s my boy! thy father hath full oft 
For his ungrateful country done the like. 

Young Luc. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. 

Tit. Come, go with me into mine armoury ; 
Lucius, I’ fit thee; and withal, my boy, 

Shalt carry from me to the empress’ sons 


| Presents that I intend to send them both; 


Come, come; thou ’lt do thy message, wilt thou not ? 


Young Luc. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, 
grandsire. [course. 
Tit. No, boy, not so; I’ teach thee another 
Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house: 
Lucius and I ’ll go brave it at the court ; 
Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on. 
[Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and Young Luc. 
Marc. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan, 
And not relent, or not compassion him ? 
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, 


579 


ACT IV. 


That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart 
Than foemen’s marks upon his batter’d shield ; 
But yet so just that he will not revenge. 
Revenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus!  [Evit. 


SCENE II.—The same. A room in the palace. 


; ; x : 
Enter, from one side, Aaron, Demetrius, and Chiron; — 


from the other side, young Lucius, and an Attendant, 
with w bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them. 


Ohi. Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius; 
He hath some message to deliver us. 
Aar. Ay,some mad message from his mad grand- 
father. [may, 
Young Luc. My lords, with all the humbleness I 
I greet your honours from Andronicus. {both! 
[ Aside] And pray the Roman gods confound you 
Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what ’s the news ? 
Young Luc. [Aside] That you are both decipher’d, 
that ’s the news, 
For villains mark’d with rape.— May it please you, 
My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me 
The goodliest weapons of his armoury 
To gratify your honourable youth, 
‘The hope of Rome; for so he bade me say ; 
And so I do, and with his gifts present 
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, 
You may be armed and appointed well: 
And so I leave you both: [Aside] like bloody villains. 
EHxeunt young Lucius and Attendant. 
Dem. What’s here? <A scroll; and written 
round about ? 
Let ’s see: 
[Reads] ‘ Integer vite, scelerisque purus, 
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.’ 
Ohi. O, tis a verse in Horace; I know it well: 
I read it in the grammar long ago. 
Aar. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have 
[| Aside] Now, what a thing it isto be anass! _ [it. 
Here ’s no sound jest! the old man hath found their 
guilt; 
And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with lines, 
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. 
But were our witty empress well afoot, 
She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit : 
But let her rest in her unrest awhile. 


And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star 
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, 
Captives, to be advanced to this height ? 
It did me good, before the palace gate 
To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing. 
Dem. But me more good, to see so great a lord 
Basely insinuate and send us gifts. 
Aar. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius ? 
Did you not use his daughter very friendly ? 
Dem. I would we had a thousand Roman dames 
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. 
Ohi. A charitable wish and full of love. 
Aur. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. 
Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand 
more. 
Dem. Come, let us go; and pray to all the gods 
For our beloved mother in her pains. 
Aar. [Aside] Pray to the devils; the gods have 
given us over. [Trunipets sound within. 
Dem. W hy do the emperor’strumpets flourish thus? 
Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son. 
Dem. Soft! who comes here ? 


Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child in her arms. 


Nur. Good morrow, lords: 
QO, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor ? 

Aar. Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all, 
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now ? 

Nur. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! 
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore ! 


576 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE II. 


Aar. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! 
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms ? 
Nur. O, that which I would bide from heayen’s 


eye, 
Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s disgrace! 


She is deliver’d, lords; she is deliver’d. 


Aar. To whom ? 


Nur I mean, she is brought a-bed. 


‘Aar. Well, God give her good rest! What hath 
he sent her ? 
Nur. A devil. [issue. 


Aar. Why, then she is the devil’s dam; a joyful 

Nur. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue: 
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad 
Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime: 

The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, 
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point. 

Aar. ’Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue? 
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure. 

Dem. Villain, what hast thou done? 

Aar. That which thou canst not undo. 

Chi. Thou hast undone our mother. 

Aar. Villain, I have done thy mother. 

Dem. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone. 
Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed choice! 
Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend ! 

Chi. It shall not live. 

Aar. It shall not die. 

Nur. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so. 

Aar. What, must it, nurse ? then let no man but 1 
Do execution on my flesh and blood. 

Dem. 1711 broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point: 
Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it. 

Aar. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. 

[Takes the child from the Nurse, and draws. 
Stay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother? 
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, 

That shone so brightly when this boy was got, 
He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point 

That touches this my first-born son and heir! 

I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, 

With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood, 
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, 

Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands. 

What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! 
Ye white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs ! 
Coal-black is better than another hue, 

In that it scorns to bear another hue; 

For all the water in the ocean 
Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white, 
Although she lave them hourly in the flood. 

Tell the empress from me, I am of age 
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. 

Dem. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus ? 

Aar. My mistress is my mistress ; this myself, 
The vigour and the picture of my youth: 

This before all the world do I prefer ; 
This maugre all the world will I keep safe, 
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. 

Dem. By this our mother is for ever shamed. 

Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul eseape. 

Nur. Theemperor,in his rage, will doom her death. 

Chi. I blush to think upon this ignomy. 

Aar. Why,there’s the privilege your beauty bears: 
Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing 
The close enacts and counsels of the heart ! 
Here’s a young lad framed of another leer: 
Look, how the black slave smiles upon the father, 
As who should say ‘ Old lad, I am thine own.’ 

He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed 
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you, 
And from that womb where you imprison’d were 
He is enfranchised and come to light: 
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, 
Although my seal be stamped in his face. 
Nur. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress 
Dem. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, 


it 


- 


ACT IV. 


And we will all subscribe to thy advice: 
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. 
Aar. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. 
My son and [ will have the wind of you: 
Keep there: now talk at pleasure of your safety. 
They sit. 
Dem. How many women saw this child of his ? 
Aar. Why,so, brave lords! when we joinin league, 
I ama lamb: but if you brave the Moor, 
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, 
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. 
But say, again, how many saw the child ? 
Nur. Cornelia the midwife and myself ; 
And no one else but the deliver’d empress. 
Aar. The empress, the midwife, and yourself: 
Two may keep counsel when the third ’s away: 
Go to the empress, tell her this I said. 
[ He kills the nurse. 
Weke, weke! so cries a pig prepared to the spit. 
Dem. What mean’st thou, Aaron? wherefore 
didst thou this ? 
Aar. O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy: 
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, 
A long-tongued babbling gossip ? no, lords, no: 
And now be it known to you my full intent. 
Not far, one Muli lives, my countryman; 
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed; 
His child is like to her, fair as you are: 
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, 
And tell them both the circumstance of all; 
And how by this their child shall be advanced, 
And be received for the emperor’s heir, 
And substituted in the place of mine, 
To calm this tempest whirling in the court; 
And let the emperor dandle him for his own. 
Hark ye, lords; ye see I have given her physic, 
[Pointing to the nurse. 
And you must needs bestow her funeral ; 
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms: 
This done, see that you take no longer days, 
But send the midwife presently to me. 
The midwife and the nurse well made away, 
Then let the ladies tattle what they please. 
Chi. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air 
With secrets. 
Dem. For this care of Tamora, 
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. 
[Hxeunt Dem. and Chi. bearing off the Nurse’s body. 
Aar. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies ; 
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, 
And secretly to greet the empress’ friends. 
Come on, you thick-lipp’d slave, I 1] bear you hence; 
For it is you that puts us to our shifts: 
I’ make you feed on berries and on roots, 
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, 
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up 
To be a warrior, and command a camp. [ Exit. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter Titus, bearing arrows with letters at the ends of them; 
with him, Marcus, young Lucius, Publius, Sempro- 
nius, Caius, and other Gentlemen, with bows. 


Tit. Come, Marcus; come, kinsmen; this is the 
Sir boy, now let me see your archery ; [way. 
Look ye draw home enough, and ’t is there straight. 
Terras Astrea reliquit: 

Be you remember’d, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled. 
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall 
Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets; 
Happily you may catch her in the sea, 
Yet there ’s as little justice as at land: 
No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; 
*T is you must dig with mattock and with spade, 
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth: 
Then, when you come to Pluto’s region, 
I pray you, deliver him this petition ; 

37 . 

¢ 


A public place. 


in) 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE III. 


Tell him, it is for justice and for aid, 

And that it comes from old Andronicus, 

Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. 

Ah, Rome! Well, well; I made thee miserable 

What time I threw the people’s suffrages 

On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. 

Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all, 

And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch’d: 

This wicked emperor may have shipp’d her hence; 

And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. 
Marc. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, 

To see thy noble uncle thus distract ? 

Pub. Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns 
By day and night to attend him carefully, 

And feed his humour kindly as we may, 
Till time beget some careful remedy. 

Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. 
Join with the Goths; and with revengeful war 
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, 

And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. 

Tit. Publius, how now! how now, my masters! 
What, have you met with her ? [word, 

Pub. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you 
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall: 
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ’d, 

He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, 
So that perforce you must needs stay a time. 

Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. 

Ill dive into the burning lake below, 

And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. 

Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, 

No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size ; 

But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, [bear: 

Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can 

And, sith there ’s no justice in earth nor hell, 

We will solicit heaven and move the gods 

To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. 

Come, tothis gear. Youarea good archer, Marcus ; 
[ He gives then the arrows. 

‘Ad Jovem,’ that’s for you: here,‘ Ad Apollinem:’ 

‘Ad Martem,’ that ’s for myself: 

Here, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury: 

To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine; 

You were as good to shoot against the wind. 

To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid. 

Of my word, I have written to effect ; 

There ’s not a god left unsolicited. [court : 

Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the 
We will afflict the emperor in his pride. 

Tit. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.] O, well 

said, Lucius! 
Good boy, in Virgo’s lap; give it Pallas. 

Marc. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon; 
Your letter is with Jupiter by this. 

Tit. Hana 
Publius, Publius, what hast thou done ? 

See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns. . 

Marc. This was the sport, my lord: when Pub- 

lius shot, 
The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock 
That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court ; 
And who should find them but the empress’ villain ? 
She laugh’d, and told the Moor he should not choose 
But give them to his master for a present. [joy! 
Tit. Why, there it goes: God give his lordship 


Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in it. 


News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. 
Sirrah, what tidings ? have you any letters 
Shall I have justice ? what says Jupiter ? 

Clo. O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath 
taken them down again, for the man must not be 
hanged till the next week. 

Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee ? 

Clo. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank 
with him in all my life. ane 

Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier ’ 

577 


ACT EV: 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE IV. 


Clo. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. 

Tit. Why, didst thou not come from heaven ? 

Clo. From heaven! alas, sir, I never came there: 
God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven 
in my young days. Why, I am going with my 
pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter 
of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial’s 
men. 

Marc. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve 


for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons | 


to the emperor from you. 


Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the | 


emperor with a grace? 


lo. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in | 


all my life. 
Tit. Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado, 
But give your pigeons to the emperor: 
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. 
Hold, hold; meanwhile here’s money for thy 
charges. 


. . . . | 
Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you witha grace | 


deliver a supplication ? 

Clo. Ay, sir. 

Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. And 
when you come to him, at the first approach you 


must kneel, then kiss his foot, then deliver up your | 
Ill be at | 


pigeons, and then look for your reward. 
hand, sir; see you do it bravely. 

Clo. I warrant you, sir, let me alone. 

Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see 
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration ; [it. 
For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant. 
And when thou hast given it the emperor, 
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. 

Clo. God be with you, sir; I will. 

Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow 

me. | Kxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The same. 


Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Lords, 


Before the palace. 


and others; Saturninus with the arrows in his hand | 


that Titus shot. 


Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was 
ever seen 
An emperor in Rome thus overborne, 
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent 
Of egal justice, used in such contempt ? 
My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, 
However these disturbers of our peace 


Buz in the people’s ears, there nought hath pass’d, | 


But even with law, against the wilful sons 

Of old Andronicus. And what an if 

His sorrows have so overwhelm’d his wits, 

Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, 

His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness ? 

And now he writes to heaven for his redress: 

‘See, here’s to Jove, and this to Mercury; 

This to Apollo; this to the god of war, 

Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! 

What ’s this but libelling against the senate, 

And blazoning our injustice every where ? 

A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? 

As who would say, in Rome no justice were. 
sut if I live, his feigned eestasies 

Shall be no shelter to these outrages: 

But he and his shall know that justice lives 

In Saturninus’ health, whom, if she sleep, 

He 711 so awake as she in fury shall 

Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives. 

Tam. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, 

Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, 

Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age, 

The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, 

Whose loss hath pierced him deep and searr’d his 
And rather comfort his distressed plight _—_[heart; 
Than prosecute the meanest or the best 


078 


For these contempts. [Aside] Why, thus it shall 
High-witted Tamora to gloze with all: [become 
But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick, 

Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise, 

Then is all safe, the anchor ’s in the port. 


Enter Clown. 


How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us? 
Clo. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be em- 
perial. 
Tam. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. 
Clo. "Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you 
good-den: I have brought you a letter and a couple 
of pigeons here. [Saturninus reads the letter. 
Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him presently. 
Clo. How much money must I have? 
Tam. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. 
Clo. Hanged! by ’r lady, then I have brought up 
a neck to a fair end. | Exit, guarded. 
Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! 
Shall I endure this monstrous villany ? 
I know from whence this same device proceeds: 
May this be borne ?—as if his traitorous sons, 
That died by law for murder of our brother, 
Have by my means been butcher’d wrongfully ! 
Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; 
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege: 
_ For this proud mock Ill be thy slaughterman ; 
Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me great, 
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. 


Enter Atmilius. 


What news with thee, A.milius ? 

Aimil. Arm, arm, my lord;— Rome never had 

more cause. 

The Goths have gather’d head; and with a power 
Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, 
They hither march amain, under conduct 
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus ; 
Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do 
As much as ever Coriolanus did. . 

Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths ? 
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head 
As flowers with frost or grass beat down with 
| Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach: [storms: 
-°T is he the common people love so much; 
Myself hath often over-heard them say, 

When I have walked like a private man, 
That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully, 
And they have wish’d that Lucius were their em- 
peror. 

Tam. Why should you fear? is not your city strong? 
Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, 
And will revolt from me to succour him. 
| Tam. King, be thy thoughts imperious, 
_Is the sun dimm’d, that gnats do fly in it? 
The eagle suffers little birds to sing, 
_ And is not careful what they mean thereby, 
| Knowing that with the shadow of his wings 
| He can at pleasure stint their melody: 
Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome. 
Then cheer thy spirit: for know, thou emperor, 
I will enchant the old Andronicus 
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, 
Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep, 
| When as the one is wounded with the bait, 
The other rotted with delicious feed. 

Sat. But he will not entreat his son for us. 

Tam. If Tamora entreat him, then he will: 
| For I can smooth and fill his aged ear 
With golden promises; that, were his heart 
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, 
_ Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. 
| To Aimilius] Go thou before, be our ambassador? 
Say that the emperor requests a parley 
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting 
_ Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus. 


{name. 
like thy 


ACT Vs 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE If. 


Sat. /Xmilius, do this message honourably : 
And if he stand on hostage for his safety, 
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. 
mil. Your bidding shall I do effectually. iE 
weit. 
Tam. Now will I to that old Andronicus, 


And temper him with all the art I have, 
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 
And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, 
And bury all thy fear in my devices. 
Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him. 
, [Eeeunt. 


2) al Ral Var 


SCENE I.— Plains near Rome. 


Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drum 
and colours. 


Iuc. Approved warriors, and my faithful friends, 

[ have received letters from great Rome, 

Which signify what hate they bear their emperor 

And how desirous of our sight they are. 

Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, 

Imperious and impatient of your wrongs, 

And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, 

Let him make treble satisfaction. 

First Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the great 
Andronicus, 

Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort ; 

Whose high exploits and honourable deeds 

Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, 

Be bold in us: we’ll follow where thou lead’st, 

Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day 

Led by their master to the flowered fields, 

And be avenged on cursed Tamora. {him. 
All the Goths. And as he saith, so say we all with 
Luc. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. 

But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth ? 


Enter a Goth, leading Aaron with his Child in his 
arms, 


Sec. Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I 
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery ; [stray’d 
And, as I earnestly did fix mine eye 
Upon the wasted building, suddenly 
I heard a child cry underneath a wall. 

I made unto the noise; when soon I heard 

The crying babe controll’d with this discourse : 

‘ Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam! 
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, 
Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look, 
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor: 

But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, 
They never do beget a coal-black calf. 

Peace, villain, peace! ’—even thus he rates the babe,— 
‘For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth; 

Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe, 
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.’ 
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon him, 
Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither, 
To use as you think needful of the man. 

Lue. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil 
That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand; 

This is the pearl that pleased your empress’ eye, 
And here ’s the base fruit of his burning lust. 
Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey 
This growing image of thy fiend-like face ? 
Why dost not speak ? what, deaf? not a word ? 
A_ halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree, 
And by his side his fruit of bastardy. 
Aar. Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood. 
Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good. 
First hang the child, that he may see it spraw]; 
A sight to vex the father’s soul withal. 
Get me a ladder. 
[A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend. 
Aar. Lucius, save the child, 
And bear it from me to the empress. 
(f thou do this, Ill show thee wondrous things, 


That highly may advantage thee to hear: 

If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, 

Ill speak no more but ‘ Vengeance rot you all!’ 
Luc. Say on: an if it please me which thou speak’st, 

Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d. 
Aar. An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lu- 


clus, 
T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak ; 
For I must talk of murders, rapes and massacres, 
Acts of black night, abominable deeds, 
Complots of mischief, treason, villanies 
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d: 
And this shall all be buried by my death, 
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. 
Luc. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. 
Aar. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. 
Luc. Who should I swear by ? thou believest no 
god: 
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath ? 
Aar. What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not; 
Yet, for I know thou art religious 
And hast a thing within thee called conscience, 
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies, 
Which I have seen thee careful to observe, 
Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know 
An idiot holds his bauble for a god 
And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, 
To that Ill urge him: therefore thou shalt vow 
By that same god, what god soe’er it be, 
That thou adorest and hast in reverence, 
To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; 
Or else I will discover nought to thee. 
Luc. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. 
Aar. First know thou, I begot him on the em- 
press. 
Luc. O most insatiate and luxurious woman ! 
Aar. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity 
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. 
’T was her two sons that murder’d Bassianus; 
They cut thy sister’s tongue and ravish’d her 
And cut her hands and trimm/’d her as thou saw’st. 
Luc. O detestable villain! call’st thou that trim. 
ming? 
Aar. Why, she was wash’d and cut and trimm’d, 
and ’t was } 
Trim sport for them that had the doing of it. 
Luc. O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself! 
Aar. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them: 
That codding spirit had they from their mother, 
As sure a card as ever won the set; 
That bloody mind, I think, they learn’d of me, 
As true a dog as ever fought at head. 
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. 
I train’d thy brethren to that guileful hole 
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay: 
I wrote the letter that thy father found 
And hid the gold within the letter mention’d, 
Confederate with the queen and her two sons: 
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, 
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it ? 
I play’d the cheater for thy father’s hand, 
And, when I had it, drew myself apart 
And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter: 
I pry’d me through the crevice of a wall 
When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads; 


579 


LOTT. 


Beheld his tears, and laugh’d so heartily, 
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his: 
And when I told the empress of this sport, 
She swooned almost at my pleasing tale, 
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. 
First Goth. What, canst thou say all this, and 
never blush ? 
Aar. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. 
Inc. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds ? 
Aar. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. 
Even now I curse the day —and yet, I think, 
Few come within the compass of my curse— 
Wherein I did not some notorious ill, 
As kill a man, or else devise his death, 
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it, 
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself, 
Set deadly enmity between two friends, 
Make poor men’s cattle break their necks; 
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, 
And bid the owners quench them with their tears. 
Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves, 
And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors, 
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot; 
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, 
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, 
‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.’ 
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things 
As willingly as one would kill a fly, 
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed 
But that I cannot do ten thousand more. 
Luc. Bring down the devil: for he must not die 
So sweet a death as hanging presently. 
Aar. If there be devils, would I were a devil, 
To live and burn in everlasting fire, 
So I might have your company in hell, 
But to torment you with my bitter tongue! [more. 
Luc. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no 


Enter a Goth. 


Third Goth. My lord, there is a messenger from 
Desires to be admitted to your presence. [Rome 
Luc. Let him come near. 


Enter Aimilius. 


Welcome, Aimilius: what ’s the news from Rome ? 
Aimil. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, 
The Roman emperor greets you all by me; 
And, for he understands you are in arms, 
He craves a parley at your father’s house, 
Willing you to demand your hostages, 
And they shall be immediately deliver’d. 
First Goth. What says our general ? 
Luc. Aimilius, let the emperor give his pledges 
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, 
And we will come. March away. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Rome. 


Enter Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron, disguised. 


Tam. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, 
I will encounter with Andronicus, 
And say Lam Revenge, sent from below 
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. 
Knock at his study, where, they say, he keeps, 
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; 
Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, 
And work confusion on his enemies. [hey knock. 


Before Titus’s house. 


Enter Titus, above. 


Tit. Who doth molest my contemplation ? 
Is it your trick to make me ope the door, 
That so my sad decrees may fly away, 

And all my study be to no effect ? 

You are deceived: for what I mean to do 

See here in bloody lines I have set down; 

And what is written shall be executed. 
Tam. Titus, Iam come to talk with thee. 


580 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE II. 


Tit. No, not a word; how can I grace my talk, 
Wanting a hand to give it action ? 
Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more. 
Tam. If thou didst know me, thou wouldest talk 
with me. 
Tit. Lam not mad; I know thee well enough: 
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crim- 
son lines; 
Witness these trenches made by grief and care; 
Witness the tiring day and heavy night; 
Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well 
For our proud empress, mighty Tamora: 
Is not thy coming for my other hand ? 
Tam. Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora; 
She is thy enemy, and I thy friend: 
Iam Revenge; sent from the infernal kingdom, 
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind, 
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. 
Come down, and welcome me to this world’s light; 
Confer with me of murder and of death: 
There ’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place, 
No vast obscurity or misty vale, 
Where bloody murder or detested rape 
Can couch for fear, but I will find them out; 
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name, 
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. 
Tit. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me, 
To be a torment to mine enemies ? [me. 
Tam. I am; therefore come down, and welcome 
Tit. Do me some service, ere I come to thee. 
Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands ; 
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge, 
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels; 
And then Ill come and be thy waggoner, 
And whirl along with thee about the globe. 
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, 
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, 
And find out murderers in their guilty caves: 
And when thy car is loaden with their heads, 
I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel 
Trot, like a servile footman, all day long, 
Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east 
Until his very downfall in the sea: 
And day by day I’l] do this heavy task, 
So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. 
Tam. These are my ministers, and come with me. 
Tit. Are these thy ministers? what are they 
call’d ? 
Tam. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so, 
Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. 
Tit. Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they 
And you, the empress! but we worldly men fare! 
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. 
O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; 


And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee, — 


I will embrace thee in it by and by. | Exit above. 
Lam. This closing with him fits his lunacy: 
Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits, 


| Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, 


tor now he firmly takes me for Revenge; 
And, being credulous in this mad thought, 
I?ll make him send for Lucius his son; 

And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, 

I ‘ll find some cunning practice out of hand, 
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, 

Or, at the least, make them his enemies. 

See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 


Enter Titus below. 


Tit. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee: 
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woful house: 
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. 

How like the empress and her sons you are! 
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor: 
Could not all hell afford you such a devil ? 
For well I wot the empress never wags 

But in her company there is a Moor; 


ACT V 


And, would you represent our queen aright, 

lt were convenient you had such a devil: 

But welcome, as you are. What shall we do? 
Tam. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus ? 
Dem. Show me a murderer, I 71] deal with him. 
Chi. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, 

And I am sent to be revenged on him. [wrong, 
Tam. Show me a thousand that have done thee 

And I will be revenged on them all. [Rome; 
Tit. Look round about the wicked streets of 

And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself, 

Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer. 

Go thou with him; and when it is thy hap 

To find another that is like to thee, 

Good Rapine, stab him; he’s a ravisher. 

Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court 

There is a queen, attended by a Moor; 

Well mayst thou know her by thy own proportion, 

For up and down she doth resemble thee: 

I pray thee, do on them some violent death; 

They have been violent to me and mine. [do. 
Tam. Well hast thou lesson’d us; this shall we 

But would it please thee, good Andronicus, 

To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, 

Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, 

And bid him come and banquet at thy house; 

When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, 

I will bring in the empress and her sons, 

The emperor himself and all thy foes; 

And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, 

And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. 

What says Andronicus to this device ? 

Tit. Marcus, my brother! ’t is sad Titus calls. 


Enter Marcus. 


Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; 
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths: 
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him 
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths; 
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are: 
Tell him the emperor and the empress too 
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. 
This do thou for my love; and so let him, 
As he regards his aged father’s life. 
Marc. This will I do, and soon return again. 
| Exit. 
Tam. Now will I hence about thy business, 
And take my ministers along with me. 
Tit. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me; 
Or else Ill call my brother back again, 
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. 
Tam. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys ? will 
you bide with him, 
Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor 
How I have govern’d our determined jest ? 
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair 
And tarry with him till I turn again. 
Tit. [Aside] I know them all, though they sup- 
pose me mad, 
And will o’erreach them in their own devices: 
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam! 
Dem. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. 
Tam. Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes 
To lay a complot to betray thy foes. 
Tit. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, 
well. [Hatt Tamora. 
Chi. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ’d ? | 
Tit. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. 
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine! 


fare- 


Enter Publius and others. 


Pub. What is your will ? 

Tit. Know you these two? 

Pub. The empress’ sons, I take them, Chiron and 
Demetrius. 

Tit. Fie, Publius, fie! thouart too much deceived ; 
The one is Murder, Rape is the other’s name; 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE III. 


And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. 

Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. 

Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, 

And now I find it; therefore bind them sure, 

And stop their mouths, if they begin tocry. [vit. 

[Publius, ke. lay hold on Chiron and Demetrius. 
Chi. Villains, forbear! we are the empress’ sons. 
Pub. And therefore do we what we are com- 
manded. 
Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. 
Is he sure bound ? look that you bind them fast. 


e-enter Titus, with Lavinia; he bearing a knife, 
and she a basin. 
Tit. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are 
bound. 

Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me; 
But let them hear what fearful words I utter. 
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! [mud, © 
Here stands the spring whom you have stain’d with 
This goodly summer with your winter mix’d. 
You kill’d her husband, and for that vile fault 
Two of her brothers were condemn’d to death, 
My hand cut off and made a merry jest ; [dear 
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more 
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, 


| Inhuman traitors, you constrain’d and forced. 


What would you say, if I should let you speak ? 
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. 
Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. 
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, 
Whilst that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth hold 
The basin that receives your guilty blood. 
You know your mother means to feast with me, 
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad: 
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust 
And with your blood and it I ll make a paste, 
And of the paste a coffin-I will rear 
And make two pasties of your shameful heads, 
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam, 
Like to the earth swallow her own increase. 
This is the feast that I have bid her to, 
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; 
For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, 
And worse than Progne I will be revenged : 
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, 
| He cuts their throats. 

Receive the blood: and when that they are dead, 
Let me go grind their bones to powder small 
And with this hateful liquor temper it; 
And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. 
Come, come, be every one officious 
To make this banquet; which I wish may prove 
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast. 
So, now bring them in, for I ’l] play the cook, 
And see them ready ’gainst their mother comes. 

[ Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies. 
SCENE III. — Court of Titus’s house. A banquet 
set out. 


Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths, with Aaron 
prisoner. 


Tuc. Uncle Marcus, since it is my father’s mind 
That I repair to Rome, I am content. 

First Goth. And ours with thine, befall what 

fortune will. [Moor, 

Luc. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous 
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; 

Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him, 
Till he be brought unto the empress’ face, 
For testimony of her foul proceedings: 

And see the ambush of our friends be strong ; 
I fear the emperor means no good to us. 

Aar. Some devil whisper curses in mine ear, 
And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth 
The venomous malice of my swelling heart! 

581 


ACT. Vi; 


Luc. Away, inhuman dog! unhallow’d slave! 
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. 
[Hxeunt Goths, with Aaron. Flourish within. 
The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. 


Enter Saturninus and Tamora, with Aimilius, 
Tribunes, Senators, and others. 


Sat. What, hath the firmament more suns than 
one ? | 
Ine. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun ? 
Marc. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the 
These quarrels must be quietly debated. [parle ; 
The feast is ready, which the careful Titus 
Hath ordain’d to an honourable end, 
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome: 
Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your 
Sat. Marcus, we will. places. 
[Hautboys sound. The Conpany sit down at table. 


Enter Titus dressed like a Cook, Lavinia veiled, young Lu- 
cius, and others. Titus places the dishes on the table. 


Tit. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread 
queen ; 
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; 
And welcome, all: although the cheer be poor, 
"T will fill your stomachs: please you eat of it. 
Sat. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus ? 
Tit. Because I would be sure to have all well, 
To entertain your highness and your empress. 
Tam. Weare bebolding to you, good Andronicus. 
Tit. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. 
My lord the emperor, resolve me this: 
Was it well done of rash Virginius 
To slay his daughter with his own right hand, 


Because she was enforced, stain’d, and deflower’d ? | 


Sat. It was, Andronicus. 
Tit. Your reason, mighty lord? [shame, 
Sat. Because the girl should not survive her 
And by her presence still renew his sorrows. 
Tit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual ; 
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant, 
For me, most wretched, to perform the like. 
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee: 
[Kills Lavinia. 
And, with thy shame, thy father’s sorrow die! 
Sat. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind ? 
Tit. Kill’d her, for whom my tears have made me 
I am as woful as Virginius was, [blind. 
And have a thousand times more cause than he 
To do this outrage: and it now is done. 
Sat. What, was she ravish’d ? tell who did the deed. 
Tit. Will’t please you eat? will’t please your 
highness feed ? [thus ? 
Tam. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter 
Tit. Not 1; ’t was Chiron and Demetrius: 
They ravish’d her, and cut away her tongue: 
And they, ’t was they, that did her all this wrong. 
Sat. Go fetch them hither to us presently. 
Tit. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie; 
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, 
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. 
’T is true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point. 
' (Kills Tamora. 
Sat. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed! 
[Kills Titus. 
Inc. Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed ? 
There ’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed! 
[Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. Lucius, 
Marcus, and others go up into the balcony. 
Mare. You sad-faced men, people and sons of 
By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl [Rome, 
Seatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts, 
O, let me teach you how to knit again 
This seatter’d corn into one mutual sheaf, 
These broken limbs again into one body; 
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, 
And she whom mighty kingdoms court’sy to, 


582 


TITUS ANDEONICUS. 


SCENE III. 


Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, 
Do shameful execution on herself. 
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, 
Grave witnesses of true experience, 
Cannot induce you to attend my words, [ancestor, 
[To Lucius] Speak, Rome’s dear friend, as erst our 
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse 
To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear 
The story of that baleful burning night 
When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam’s Troy, 
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch’d our ears, 
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in 
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. 
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel; 
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, 
But floods of tears will drown my oratory, 
And break my utterance, even in the time 
When it should move you to attend me most, 
Lending your kind commiseration. 
Here is a captain, let him tell the tale; 
Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak. 
Luc. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you, 
That cursed Chiron and Demetrius 
Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother ; 
And they it were that ravished our sister: 
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded ; 
Our father’s tears despised, and basely cozen’d 
Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel out, 
And sent her enemies unto the grave. 
Lastly, myself unkindly banished, 
The gates shut on me, and turn’d weeping out, 
To beg relief among Rome’s enemies; 
Who drown’d their enmity in my true tears, 
And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend. 
IT am the turned forth, be it known to you, 
That have preserved her welfare in my blood; 
And from her bosom took the enemy’s point, 
Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body. 
Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; 
My scars can witness, dumb although they are, 
That my report is just and full of truth. 
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much, 
Citing my worthless praise: O, pardon me; 
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. 
Marc. Nowismyturntospeak. Behold this child: 
[ Pointing to the Child in the arms of an Attendant. 
Of this was ‘Tamora delivered ; 
The issue of an irreligious Moor, 
Chief architect and plotter of these woes: 
The villain is alive in Titus’ house, 
And as he is, to witness this is true. 
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge 
These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience, 
Or more than any living man could bear. [mans? 
Now you have heard the truth, what say you, Ro- 
Have we done aught amiss,—show us wherein, 
And, from the place where you behold us now, 
The poor remainder of Andronici 
Will, hand in hand, ali headlong cast us down, 
And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains, 
And make a mutual closure of our house. 
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall, 
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. 
Emil. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome, 
And bring our emperor gently in thy hand, 
Lucius our emperor; for well I know 
The common voice do ery it shall be so. 
All. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s royal emperor! 
Marc. Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house, 
[To Attendants. 
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor, 
To be adjudged some direful slaughtering death, 
As punishment for his most wicked life. 
[Exeunt Attendants. 


Lucius, Marcus, and the others descend. 
All. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious governor! 


ACT V. 


TITUS ANDRONICUS. 


SCENE III. 


Luc. Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so, 
To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her woe ! 
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, 

For nature puts me to a heavy task: 

Stand all aloof: but, uncle, draw you near, 

To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. 

O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,. 
[Kissing Titus. 

These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d face, 

The last true duties of thy noble son! 

Marc. Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss, 
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips: 

Q, were the sum of these that I should pay 
Jountless and infinite, yet would I pay them! 
Luc. noes hither, boy; come, come, and learn 
of us 
To melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well: 
Many a time he danced thee on his knee, 
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow; 
Many a matter hath he told to thee, 
Meet and agreeing with thine infancy; 
In that respect, then, like a loving child, 
Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring, 
Because kind nature doth require it so: 
Friends should associate friends in grief and woe: 
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave; 
Do him that kindness, and take leave of him. 
Young Luc. O grandsire, grandsire! even with 
all my heart 
Would I were dead, so you did live again! 
O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping : 
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth. 


ooo 


Re-enter Attendants with Aaron. 


im. You sad Andronici, have done with woes: 
Give sentence on this execrable wretch, 
That hath been breeder of these dire events. 
Luc. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish 
him: , 
There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food: 


If any one relieves or pities him, 
For the offence he dies. This is ourdoom: 
Some stay to see him fasten’d in the earth. 
Aar. O, why should wrath be mute, and fury 
Iam no baby, I, that with base prayers [dumb ? 


| I should repent the evils I have done: 
' Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did 


Would I perform, if I might have my will: 

If one good deed in all my life I did, 

I do repent it from my very soul. [hence, 
Luc. Some loving friends convey the emperor 


, And give him burial in his father’s grave: 


My father and Lavinia shall forthwith 

Be closed in our household’s monument. 

As for that heinous tiger, Tamora, 

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds, 
No mournful bell shall ring her burial; 

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey: 


| Her life was beast-like, and devoid of pity; 


And, being so, shall have like want of pity. 
See justice done on Aaron, that damn’d Moor, 
By whom our heavy haps had their beginning: 
Then, afterwards, to order well the state, 


That like events may ne’er it ruinate. [ Hxeunt. 


i 


i 


| 


— OS 


{ 
\ 


| 


u 


Mi 
Ab i 


ies 


Se 


co a 


2S 


Titus.—When will this fearful slumber have an end? 


2 hex 
LE ve ig ESS ul 
ieee SS SS 


Marcus.—Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; 
Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads, 
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; 
Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight 
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, L, 

Even like a stony image, cold and numb. 

Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs: 

Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand 

Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight 
The closing up of our most wretched eyes: 


Now is a time to storm; why 
Titus.—Ha, ha, ha! 


art thou still ? 


Marcus.—Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. 


Act ITI., Scene i. 


€ 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


DRAMATIS PERSONA 


Escalus, Prince of Verona. 

Paris, a young nobleman, kinsman to the prince. 

Montague, } heads of two houses at variance with 

Capulet, each other. 

An old man, cousin to Capulet. 

Romeo, son to Montague. 

Mercutio, kinsman to the prince, and friend to 
Romeo. 

Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to 
Romeo. 

Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. 

Friar Laurence, 

Friar John, 

Balthasar, servant to Romeo. 

Sampson, 

Gregory, 


Franciscans. 


servants to Capulet. 


Peter, servant to Juliet’s nurse. 
Abraham, servant to Montague. 

An Apothecary. 

Three Musicians. 

Page to Paris; another Page; an Officer. 
Lady Montague, wife to Montague. 
Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet. 

Juliet, daughter to Capulet. 

Nurse to Juliet. 


Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, re- 
lations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watch- 
men, and Attendants. 


Chorus. 


SCENE — Verona: Mantua. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LX.| 


PROLOGU E. 


Two households, both alike in dignity, 

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, — 
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, 

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. 
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes 

A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; 
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows 

Do with their death bury their parents’ strife. 


The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, 
And the continuance of their parents’ rage, 
Which, but their children’s end, nought could re- 
move, 
Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; 
The which if you with patient ears attend, 
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. 


Aaa TT. 


SCENE I.— Verona. 


Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Cap- 
ulet, armed with swords and bucklers. 


Sam. Gregory, 0’ my word, we ’ll not carry coals. 

Gre. No, for then we should be colliers. 

Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we ’ll draw. 

Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out 0’ 
the collar. 

Sam. I strike quickly, being moved. 

Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. 

Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. 

Gre. To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to 


A public place. 


away. 


Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand: | 


I will take the wall of any man or maid of Mon- 
tague’s. 

Gre. That shows thee a weak slave; for the 
weakest goes to the wall. 

Sam. True; and therefore women, being the 


weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: there- | 


fore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and 
thrust his maids to the wall. 


Gre. The quarrel is between our masters and us 
their men. 


Sam. *Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: 
yS84 


thou hadst been poor John. 


when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel 
with the maids, and cut off their heads. 

Gre. The heads of the maids ? 

Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden- 
heads; take it in what sense thou wilt. 

Gre. They must take it in sense that feel it. 

Sam. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: 
and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. 

Gre. ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, 
Draw thy tool; here 
comes two of the house of the Montagues. 

Sam. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will 


_ back thee. 
stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st | 


Gre. How! turn thy back and run ? 

Sam. Fear me not. 

Gre. No, marry; I fear thee! 
4 Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; let them 

egin. 

ge. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take 
it as they list. 

Sam. Nay,as they dare. I will bite my thumb at 
them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it. 


Enter Abraham and Balthasar. 


Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir ? 
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir. ; 
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir ? 


aC hy B. 


Sam. [Aside to Gre.] Is the law of our side, if I 
say ay? 

Gre. No. 

Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, 
but I bite my thumb, sir. 

Gre. Do you quarrel, sir ? 

Abr. Quarrel, sir! no, sir. 

Sam. If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good 
a man as you. 

Abr. No better. 

Sam. Well, sir. 

(re. Say ‘ better:’ here comes one of my master’s 

Sam. Yes, better, sir. [kinsmen. 

Abr. You lie. 

Sam. Draw, if you be men. 
thy swashing blow. 


Gregory, remember 
| They fight. 


Enter Benvolio. 


Ben. Part, fools! 
Put up your swords; you know not what you do. 
[Beats down their swords. 


Enter Tybalt. 


Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heart- 
less hinds ? 
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. 
Ben. I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword, 
Or manage it to part these men with me. 


Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate 
the word, 
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: 
Have at thee, coward ! [ They fight. 


Enter several of both houses, who join the fray; then enter 
Citizens, with clubs. 


First Cit. Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat 
them down! [tagues! 
Down with the Capulets! down with the Mon- 


Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. 
Cap. What noise is this ? Give me my long sword, 
ho! [sword ? 
La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch! why call you fora 
Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, 
And flourishes his blade in spite of me. 


Enter Montague and Lady Montague. 
Mon. Thou villain Capulet,— Hold me not, let 


me go. 
La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe. 


Enter Prince, with Attendants. 


Prin. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, 
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,— [beasts, 
Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you 
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage 
With purple fountains issuing from your veins, 
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands 
Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground, 
And hear the sentence of your moved prince. 
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 
Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, 
And made Verona’s ancient citizens 
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, 
To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 
Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate: 
If ever you disturb our streets again, 
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. 
For this time, all the rest depart away : 
You, Capulet, shall go along with me: 
And, Montague, come you this afternoon, 
To know our further pleasure in this case, 
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place. 
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. 
[ Hxeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, 
} and Benvolio. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE I. 


Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach ? 
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began ? 
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary, 
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach: 
I drew to part them: in the instant came 
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared, 
Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears, 
He swung about his head and cut the winds, 
Who nothing hurt withal hiss’d him in scorn: 
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, 
Came more and more and fought on part and part, 
Till the prince came, who parted either part. 
La. Mon. O, where is Romeo? saw you him to- 
Right glad I am he was not at this fray. [day ? 
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun 
Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, 
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad ; 
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore 
That westward rooteth from the city’s side, 
So early walking did I see your son: 
Towards him I made, but he was ware of me 
And stole into the covert of the wood: 
I, measuring his affections by my own, 
That most are busied when they ’re most alone, 
Pursued my humour not pursuing his, 
And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me. 
Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, 
With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, 
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; 
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun 
Should in the furthest east begin to draw 
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, 
Away from light steals home my heavy son, 
And private in his chamber pens himself, 
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out 
And makes himself an artificial night: 
Black and portentous must this humour prove, 
Unless good counsel may the cause remove. 
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause ? 
Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him. 
Ben. Have you importuned him by any means ? 
Mon. Both by myself and many other friends: 
But he, his own affections’ counsellor, 
Is to himself — I will not say how true — 
But to himself so secret and so close, 
So far from sounding and discovery, 
As is the bud bit with an envious worm, 
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, 
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. 
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, 
We would as willingly give cure as know. 


Enter Romeo. 


Ben. See,where he comes: so please you, step aside; 
I ll know his grievance, or be much denied. 
Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay, 
To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let ’s away. 
[Hxeunt Montague and Lady. 
Ben. Good morrow, cousin. 
Rom. 
Ben. But new struck nine. 
Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem long. 
Was that my father that went hence so fast ? 
Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s 
hours ? [them short. 
Rom. Not having that, which, having, makes 
Ben. In love? 
Rom. Out— 
Ben. Of love? 
Tom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. 
Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, 
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! 
Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is mufiled still, 
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! 
Where shall we dine? Ome! What fray was here ? 
Yet tell me not, for [have heard itall. _ 
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love. 


585 


Is the day so young ? 


OF yl 


Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! 
O anything, of nothing first create! 
O heavy lightness! serious vanity ! 
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! 
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health ! 
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! 
This love feel I, that feel no love in this. 
Dost thou not laugh ? 
Ben. No, coz, l rather weep. 
Rom. Good heart, at what ? 
Ben. At thy good heart’s oppression. 
Rom. Why, such is love’s transgression. 
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, 
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest 
With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown 
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. 
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; 
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; 
Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: 
What is it else ? a madness most discreet, 
A choking gall and a preserving sweet. 
Farewell, my coz. 
Ben. Soft! I will go along; 
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. 
Rom. Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here; 
This is not Romeo, he’s some other where. 
Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love. 
Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee ? 
Ben. Groan! why, no; 
But sadly tell me who. 
Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will: 
Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill! 
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. 
Ben. I aim’d so near, when I supposed you loved. 
Rom. A right good mark-man! And she’s fair 
I love. 
Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. 
Rom. Well, in that hit you miss: she ’ll not be hit 
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit; 
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, 
From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm/’d. 
She will not stay the siege of loving terms, 
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, 
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: 
QO, she is rich in beauty, only poor, 
That when she dies with beauty dies her store. 
Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live 
chaste ? [waste ? 
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge 
For beauty starved with her severity 
Cuts beauty off from all posterity. 
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, 
To merit bliss by making me despair : 
She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow 
Do I live dead that live to tell it now. 
Ben. Be ruled by me, forget to think of her. 
Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think. 
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; 
Examine other beauties. 
Rom. ’T is the way 
To call hers exquisite, in question more: 
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows 
_ Being black put us in mind they hide the fair; 
He that is strucken blind cannot forget 
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost: 
Show me a mistress that is passing fair, 
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note 
Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair ? 
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget. 
Len. 1’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.—A street. 


Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant. 


Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, 
In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think, 
For men so old as we to keep the peace. 


586 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE If. 


Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both; 


| And pity ’tis you lived at odds so long. 


But now, my lord, what say you to my suit ? 
Cap. But saying o’er what I have said before: 
My child is yet a stranger in the world; 


_ She hath not seen the change of fourteen years: 
| Let two more summers wither in their pride, 


Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. 
Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made. 
Cap. And too soon marr’d are those so early made. 
The earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she, 
She is the hopeful lady of my earth: 
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, 
My will to her consent is but a part; 
An she agree, within her scope of choice 
Lies my consent and fair according voice. 
This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, 
Whereto I have invited many a guest, 
Such as I love; and you, among the store, 
One more, most welcome, makes my number more. 
At my poor house look to behold this night 
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light: 
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel 
When well-apparell’d April on the heel 
Of limping winter treads, even such delight 
Among fresh female buds shall you this night 
Inherit at my house; hear all, all see, 
And like her most whose merit most shall be: . 
Which on more view, of many mine being one 
May stand in number, though in reckoning none. 
Come, go with me. [Zo Serv., giving a paper.} Go, 
sirrah, trudge about 
Through fair Verona; find those persons out 
Whose names are written there, and to them say, 
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. 
[Hxeunt Capulet and Paris. 
Serv. Find them out whose names are written 
here! It is written, that the shoemaker should med- 
dle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the 
fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; 
but I am sent to find those persons whose names 
are here writ, and can never find what names the 
writing person hath here writ. I must to the 
learned.— In good time. 


Enter Benvolio and Romeo. 


Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning, 
One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish; 

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning ; 
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish : 

Take thou some new infection to thy eye, 

And the rank poison of the old will die. 
ftom. Your plaintain-leaf is excellent for that. 
Ben. For what, I pray thee ? 

Rom. For your broken shin. 
Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad ? [is ; 
Tom. Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man 

Shut up in prison, kept without my food, 

Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow. | 
Serv. God gi’ god-den. I pray, sir, can you read ? 
Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. 

Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book: 
but, I pray, can you read any thing you see? 

ftom. Ay,if I know the letters and the language. 

Serv. Ye say honestly: rest you merry! 

Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. [ Reads. 

‘Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; 

County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady 
widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and his lovely 
nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine 
uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; my fair 
niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his 
cousin Tybalt ; Lucio and the lively Helena.’ 

A fair assembly: whither should they come? 

Serv. Up. 
Rom. Whither ? 
Serv. To supper; to our house. 


ACT TI. 


Ttom. Whose house ? 
Serv. My master’s. 
fom. Indeed, I should have ask’d you that before. 
Serv. Now Ll tell you without asking : my master 
is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the 
house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup 
of wine. Rest you merry! {| Hat. 
Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s 
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lovest, 
With all the admired beauties of Verona: 
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye, 
Compare her face with some that I shall show, 
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 
Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye 
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires ; 
And these, who often drown’d could never die, 
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! 
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun 
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun. 
Ben. Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, 
Herself poised with herself in either eye: 
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d 
Your lady’s love against some other maid 
That I will show you shining at this feast, 
And she shall scant show well that now shows best. 
Rom. Ill go along, no such sight to be shown, 
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. [weunt. 


SCENE III.—A room in Capulet’s house. 


Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. 


La. Cap. Nurse, where’s my daughter-? call her 
forth to me. fold, 
Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year 
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, lady-bird! 
God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet! 


dinter Juliet. 

Jul. How now! who calls? 

Nurse. 

uli 
What is your will ? 

La. Cap. This is the matter: — Nurse, give leave 

awhile, 
We must talk in secret : —nurse, come back again ; 
I have remember’d me, thou ’s hear our counsel. 
Thou know’st my daughter ’s of a pretty age. 

Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. 

La. Cap. She’s not fourteen. 

Nurse. 
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,— 
She is not fourteen. How long is it now 
To Lammas-tide ? 

La. Cap. A fortnight and odd days. 

Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, 
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen. 
Susan and she—God rest all Christian souls !— 
Were of an age: well, Susan is with God; 

She was too good for me: but, as I said, 

On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen ; 
That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 

’T is since the earthquake now eleven years; 

And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it,— 
Of all the days of the year, upon that day: 

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, 
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall; 

My lord and you were then at Mantua :— 

Nay, I do bear a brain: — but, as I said, 

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple 

Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, 

To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! 

Shake quoth the dove-house: ’t was no need, I trow, 
To bid me trudge: 

And since that time it is eleven years; 

For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood,. 
She could have run and waddled all about ; 

For even the day before, she broke her brow: 


Your mother. 
Madam, I am here. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


I’ lay fourteen of my teeth,— | 


SCENE III. 


And then my husband — God be with his soul! 
A’ was a merry man—took up the child: 
‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face ? 
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; 
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame, 
The pretty wretch left crying and said ‘ Ay.’ 
To see, now, how a jest shall come about! 
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, 
I never should forget it: ‘ Wilt thou not, Jule?’ 
quoth he; 
And, pretty fool, it stinted and said ‘ Ay.’ 
La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy 
peace. . 
Nurse. Yes, madam: yet I cannot choose but 
laugh, 
To think it should leave crying and say ‘ Ay.’ 
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow 
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; 
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly : 
‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘ fall’st upon thy face ? 
Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; 
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘ Ay.’ 
Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. 
Nurse. Peace, lhave done. God mark thee to 
his grace! 
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed: 
An I might live to see thee married once, 
I have my wish. 
La. Cap. Marry, that ‘ marry’ is the very theme 
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, 
How stands your disposition to be married ? 
Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. 
Nurse. An honour! were not I thine only nurse, 
I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat. 
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger 
than you, 
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, 
Are made already mothers: by my count, 
I was your mother much upon these years 
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: 
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. 
Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man 
As all the world — why, he’s a man of wax. 
La. Cap. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower. 
Nurse. Nay,he’saflower; in faith, a very flower. 
La. Cap. What say you? can you love the gen- 
tleman ? 
This night you shall behold him at our feast; 
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face 
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen; 
Examine every married lineament 
And see how one another lends content, 
And what obscured in this fair volume lies 
Find written in the margent of his eyes. 
This precious book of love, this unbound lover, 
To beautify him, only lacks a cover: 
The fish lives in the sea, and ’t is much pride: 
For fair without the fair within to hide: 
That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, 
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story ; 
So shall you share all that he doth possess, 
By having him, making yourself no less. 
Nurse. Noless! nay, bigger; women grow by men. 
La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love ? 
Jul. I ll look to like, if looking liking move: 
But no more deep will I endart mine eye 
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. Madam. the guests are come, supper served 
up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse 
cursed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. 
I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight. 

La. Cap. We follow thee. [Hxit Servant.] Juliet, 

the county stays. ' 

Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. 

| Haeunt. 


587 


AOTAT, 


\ 


SCENE IV.— A street. 


Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six 
Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others. 


Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our ex- 
Or sball we on without apology ? [cuse ? 
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity: 
We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, 
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, 
Searing the ladies like a crow-keeper ; 
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke 
After the prompter, for our entrance: 
But let them measure us by what they will; 
We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone. 
Rom. Give meatorch: Iam not for this ambling ; 
Being but heavy, I will bear the light. 
Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have youdance. 
Rom. Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes 
With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead 
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. 
Mer. You area lover; borrow Cupid’s wings, 
And soar with them above a common bound. 
Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft 
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, 
I cannot bound a piteh above dull woe: 
Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. 
Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; 
Too great oppression for a tender thing. 
Rom. Is love a tender thing ? it is too rough, 
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn. 
Mer. If lovebe rough with you, berough with love; 
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. 
Give me a case to put my visage in: 
A visor for a visor! what care I 
What curious eye doth quote deformities ? 
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. 
Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in, 
But every man betake him to his legs. 
Rom. A torch for me: let wantons light of heart 
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, 
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase; 
{ll be a candle-holder, and look on. 
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. 
Merv. Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own 
word: 
If thou art dun, we ’l] draw thee from the mire 
Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick’st 
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! 
Ns Nay, that’s not so. 


r I mean, sir, in delay 
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. 
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits 
Five times in that ere once in our five wits. 
Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask; 
But *tis no wit to go. 
Mer. Why, may one ask ? 
FRtom. I dream’d a dream to-night. 
Mer. And so did I. 
Rom. Well, what was yours ? 
Mer. That dreamers often lie. 
Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things | 
true. [you. 
Mer. O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with 
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep; 
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, 
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, 
The traces of the smallest spider’ S web, 
The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, 
Her whip of ecricket’s bone, the lash of film, 
Her waggcner a small erey- coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid; 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut | 
588 


) 
} 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE V. 


Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 


| Time out 0’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. 


And in this state she gallops night by night 
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of 
love; [straight, 

O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies 
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees, 
O’er ladies’ lips, w ho straight on kisses dream, 
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: 
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail 
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice: 
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five-fathom deep ; ; and then anon 
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, 
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two 
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab 
That plats the manes of horses in the night, 
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, 
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes: 
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, 
That presses them and learns them first to bear, 
Making them women of good carriage: ‘ 
This she — 

Ror Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! 
Thou ‘talk’st of nothing. 

Mer. True, I talk of dreams, 
Which are the children of an idle brain, 
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, 
Which is as thin of substance as the air 
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes 
Even now the frozen bosom of the north, 
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, 
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. 

Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from our- 

selves ; 

Supper is done, and we shall come too late. 

fiom. I fear, too early: for my mind misgives 
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars 
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date 
With this night’s revels and expire the term 
Of a despised life closed in my breast 
By some vile forfeit of untimely death. 
But He, that hath the steerage of my course, 
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen. 

Ben. Strike, drum. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—A hall in Capulet’s house. 


Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen, with napkins. 


First Serv. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not 
to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape a 
trencher ! 

Sec. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one 
or two men’s hands and they unwashed too, ’tis a 
foul thing. 

First Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove 
the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, 
save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest 
me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. 
Antony, and Potpan! 

Sec. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. 

First Serv. You are looked for and called for, 
asked for and sought for, in the great chamber. 

Sec. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. 
Ceaah boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver 
ake all. 


Enter Capulet, with Juliet and others of his house, 
meeting the Guests and Maskers. 
fe Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their 
oes 


Vii CYST ts err . 
| VE OAR UL re NY 
Ni, YF. / Nich shy N 


fT) 


ae } 
“ /| 
tht rn 
Wssepiegl ~~ 
hp iC: 


MATA CY WI YYZ 0 FY pp YU LE MAG 
1 i) ON OR 
x i 


iy 
i) 


by 
0 
S 
bi 
O 
> 
Z 
U 
q 
S 
8 
r 
a 
| 
> 
e 
ay 
Q 
oO 
2) 
0) 
s 


ADOT ©. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE VY. 


Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you. 
Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all 

Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, 
She, I ’llswear, hath corns; am I come near ye now ? 
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day 

That I have worn a visor and could tell 

A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear, 

Such as would please: ’t is gone, ’t is gone, ’t is gone: 
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, 


play. 
A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. 
Music plays, and they dance. 
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, 
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. 
Ah, sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. 
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet ; 
For you and I are past our dancing days: 
How long is ’t now since last yourself and I 
Were in a mask ? 
Sec. Cap. By ’r lady, thirty years. 
Cap. What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so 
much: 
*T is since the nuptial of Lucentio, 
Come pentecost as quickly as it will, 
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d. 
Sec. Cap. ”I'is more, ’t is more: his son is elder, 


sir; 
His son is thirty. 

Cap. Will you tell me that ? 
His son was but a ward two years ago. 

Rom. [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which 

doth enrich the hand 
Of yonder knight ? 

Serv. I know not, sir. 

Rom. O,she doth teach the torches to burn bright! 
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s éar; 

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 

As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. 

The measure done, I ’ll watch her place of stand, 
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. 
Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight ! 
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. 

Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague. 
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave 
Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, 

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ? 
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, 
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. 

Cap. Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm 

you so? 

Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe, 

A villain that is hither come in spite, 
To scorn at our solemnity this night. 
Cap. Young Romeo is it ? 
Tyb. *T is he, that villain Romeo. 
- Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone; 
He bears him like a portly gentleman ; 
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him 
To be a virtuous and well govern’d youth: 
I would not for the wealth of all the town 
Here in my house do him disparagement : 
Therefore be patient, take no note of him: 
It is my will, the which if thou respect, 
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, 
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. 

Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest: 
J? not endure him. 

Cap. He shall be endured: 
What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to; 
Am I the master here, or you? go to. 

You ’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul! 
You ’ll make a mutiny among my guests! 
You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man! 

Tyb. Why, uncle, ’t is a shame. 


Oap. Go to, go to; 
You are a saucy boy: is’t so, indeed ? 

This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what: 

You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time. 

Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go: 

Be quiet, or— More light, more light! Forshame! 

I?ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts! 
Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting 

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting, 

I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall 

Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall. [Hvit. 
Lom. (To Juliet] If I profane with my unwor- 

thiest hand 

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: 

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand 
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. 
Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too 

much, 

Which mannerly devotion shows in this; 

For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, 
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. 

Rom. Have noi saints lips, and holy palmers too ? 

Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. 

Rom. O,then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; 

They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. 

Jul. Berne do not move, though grant for prayers’ 

sake. 

Rom. ee move not, while my prayer’s effect I 

take. 

Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. 
Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. 
ftom. Sinfrom my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! 

Give me my sin again. 

Jul. You kiss by the book. 

Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with 

Rom. What is her mother ? [you. 

Nurse. Marry, bachelor, 
Her mother is the lady of the house, 

And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous: 

I nursed her daughter, that you talk’d withal; 

I tell you, he that can lay hold of her 

Shall have the chinks. 

Rom. Is she a Capulet ? 

O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt. 

Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. 

Rom. Ay,soI fear; the more is my unrest. 

Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; 
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. 

Is it e’en so? why, then, I thank you all; 

I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night. 

More torches here! Come on then, let ’s to bed. 

Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late: 

I'll to my rest. 

[Hxeunt all but Juliet and Nurse. 

Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentle- 

man ? 

Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. 

Jul. What’s he that now is going out of door ? 

Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petrucio. 

Jul. What’s he that follows there, that would 

not dance ? 

Nurse. I know not. 

Jul. Go, ask his name: if he be married, 

My grave is like to be my wedding bed. 

Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague; 
The only son of your great enemy. 

Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late! 
Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 

That I must love a loathed enemy. 

Nurse. What’s this ? what’s this ? 

Jul. A rhyme I learn’d even now 
Of one I danced withal. [One calls within ‘ Juliet.’ 

Nurse. Anon, anon! 

Come, let ’s away; the strangers all are gone. 

[ Hxeunt. 


589 


ACT II. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE ff, 


py ONS Re Rad Be 


PROLOGUE. 


Enter Chorus. 


Chor. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, 
And young affection gapes to be his heir; 
That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, 
With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. 
‘Now Romeo is beloved and loves again, 
Alike bewitched by the charm of looks, 
But to his foe supposed he must complain, 
And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: 
Being held a foe, he may not have access 
To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear ; 
And she as much in love, her means much less 
To meet her new-beloved any where: 
But passion lends them power, time means, to 


meet, 

Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. [Hvit. 

SCENE I.—A lane by the wall of Capulet’s orchard. 
Enter Romeo. 

Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here? 


Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. 
| He climbs the wall, and leaps down within tt. 


Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. 


Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! 

Mer. He is wise; 
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed. 

Ben. We ran this way, and leap’d this orchard 

wall: 
Call, good Mercutio. 

Mer. Nay, I ’ll conjure too. 
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! 
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: 

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ; 
Cry but ‘Ay me!’ pronounce but ‘ love’ and ‘ dove;’ 
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, 
One nick-name for her purblind son and heir, 
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, 
When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid! 
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; 
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. 
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, 
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, 
By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh 
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, 
That in thy likeness thou appear to us! 
Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. 
eas This cannot anger him: ’t would anger 
im. 
To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle 
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand 
Till she had laid it and conjured it down; 
That were some spite: my invocation 
Is fair and honest, and in his mistress’ name 
I conjure only but to raise up him. 
ae Come, he hath hid himself among these 
rees, 
To be consorted with the humorous night: 
Blind is his love and best befits the dark. 

Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. 
Now will he sit under a medlar tree, 

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit 
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. 
O, Romeo, that she were, O, that she were 
An open et cetera, thou a poperin pear! 
Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed ; 
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: 
Come, shall we go? 

Ben. Go, then; for ’tis in vain 
To seek him here that means not to be found. 

| Hxeunt. 


590 


SCENE II. —Capulet’s orchard. 


Enter Romeo. 


Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
[Juliet appears above at a window 
But,soft ! what light through yonder window breaks 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou her maid art far more fair than she: 
Be not her maid, since she is envious ; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green 


| And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. 


It is my lady, O, it is my love! 

O, that she knew she were! 

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that ? 
Her eye discourses; I will answer it. 

I am too bold, ’t is not to me she speaks: 

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 

Having some business, do entreat her eyes 

To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 

What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 

O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 

That I might touch that cheek! 

Jul. Ay me! 

Rom. She speaks: 
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, 

As Is a winged messenger of heaven 

Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes 

Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him 

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 

And sails upon the bosom of the air. [Romeo ? 

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou 
Deny thy father and refuse thy name; 

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, _ 
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. ; [this ? 
Rom. | Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at 

Jul. "Lis but thy name that is my enemy ; 

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
What ’s Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot, 
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part 
Belonging toa man. O, be some other name! 
What ’s ina name? that which we call a rose 
By any other name would smell as sweet; 

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo eall’d, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, 
And for that name which is no part of thee 
Take all myself. 

Rom. I take thee at thy word: 

Call me but love, and I ’ll be new baptized ; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. [night 

Jul. What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in 
So stumblest on my counsel ? 

Ron. By a name 
I know not how to tell thee who I am: 

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee: 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 

Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue’s utterance, yet 1 know the sound: 
Art thou not Romeo and a Montague ? 

[tom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 

Jul. Fag camest thou hither, tell me, and where- 

ore? 
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 


ACT II. 


Rom. With love’s light wings did I 0’erperch these 
For stony limits cannot hold love out, [walls ; 
And what love can do that dares love ‘attempt ; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 

Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 
Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye 
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sw eet, 

And I am proof against their enmity. 
Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 
fiom. ahi night’s cloak to hide me from their 
Sight , 
And but thou love me, let them find me. here: 
My life were better ended by their hate, 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 

Jul. By whose direction found’st thou out this 

place ? 

Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; 
He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. 

Iam no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, 
I would adventure for such merchandise. [face, 

Jul. Thou know’st the mask of night is on my 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke: but farewell ‘compliment ! 
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘ AY, ; 
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear’st, 
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers’ perjuries, 

They say, Jove laughs. "Oo gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, saree it faithfully : 

Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won, 

I?ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, 

And therefore thou mayst think my "haviour light: 
But trust me, gentlemen, I ’ll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware, 

My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love, 

Which the dark night hath so discovered. 

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops— 

Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, [moon, 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Rom. What shall I swear by ? 

Jul. Do not swear at all; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 

And [’ll believe thee. 

Rom. If my heart’s dear love— 

Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night : 

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; 

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say ‘It lightens.’ Sweet, good night ! 
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast! 

Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 

ftom. The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow an 

mine. 

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst Peitest 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what pur- 

pose, love ? 

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
And yet I wish but for the thing I have: 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 


' My love as deep; the more I give to thee, 


The more I have, for both are infinite. 
[Nurse calls within. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE III. 


—_» 


I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! 

Anon, good nurse ! Sweet Montague, be true. 

Stay but a little, I will come again. [| Hatt, above. 
Ftom. O blessed, blessed night ! Tam afeard, 

Being in night, all this is but a dream, 

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 


Re-enter Juliet, above. 


Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night in- 
If that thy bent of love be honourable, [deed, 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
By one that Ill procure to come to thee, 

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I ll lay 
And follow thee iny lord throughout the world. 

Nurse. [Within] Madam! 

Jul. I come, anon.— But if thou mean’st not well, 
I do beseech thee — 

Nurse. [Within] Madam! 

Jul. By and by, I come :— 
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: 
To-morrow will I send. 

Rom So thrive my soul — 

Tull! ‘A thousand times good night! [Hxit, above. 

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy 

light. [books, 
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their 
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. 
‘ | Retiring. 
Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer’s 
To lure this tassel-gentle back again! [voice, 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; 

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, 
With repetition of my Romeo’s name. 

Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name: 
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, 
Like softest music to attending ears! 


Jul. Romeo! 
Rom My dear? 
Jul. At what o’ clock to-morrow 


Bae : send to thee ? 
At the hour of nine. 

Tuk ‘T will not fail: ’*tis twenty years till then. 
I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Remembering how I love thy company. 

Rom. And Ill still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Jul. "Tis almost morning; I would have thee 
And yet no further than a wanton’s bird;  [gone: 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous of his liberty. 

Rom. I would I were thy bird. 

Jul Sweet, so would I: 
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sor- 
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [row, 
[ Hxit, above. 
Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy 
breast ! 
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! 
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, 
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Hwit. 


SCENE III.—Friar Laurence’s cell. 


Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket. 


Fri. L. The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frown- 
ing night, 
Chequering the ‘eastern clouds with streaks of light. 
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels 
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels: 


591 


ACT TES 


Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, 

The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry, 

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours 

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. 
The earth that ’s nature’s mother is her tomb; 
What is her burying grave that is her womb, 
And from her womb children of divers kind 

We sucking on her natural bosom find, 

Many for many virtues excellent, 

None but for some and yet all different. 

QO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies 

In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities : 
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live 
But to the earth some special good doth give, 
Nor ought so good but strain’d from that fair use 
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: 
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; 

And vice sometimes by action dignified. 

Within the infant rind of this small flower 
Poison hath residence and medicine power: [part ; 
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each 
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. 

Two such opposed kings encamp them still 

In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; 
And where the worser is predominant, 

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. 


Enter Romeo. 


Rom. Good morrow, father. 

Fyt. I. _ Benedicite! 
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? 

Young son, it argues a distemper’d head 

So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: 

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, 

And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; 

But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain 
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign : 
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure 

Thou art up-roused by some distemperature ; 

Or if not so, then here [ hit it right, 

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. 

Rom. That last is true; the sweeter rest was 

mine. [line ? 

Fri. L. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosa- 

Tiom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father ? no; 

I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. 

Fri. L. That’s my good son: but where hast 

thou been, then ? 

Tom. I’) tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. 

I have been feasting with mine enemy, 
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me, 
That ’s by me wounded: both our remedies 
Within thy help and holy physic lies: 

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, 

My intercession likewise steads my foe. 

Fyi. L. Be plain, good son,and homely in thy drift; 
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 

Rom. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is 
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: [set 
AS mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; 

And all combined, save what thou must combine 
By holy marriage: when and where and how 
We met, we woo’d and made exchange of vow, 

I ’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, 

That thou consent to marry us to-day. 

Fri. L. Holy Saint Francis, what a change is 
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, [here! 
So soon forsaken ? young men’s love then lies 
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 

Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine 
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! 
How much salt water thrown away in waste, 
To season love, that of it doth not taste! 
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, 
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; 
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit 
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet: 

592 


ROMHO AND JULIET. 


SCENE [V. 


If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine, 

Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline: [then, 

And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence 

Women may fall, when there ’s no strength in men. 
Rom. Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosaline. 
Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, ‘pupil mine. 
age And bad’st me bury love. 

ee 

To lay one in, another out to have. 
Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she whom I love now 

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; 

The other did not so. 

bag Fu O, she knew well. 

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. 

But come, young waverer, come, go with me, 

In one respect I ’ll thy assistant be; 

For this alliance may so happy prove, 

To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. 
Rom. O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. 
wd ne. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run 

ast. 


[ Hveunt. 
SCENE IV.—A street. 


Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. 


Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be ? 
Came he not home to-night ? 

Ben. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. 

Mer. Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that 

Rosaline, 
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. 

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet, 
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house. 

Mer. A challenge, on my life. 

Ben. Romeo will answer it. 

Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. 

Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how 
he dares, being dared. 

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead ; stab- 
bed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through 
the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart 
cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is 
he a man to encounter Tybalt ? 

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt ? 

Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, 
he is the courageous captain of complements. He 
fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, 
and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, 
and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a 
silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of 
the very first house, of the first and second cause: 
ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the 

Ben. The what ? [hai! 

Mer. The poxof such antic, lisping, affecting fan- 
tasticoes; these new tuners of accents! ‘ By Jesu, 
avery good blade! a very tall man! a very good 
whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing, 
grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with 
these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these 
perdona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form, 
that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, 
their bones, their bones! 


Not in a grave, 


Enter Romeo. 


Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. 

Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring: O 
flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for 
the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his 
lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a 
better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleo- 
patra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and har- 
lots; Thisbe a gray eye or so, but not to the pur- 
pose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French 
salutation to your French slop. You gave us the 
counterfeit fairly last night. 

Rom. Good morrow to you both. 
feit did I give you? sat 

Mer. The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive ? 


What counter- 


ACT if. 

Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was 
great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain 
courtesy. ’ 

Mer. That’s as much as to say, such a case as 
yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. 

liom. Meaning, to court’sy. 

Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. 

ftom. A most courteous exposition. 

Mer. Nay, Iam the very pink of courtesy. 

Rom. Pink for flower. 

Mer. Right. 

Rom. Why, then is my pump well flowered. 

Mer. Well said: follow me this jest now till thou 
hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole 
of it is worn, the jest may remain aiter the wearing 
sole singular. 

Rom. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the 
singleness! [faint. 

Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits 

Rom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I7U 
cry a match. 

Mer. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, 
I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose 
in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my 
whole five: was I with you there for the goose ? 

Rom. Thou wast never with me for any thing 
when thou was not there for the goose. 

Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. 

Lom. Nay, good goose, bite not. 

Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a 
most sharp sauce. 

Rom. And is it not well served in to a sweet goose ? 

Mer. O, here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches 
from an inch narrow to an ell broad! 

Rom. I stretch it out for that word ‘broad; ’ 
which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide 
a broad goose. 

Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning 
for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Ro- 
meo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as 
by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great 
natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his 
bauble in a hole. 

Ben. Stop there, stop there. [the hair. 

Mer. Thou desirest ine to stop in my tale against 

Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. 

Mer. O, thou art deceived; I would have made it 
short: for Iwas come to the whole depth of my 
tale; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no 

Rom. Here’s goodly gear. [longer. 


_ Enter Nurse and Peter. 

Mer. A sail, a sail! 

Ben. Two, two; a shirt and a smock. 

Nurse. Peter! 

Peter. Anon! 

Nurse. My fan, Peter. 

Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s 
the fairer face. 

Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. 

Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. 

Nurse. Is it good-den ? 

Mer. ’T is no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand 
of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. 

Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are you! 

. Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for 
himself to mar. 

Nurse. By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself 
to mar,’ quoth a’? Gentlemen, can any of you tell 
me where I may find the young Romeo ? 

fiom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be 
older when you have found him than he was when 
you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, 
for fault of a worse. 

Nurse. You say well. 

Mer. Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i’ 
faith; wisely, wisely. 

38 


ROMHKO AND JULIET. 


SCENE IV. 


Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence 
with you. 
Ben. She will indite him to some supper. 
Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! 
Rom. What hast thou found ? 
Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten 
pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. 
[ Sings. 
An old hare hoar, 
And an old hare hoar,. 
Is very good meat in lent: 
But a hare that is hoar 
Is too much for a score, 
When it hoars ere it be spent 


Romeo, will you come to 
dinner, thither. 

Rom. I will follow you. 

Mer. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, [singing] 
‘lady, lady, lady.” [Hxeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. 

Nurse. Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy 
merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery ? 

Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear him- 
self talk, and will speak more in a minute than he 
will stand to in a month. 

Nurse. Ana’ speak any thing against me, I ‘ll take 
him down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty 
such Jacks; and if I cannot, I ll find those that shall. 
Scurvy knave! Iam none of his flirt-gills; Iam none 
of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, 
and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure ? 

Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I 
had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I 
warrant you: I dare draw as soon as another man, 
if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law ou 
my side. 

Nurse. Now, afore God, Iam so vexed, that every 
part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, 
sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bade 
me inquire you out; what she bade me say, I will 
keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should 
lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a 
very gross kind of behaviour, as they say: for the 
gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should 
deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be 
offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. 

Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mis- 
tress. I protest unto thee — 

Nurse. Good heart, and, i’ faith, I will tell her as 
much: Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman. 

Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost 
not mark me. 

Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest: 
which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. 

Rom. Bid her devise 
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ; 

And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell 
Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains. 

Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. 

Rom. Go to; I say you shall. [there. 

Nurse. This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be 

Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall: 
Within this hour my man shall be with thee, 

And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair ; 
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy 
Must be my convoy in the secret night. 
Farewell; be trusty, and [ ’ll quit thy pains: 
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress. 

Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! 

you, sir. 

Rom. What say’st thou, my dear nurse ? 

Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear 
Two may keep counsel, putting one away? __[Say, 

Rom. I warrant thee, my man’s as true as steel. 

Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest 
lady — Lord, Lord! when ’t was a little prating 
thing : — O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, 

593 


your father’s? we/’ll to 


Hark 


ACT II. 


that would fain lay knife aboard ; but she, good soul, 
had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I 
anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is:the 
properer man; but, Ill warrant you, when I say so, 
she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. 
Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both witha 
letter ? 


Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R. | 
Nurse. Ah, mocker! that’s the dog’s name; R | 
is for the—No; I know it begins with some other | 
letter:—and she hath the prettiest sententious of | 


it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good 
to hear it. 

Rom. Commend me to thy lady. 

Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [| Hait Romeo.] Peter! 

Pet. Anon! 

Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and 
apace. | Kxeunt. 


SCENE V.— Capulet’s orchard. 
Enter Juliet. 


Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the | There stays a husband to make you a wife: 


| Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, 
They 71] be in searlet straight at any news. 


In half an hour she promised to return. [nurse ; 
Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so. 

O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts, 
Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams, 
Driving back shadows over louring hills: 
Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, 
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill 

Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve 

Is three long hours, yet she is not come. 

Had she affections and warm youthful blood, 

She would be as swift in motion as a ball; 

My words would bandy her to my sweet love, 

And his to me: 

But old folks, many feign as they were dead ; 
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. 

O God, she comes! 


Enter Nurse and Peter. 


__ O honey nurse, what news? 
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. 
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [ Hait Peter. 


Jul. Now, good sweet nurse,—O Lord, why | 


look’st thou sad ? 
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily ; 
If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news 
By playing it to me with so sour a face. 

Nurse. | am a-weary, give me leave awhile: 

Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had! 

Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. 
Nay, a I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, 

speak. 

Nurse. Jesu,what haste ? can you not stay awhile ? 
Do you not see that I am out of breath ? 

Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast 
To say to me that thou art out of breath? [breath 
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay 
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. 

Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that: 
Say either, and I ’ll stay the circumstance: 
Let me be satisfied, is ’t good or bad ? 

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you 
know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not 
he; though his face be better than any man’s, yet 
his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, 
and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet 
they art past compare: he is not the flower of cour- 


tesy, but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. | 


Go thy ways, wench; serve God. 
dined at home ? 
Jul. No, no: but all this did I know before. 
What says he of our marriage? what of that ? 
pipe me how my head aches! what a head 
lave 


What, have you 


594 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE Vi 


It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. 
My back o’ t’ other side,—O, my back, my back ! 
Beshrew your heart for sending me about, 

To catch my death with jaunting up and down! 
Jul. I’ faith, 1 am sorry that thou art not well. 
oh oth sweet nurse, tell me, what says my 

ove! 

Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, 
and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, 
i warrant, a virtuous,— Where is your mother ? 

Jul. Where is my mother! why, she is within; 
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest ! 

‘ Your love says, like an honest gentleman, 
Where is your mother ? ’ 

Nurse. O God’s lady dear! 
Are you so hot ? marry, come up, I trow; 

Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? 
Henceforward do your messages yourself. 

Jul. Here ’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo ? 

Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? 

Jul. I have. [ce] ; 

Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ 


Hie you to church; I must another way, 
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love 
Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark: 
I am the drudge and toil in your delight, 
But you shall bear the burden soon at night. 
Go; I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell. 
Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.— Friar Laurence’s cell. 


Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo. 


Fri. L. So smile the heavens upen this holy act, 
That after hours with sorrow chide us not! 

Rom. Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can, 
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy 
That one short minute gives me in her sight: 

Do thou but close our hands with holy words, 
Then love-devouring death do what he dare; 
It is enough I may but call her mine. 

Fri. L. These violent delights have violent ends 
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, 
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey 
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness 
And in the taste confounds the appetite: 


| Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; 


Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. 


Enter Juliet. 


Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot 

Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint: 

A lover may bestride the gossamer 

That idles in the wanton summer air, 

And yet not fall; so light is vanity. 
Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. [both. 
Fri. L. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us 
Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. 
Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy 

Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more 

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath 

This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue 

Unfold the imagined happiness that both 

Receive in either by this dear encounter. 
Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, 

Brags of his substance, not of ornament: 

They are but beggars that can count their worth ; 

But my true love is grown to such excess 

I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. 
Fri. L. Come, come with me, and we will make 

short work : ; 
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone 
Till holy church incorporate two in one.  [weunt. 


ACT III. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE I. 


sth O18 Daya ed OB 


SCENE I.— A public place. 


finter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants. 


en. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let ’s retire: 
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, 
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; 
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. 

Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows that when 
he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword 
upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of 
thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws 
it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. 

Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? 

Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy 
mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, 
and as soon moody to be moved. 

Ben. And what to? 

Mer. Nay,an there were two such, we should have 
none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! 
why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair 
more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: 
thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, 
having no other reason but because thou hast hazel 
eyes: what eye but such an eye would spy out such 
a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg 
if full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten 
as addle as an egg for quarrelling: thou hast quar- 
relled with a man for coughing in the street, because 
he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in 
the sun: didst thou not fall out with a tailor for 
wearing his new doublet before Easter? with an- 
other, for tying his new shoes with old riband ? and 
yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! 

Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any 
man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour 
and a quarter. y 

Mer. The fee-simple! O simple! 

Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. 

Mer. By wy heel, I care not. 


Enter Tybalt and others. 


Tyo. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. 
Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you. 
Mer. And but one word with one of us? couple 
it with something; make it a word and a blow. 
Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir 
an you will give me occasion. [giving ? 
Mer. Could you not take some occasion without 
Tyb. Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,— 
Mer. Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? 
an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing 
but discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that 
shall make you dance. ’Zounds, consort! 
Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men: 
Either withdraw unto some private place, 
And reason coldly of your grievances, 
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. [gaze ; 
Mer. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them 
I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. 


Enter Romeo. 


Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes 
my man. ery: 

Mer. But I'll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your liv- 

Marry, go before to field, he ll be your follower ; 

Your worship in that sense may call him ‘ man.’ 
Tyb. Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford 

No better term than this,—thou art a villain. 
Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee 

Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 

To such a greeting: villain am I none; 

Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not. 
Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries 

That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. 


Rom. I do protest, I never injured thee, 
But love thee better than thou canst devise, 
Till thou shalt know the reason of my loye: 
And so, good Capulet,— which name I tender 
As dearly as my own,— be satisfied. 

Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission ! 
Alla stoccata carries it away. [ Draws. 
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk ? 

Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me ? 

Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your 
nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, 
as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of 
the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his 
pilcher by the ears ? make haste, lest mine be about 
your ears ere it be out. 

Tyb. tam for you. | Drawing. 

Ttom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. 

Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [ They fight. 

ftom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. 
Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! 
Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath 
Forbidden bandying in Verona streets: 

Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio! 
[Tybalt under Fomeo’s arm stabs Mercutio, 
and flies with his followers. 
I am hurt. 
I am sped. 


Mer. 
A plague o’ both your houses! 
fs he gone, and hath nothing ? 
Ben. What, art thou hurt ? 
Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis 
enough, 
Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. 
[ Hait Page. 
Rom. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. 
Mer. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as 
a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’t will serve: ask 
for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave 
man. Iam peppered, I warrant,for this world. A 
plague o’ both your houses! ’Zounds,a dog, a rat, 
a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a brag- 
gart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of 
arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us ? 
I was hurt under your arm. 
Rom. 1 thought all for the best. 
Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, 
Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses! 
They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it, 
And soundly too: your houses! 
[Hxeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. 
Rom. This gentleman, the prince’s near ally, 
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 
In my behalf; my reputation stain’d 
With Tybalt’s slander,— Tybalt, that an hour 
Hath been my kinsman! O sweet Juliet, 
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate 
And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel ! 


Re-enter Benvolio. 


Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead | 
That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds, 
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. 
Rom. This day’s black fate on more days doth de- 
This but begins the woe, others must end. [pend; 
Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. 
Rom. Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain ! 
Away to heaven, respective lenity, 
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now! 


Re-enter Tybalt. 
Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, 
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul 
Is but a little way above our heads, 
Staying for thine to keep him company: 
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 
595 . 


ACT III. 


b. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him 
Shalt with him hence. here, 
Lom. This shall determine that. 
[Lhey fight; Tybalt falls. 
Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! 
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. 
Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death, 
If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away! 
Rom. O, I am fortune’s fool! 
Ben. Why dost thou stay ? 
i [ Hxit Romeo. 
Enter Citizens, &c. 
First Cit. Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio ? 
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he ? 
Ben. There lies that Tybalt. 
First Cit. Up, sir, go with me; 
I charge thee in the prince’s name, obey. 


Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, 
their Wives, and others. 


Prin. Where are the vile beginners of this fray ? 

Ben. O noble prince, I can discover all 
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl: 

There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, 
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. 

La. Cap. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! 
O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood is spilt 
Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, 
For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. 
O cousin, cousin! 

Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray ? 

Ben. Selim here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did 

slay: 

Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink 
How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal 
Your high displeasure: all this uttered 
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d, 
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen 
Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts 
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, 
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, 
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats 
Cold death aside, and with the other sends 
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity 
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud, [tongue, 
* Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and, swifter than his 
His agile arm beats down their fatal points, 
And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm 
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life 
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ; 
But by and by comes back to Romeo, 
Who had but newly entertain’d revenge, 
And to ’t they go like lightning, for, ere I 
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain, 
And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. 
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. 

La. Cap. He is a kinsman to the Montague; 
Affection makes him false; he speaks not true: 
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, 
And all those twenty could but kill one life. 

I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give; 
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. 

Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio; 

Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe ? 

Mon. Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s 

friend ; 
His fault concludes but what the law should end, 
The life of Tybalt. 

Prin. And for that offence 

Immediately we do exile him hence: 

I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, 

My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding ; 
But Ill amerce you with so strong a fine 

That you shall all repent the loss of mine: 

I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; 

Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase our abuses: 
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste, 


596 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE II. 


Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last. 
Bear hence this body and attend our will: 
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. 


[| Haewnt, 
SCENE II.— Capulet’s orchard. 


Enter Juliet. 


Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, 
Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a waggoner 
As Phaethon would whip you to the west, 
And bring in cloudy night immediately. 
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, 
That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo 
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen. 
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites 
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, 
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, 
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, 
And learn me how to lose a winning match, 
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: 
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, 
With thy black mantle; tillstrange love, grown bold, 
Think true love acted simple modesty. 
Come, night ; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night ; 
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back. [night, 
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d 
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, 


Take him and cut him out in little stars, 


And he will make the face of heaven so fine 

That all the world will be in love with night 

And pay no worship to the garish sun. 

O, I have bought the mansion of a love, 

But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold, 

Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day 

As is the night before some festival 

To an impatient child that hath new robes 

And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, 
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks 
But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. 


Enter Nurse, with cords. 
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there ? 


the cords 
That Romeo bid thee fetch ? 
Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. 
[Throws them down. 
Jul. Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring 


thy hands ? {dead ! 

Nurse. Ah, well-a-day ! he’s dead, he ’s dead, he ’s 
We are undone, lady, we are undone! 

Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead! 

Jul. Can heaven be so envious ? 

Nurse. Romeo can, 
Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo! 

Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! 

Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment me 
This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. [thus ? 
Hath Romeo slain himself ? say thou but ‘I,’ 

And that bare vowel ‘ I’ shall poison more 

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice ; 

I am not I, if there be such an I; ’ 

Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer * I.’ 

If he be slain, say ‘I’; or if not, no: 

Brief sounds determine of my wealor woe. [eyes,— 

Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine 
God save the mark! —here on his manly breast: 

A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; 
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, 
All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight. 

Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at 
To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty ! fonce! 
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here: 

And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! 

Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! 
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman ! 

That ever I should live to see thee dead! 


ACT III. 


Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary ? 
Is homeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead ? 
My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord ? 
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! 
For who is living, if those two are gone ? 
Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banish’d ; 
Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished. [blood ? 
Jul. O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s 
Nurse. It did, it did; alas the day, it did! 
Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! 
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? 
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical ! 
Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! 
Despised substance of divinest show! 
Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, 
A damned saint, an honourable villain ! 
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell, 
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend 
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ? 
Was ever book containing such vile matter 
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell 
In such a gorgeous palace! 
_ Nurse.’ There ’s no trust, 
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured, 
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. 
ih, where ’s my man? give me some aqua vite: 
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. 
Shame come to Romeo! 
Jul. Blister’d be thy tongue 
For such a wish! he was not born to shame: 
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit; 
For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d 
Sole monarch of the universal earth. 
O, what a beast was I to chide at him! 
Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill’d your 
cousin ? 
Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband ? 
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy 


name, 
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it ? 


But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin ? | 
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband: | 


Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring ; 

Your tributary drops belong to woe, 

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. 

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; 

And se ’s dead, that would have slain my hus- 

and : 

All this is comfort: wherefore weep I then ? 

Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, 

That murder’d me: I would forget it fain ; 

But, O, it presses to my memory, 

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds: 

‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo — banished ; ’ 

That ‘ banished,’ that one word ‘ banished,’ 

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death 

Was woe enough, if it had ended there: 

Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship 

And needly will be rank’d with other griefs, 

Why follow’d not, when she said ‘ Tybalt ’s dead,’ 

Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, 

Which modern lamentation might have moved ? 

But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, 

‘Romeo is banished,’ to speak that word, 

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, 

All slain, all dead. ‘ Romeo is banished! ’ 

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, 

In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound. 

Where is my father, and my mother, nurse ? 
Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse: 

Will you go tothem? I will bring you thither. 
Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears : mine shall 

be spent, 

When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. 

Take up those cords: poor ropes, you are beguiled, 

Both you and I; for Romeo is exiled: 

He made you for a highway to my bed; 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE III. 


But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. 
Come, cords, come, nurse; Ill to my wedding-bed; 
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! 

Nurse. Hie to your chamber: Ill find Romeo 
To comfort you: I wot well where he 1s. 
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night: 
I?ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell. ’ 

Jul. O, find him! give thisring to my true knight, 
And bid him come to take his last farewell. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—Friar Laurence’s cell. 


Enter Friar Laurence. 


Tri. L. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou 
fearful man : 
Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts, 
And thou art wedded to calamity. 


Enter Romeo. 


Rom. Father, what news? what is the prince’s 
doom ? 
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, 
That I yet know not ? 

Fri, L Too familiar 
Is my dear son with such sour company: 

I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom. 

Rom. What less than dooms-day is the prince’s 

doom ? ips 

Fri. L. A gentler judgment vanish’d from 
Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. 

Rom. Ha, banishment! be merciful, say ‘ death ;’ 
For exile hath more terror in his look, 

Much more than death: do not say ‘ banishment.’ 

Fri, L. Hence from Verona art thou banished : 
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. 

Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, 
But purgatory, torture, hell itself. 
Hence-banished is banish’d from the world, 

And world’s exile is death: then banished, 
Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment, 
Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, 

And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. 
Fri. L. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! 
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, 

| Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law, 
And turn’d that black word death to banishment: 
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. 
Rom. ’T is torture, and not mercy: heaven is here, 
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog 
And little mouse, every unworthy thing, 
| Live here in heaven and may look on her; 
But Romeo may not: more validity 
More honourable state, more courtship lives 
In carrion-flies than Romeo: they may seize 
On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand 
And steal immortal blessing from her lips, 
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, _ 
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; 
But Romeo may not; he is banished: 
Flies may do this, but I from this must fly: 
They are free men, but I am banished. 
And say’st thou yet that exile is not death ? in 
Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, 
No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, 
But ‘ banished’ to kill me? —‘ banished’ ? 
O friar, the damned use that word in hell; 
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart, 
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, 
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, 
To mangle me with that word ‘ banished ’ ? 
Fri. L. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak 
a word. ; 
Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. 
Fri. L. Ill give thee armour to keep off that 


1ps, 
his 


Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, | [word ; 
To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 


597 


ACT ITIl. 


Rom. Yet ‘banished’? Hang up philosophy! 
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, 
Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom, 
It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more. 
Fri. L. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. 
Rom. How should they, when that wise men 
have no eyes? 
Fri. L. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. 
Rom. Thou eanst not speak of that thou dost not 


Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, [feel : 
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, 
Doting like me and like me banished, [thy hair, 


Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear 
And fall upon the ground, as I do now, 
Taking the measure of an unmade grave. 
[Anocking within. 
Fri. L. Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide 
thyself. 
Rom. NotI; unless the breath of heart-sick groans, 
Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. 


| Knocking. 
Fri. L. Hark, how they knock! Who’s there? 
Romeo, arise; 


Thou wilt be taken. Stand up; 
| Knocking. 
Run to my study. By and by! God’s will, 
What simpleness is this! I come, I come! 
[ Knocking. 
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what ’s 
your will? 
Nurse. [Within] Let me come in, and you shall 
know my errand; 
I come from Lady Juliet. 
Fri. L. 


Stay awhile! 


Welcome, then. 


Enter Nurse. 


Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar, 
Where is my lady’s lord, where ’s Romeo ? 
Fri. L. There on the ground, with his own tears 
made drunk. 
Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress’ case, 
Just in her case! O woful sympathy! 
Piteous predicament! Even so lies she, 
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. 
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man: 
For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand; 
Why should you fall into so deep an O? 
Rom. Nurse! {of ail. 
Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death’s the end 
Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet ? how is it with her ? 
Doth she not think me an old murderer, 
Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy 
With blood removed but little from her own ? 
Where is she? and how doth she ? and what says 
My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? [weeps; 
Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and 
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up, 
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, 
And then down falls again. 
Rom. As if that name, 
Shot from the deadly level of a gun, 
Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand 
Murder’d her kinsman. OQ, tell me, friar, tell me, 
In what vile part of this anatomy 
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack 
The hateful mansion. [Drawing his sword. 
Byte D. Hold thy desperate hand: 
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art: 
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote 
The unreasonable fury of a beast: 
Unseemly woman in a seeming man! 
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! 
Thou hast amazed me: by my holy order, 
I thought thy disposition better temper’d. 
Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself ? 
And slay thy lady too that lives in thee, 
By doing damned hate upon thyself ? 
098 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE IV. 


Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? 

Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet 

In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. 

Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit: 

Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, 

And usest none in that true use indeed 

Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit: 

Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, 

Digressing from the valour of a man; 

Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, 

Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish: 

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, 

Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, 

Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, 

Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance, 

And thou dismember’d with thine own defence. 

What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive, 

For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead ; 

There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee, 

But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy too: 

The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend 

And turns it to exile; there art thou happy: 

A pack of blessings lights upon thy back; 

Happiness courts thee in her best array ; 

But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, 

Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love: 

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 

Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed, 

Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her: 

But look thou stay not till the watch be set, 

For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; 

Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time 

To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, 

Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back 

With twenty hundred thousand times more joy 

Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. 

Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady; 

And bid her hasten all the house to bed, 

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto: 

Romeo is coming. {night 
Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the 

To hear good counsel: O, what learning is! 

My lord, I ’ll tell my lady you will come. 
Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. 
Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir: 

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [Hzait. 
Rom. How well my comfort is revived by this! 
Fri. L. Go hence; good night; and here stands 

all your state: 

Either be gone before the watch be set, 

Or by the break of day disguised from hence: 

Sojourn in Mantua; 171] find out your man, 

And he shall signify from time to time 

Every good hap to you that chances here: 

Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; good night. 
Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, 

It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: 

Farewell. 


SCENE IV.—A room in Capulet’s house, 


Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris. 


Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily, 
That we have had no time to move our daughter: 
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, 
And so did I: — Well, we were born to die. 

’T is very late, she ’11 not come down to-night: 
I promise you, but for your company, 
I would have been a-bed an hour ago. 

Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo. 
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughi- 

ter. [morrow ; 

La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to- 
To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness. 

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender 
Of my child’s love: I think she will be ruled 
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not. 


[ Hxewnt. 


ASSES EL. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE V. 


Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; 
Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love; 
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next — 
But, soft! what day is this? : 
Feds Monday, my lord. 
_ Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too 
O’ Thursday let it be: 0’ Thursday, tell her, [soon, 
She shall be married to this noble earl. 
Will you be ready ? do you like this haste ? 
We'll keep no great ado,— a friend or two; 
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, 
It may be thought we held him carelessly, 
Being our kinsman, if we revel much: 
Therefore we ’ll have some half a dozen friends, 
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? 
Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to- 
morrow. 
Cap. Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it, then. 
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, 
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. 
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho! 
Afore me! it is so very very late, 
That we may call it early by and by. 
Good night. 


SCENE V.—Capulet’s orchard. 


Enter Romeo and Juliet above, at the window. 


Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 

That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :' 
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. 

I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 
Jul. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I: 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
And light thee on thy way to Mantua: 
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone. 

Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death; 

I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 

I ‘ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, 

*T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow ; 
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads: 
I have more care to stay than will to go: 
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. 
How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day. 

Jul. It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away ! 

It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 

Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. 

Some say the lark makes sweet division ; 

This doth not so, for she divideth us: 

Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes; 

O, now I would they had changed voices too! 

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 

Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. 

O, now be gone; more light and light it grows. 
ftom. More light and light; more dark and dark 
our woes! 


[ Hxeunt. 


Enter Nurse, to the chamber. 


Nurse. Madam! 
Jul. Nurse ? . [ber : 
Nurse. Y our lady mother is coming to your cham- 
The day is broke; be wary, look about. [ Heit. 
Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. 
Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll de- 
scend. [He goeth down. 
Jul. Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, 
friend! 
I must hear from thee every day in the hour, 


| For sweet discourses in our time to come. 


For in a minute there are many days: 
O, by this count I shall be much in years 
Ere I again behold my Romeo! 

Rom. Farewell! 


| I will omit no opportunity 


That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 
Jul. O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again ? 
ftom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shail 
[serve 
Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! 


| Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, 
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: 
| Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. 


ftom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: 
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! [Evzit. 
Jul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: 
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him 
That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune; 
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, 


_ But send him back. 


La. Cap. | Within] Ho, daughter! are you up? 
Jul. Who is’t that calls? is it my lady mother ? 
Is she not down so late, or up so early ? 
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither ? 


Enter Lady Capulet. 


La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet! 

Jul. Madam, I am not well. 

La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s 
death ? 

What,wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? 

An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live; 

Therefore, have done: some grief shows much o 
love; : 

But much of grief shows still some want of wit. 

Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. 

La. Cap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the 
Which you weep for. [friend 

ul. Feeling so the loss, 
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. 
La. Cap. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for 
his death, 
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. 

Jul. What villain, madam ? 

La. Cap. That same villain, Romeo. 

Jul. [Aside] Villain and he be many miles asun- 
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; [der.— 
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. 

La. Cap. That is, because the traitor murderer 

lives. {hands: 

Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my 
Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death ! 

La. Cap. We will have vengeance for it, fear 

thou not: 
Then weep no more. Ill send to one in Mantua, 
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, 
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram, 
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: 
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. 

Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied 

With Romeo, till I behold him —dead — 

Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d: 

Madam, if you could find out but a man 

To bear a poison, I would temper it; 

That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, 

Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors 

To hear him named, and cannot come to him, 

To wreak the love I bore my cousin 

Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him! [aman 

La. Cap. Find thou the means, and I ’ll find such 
But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. 

Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time: 
What are they, I beseech your ladyship ? 

La. Cap. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, 
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, [child; 
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, 

That thou expect’st not nor I look’d not for. 


599 


ACT: IfTi. 


Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that ? 
La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thursday 
morn, 
The gallant, young and noble gentleman, 
The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, 
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride: 
Jul. Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and Peter too, 
He shall not make me there a joyful bride. 
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed 
Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo. 
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, 
I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, 
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, 
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! 
La. Cap. Here comes your father; tell him so 
yourself, 
And see how he will take it at your hands. 


Enter Capulet and Nurse. 


Cap. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; 
But for the sunset of my brother’s son 
It rains downright. 
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears? 
Evermore showering? In one little body 
Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind; 
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, 
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, 
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs; 
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, 
Without a sudden calm, will overset 
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife! 
Have you deliver’d to her our decree ? 
La. Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you 
thanks. 
I would the fool were married to her grave! 
Cap. cone take me with you, take me with you, 
wife. 
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks ? 
Is she not proud? doth she not count her blest, 
Unwortby as she is, that we have wrought 
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom ? 
Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that 
you have: 
Proud can I never be of what I hate; 
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. 
i ae aM now, how now, chop-logic! What is 
this ? 
‘Proud,’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not;’ 
And yet ‘not proud,’ mistress minion, you, 
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, 
But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, 
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, 
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. 
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage! 
You tallow-face! 
La. Cap. Fie, fie! what, are you mad ? 
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, 
Hear me with patience but to speak a word. 
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient 
wretch ! 
J tell thee what: get thee to church o’ Thursday, 
Or never after look me in the face: 
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; 
My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest 
That God had lent us but this only child; 
But now I see this one is one too much, 
And that we have a curse in having her: 
Out on her, hilding! 
Nurse. God in heaven bless her! 
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. 
Cap. And why, my lady wisdom? hold your 
tongue, 
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. 
Nurse. I speak no treason. 
O, God ye god-den. 


Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! 


600 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE V., 


Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl; 
For here we need it not. 
La. Cap. You are too hot. 
Cap. Coa’s bread! it makes me mad: 
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play, 
Alone, in company, still my care hath been 
To have her match’d: and having now provided 
A gentleman of noble parentage, 
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d, 
Stuff’d,as they say, with honourable parts, 
Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man; 
And then to have a wretched puling fool, 
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, 
To answer ‘I7ll not wed; I cannot love, 
Iam too young; I pray you, pardon me.’ 
But, an you will not wed, I ’ll pardon you: 
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me: 
Look to ’t, think on ’t, I do not use to jest. 
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: 
An you be mine, Ill give you to my friend; 
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, 
For, by my soul, I ’Il ne’er acknowledge thee, 
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good: 
Trust to ’t, bethink you: Ill not be forsworn. 
Exit. 
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, | 
That sees into the bottom of my grief? 
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away! 
Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; 
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 
In that dim monument were Tybalt lies. 
La.Cap. Talk not to me, for I 711 not speak a word: 
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Hzii. 
Jul. O God —O nurse, how shall this be prevented? 
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; 
How shall that faith return again to earth, 
Unless that husband send it me from heaven 
By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me. 
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise strata 
gems 
Upon so soft a subject as myself! 
What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy ? 
Some comfort, nurse. 
Nurse. Faith, here it is. 
Romeo is banish’d ; and all the world to nothing, 
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you ; 
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. 
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, 
I think it best you married with the county. 
O, he’s a lovely gentleman ! 
Romeo ’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam, 
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye 
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, 
I think you are happy in this second match, 
For it excels your first: or if it did not, 
Your first is dead; or ’t were as good he were, 
As living here and you no use of him. 
Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart ? 
Nurse. And from my soul too; 
Or else beshrew them both. 
Jul. Amen ! 
Nurse. at ? 
Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous 
much. 
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, 
Having displeased my father, to Laurence’ cell, 
To make confession and to be absolved. 
Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. 


[ Exit. 

Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! 
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, 
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue 
Which she hath praised him with above compare 
So many thousand times? Go, counsellor; 
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. 
I’ll to the friar, to know his remedy: 
If all else fail, myself have power to die. [ Exit. 


oe 


ACT IV. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE I}. 


AOL LV: 


SCENE I.— Friar Laurence’s cell. 


Enter Friar Laurence and Paris. 


Fri. L. On Thursday, sir? the time is very short. 
Par. My father Capulet will have it so; 
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. 
Fri. L. You say you do not know the lady’s 
Uneven is the course, I like it not. mind: 
Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, 
And therefore have I little talk’d of love; 
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. 
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous 
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway, 
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage, 
To stop the inundation of her tears; 
Which, too much minded by herself alone, 
May be put from her by society : 
Now do you know the reason of this haste. 
Fri. L. [Aside] I would I knew not why it should 
be slow’d. 
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell. 


Enter Juliet. 
Par, Happily met, my lady and my wife! 
Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. 
Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. 
Jul. What must be shall be. 
Fri. L. That ’s a certain text. 
Par. Come you to make confession to this father ? 
Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. 
Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. 
Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. 
Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. 
Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, 

Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. 
Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears. 
Jul. The tears have got small victory by that ; 

For it was bad enough before their spite. 
Par. Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that 
Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth ; 

And what I spake, I spake it to my face. fit. 
Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d 
Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. 

Are you at leisure, holy father, now; 

Or shall I come to you at evening mass ? [now. 
Fri. L. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, 

My lord, we must entreat the time alone. 

Par. God shield I should disturb devotion ! 

Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye: 

Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. | Hatt. 
Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, 


[report. | 


Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help! | 


Fri. L. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; 
It strains me past the compass of my wits: 
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, 
On Thursday next be married to this county. 
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this, 
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: 
Tf, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, 
Do thou but call my resolution wise, 
And with this knife I ’1l help it presently. 
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; 
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d, 
Shall be the label to another deed, 
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt 
Turn to another, this shall slay them both: 
Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time, 
Give me some present counsel, or, behold, 
°T wixt my extremes and me this bloody knife 
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that 
Which the commission of thy years and art 
Could to no issue of true honour bring. 
Be not so long to speak; I long to die, 
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. 


| Inthis resolve: I lisend a friar with speed 


Fri. L. Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope, 
Which craves as desperate an execution 
As that is desperate which we would prevent. 

If, rather than to marry County Paris, 

Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, 
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake 

A thing like death to chide away this shame, 

That copest with death himself to scape from it; 
And, if thou darest, I ll give thee remedy.. 

_ dul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, 
From off the battlements of yonder tower; 

Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk 

Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears ; 
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, 
O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones, 
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; 

Or bid me go into a new-made grave 

And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; 
Things that, to hear them told, have made me trem- 
And I will do it without fear or doubt, [ble ; 
To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. 

Fri. L. Hold, then; go home, be merry, give con- 
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow: [sent 
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone ; 

Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber: 
Take thou this vial, being then in bed, 

And this distilled liquor drink thou off ; 

When presently through all thy veins shall run 
A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse 

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease : 
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest ; 
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade 

To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall, 


| Like death, when he shuts up the day of life; 


Each part, deprived of supple government, 

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death: 
And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death 
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, 

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. 

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes 
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead: 
Then, as the manner of our country is, 

In thy best robes uncover’d on the bier 

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault 
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. 

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, 
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, 


| And hither shall he come: and he and I 
| Will watch thy waking, and that very night 


Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. 
And this shall free thee from this present shame ; 
If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear, 


Abate thy valour in the acting it. 


Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! 
Fri. L. Hold; get you gone, be strong and pros- 
[perous 
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. 
Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall 
help afford. 
Farewell, dear father ! [ Hxewnt. 


SCENE II.— Hall in Capulet’s house. 


Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and two 
Servingmen. 


Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. 
[Hxit First Servant. 

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. 

Sec. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ ll try 
if they can lick their fingers. 

Cap. How canst thou try them so ? 

Sec. Serv. Marry, sir, ’t is an ill cook that cannot 
lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick 
his fingers goes not with me. 


601 


ACT IV. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE IV. 


Cap. Go, be gone. [Exit Sec. Servant. 
We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. 
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence ? 

Nurse. Ay, forsooth. 

Cap. Well, he may chance to dosome good on her: 
A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. 

Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with 


look. 
merry look Enter Juliet. 


Cap. How now, my headstrong! where have you 

been gadding ? 

Jul. Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin 
Of disobedient opposition 
To you and your behests, and am enjoin’d 
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, 

And beg your pardon: pardon, I beseech you! 
Henceforward I am ever ruled by you. 

Cap. Send for the county; go tell him of this: 
Tl have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. 

Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell; 
And gave him what becomed love I might, 

Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. 

Cap. Why, lam glad on ’t; this is well: stand up: 
This is as ’t should be. Let me see the county; 
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. 

Now, afore God! this reverend holy friar, 
All our whole city is much bound to him. 

Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, 
To help me sort such needful ornaments 
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? 

La. Cap. No, not till Thursday; there is time 

enough. [to-morrow. 

Cap. Go, nurse, go with her: we’ll to church 

[Hxeunt Juliet and Nurse. 

La. Cap. We shall be short in our provision: 

"T is now near night. 
ap. Tush, I will stir about, 

And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife: 
Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her; 
Ill not to bed to-night; let me alone; 
Ill play the housewife for this once. What, ho! 
They are all forth. Well, 1 will walk myself 
To County Paris, to prepare him up 
Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light, 
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. 

[ Hxeunt. 

SCENE III. — Juliet’s chamber. 


Enter Juliet and Nurse. 


Jul. Ay, those attires are best: but, gentle nurse, 
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night ; 
For I have need of many orisons 
To move the heavens to smile upon my state, 
Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin. 


Enter Lady Capulet. 


La. ae hat, are you busy, ho? need you my 
elp : 
Jul. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries 
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: 
So please you, let me now be left alone, 
And let the nurse this night sit up with you: 
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, 
In this so sudden business. 
La. Cap. Good night: 
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. 
[Hxeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. 
Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet 
again. 
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, 
That almost freezes up the heat of life: 
I’) callthem back again to comfort me: 
Nurse! What should she do here ? 
My dismal scene I needs must act alone. 
Come, vial. 
What if this mixture do not work at all ? 
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ? 


602 


No, no: this shall forbid it: lie thou there. 
[Laying down her dagger. 

What if it be a poison, which the friar 

Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, 

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, 

Because he married me before to Romeo ? 

I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not, 

For he hath still been tried a holy man. 

How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 

I wake before the time that Romeo 

Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point! 

Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault, 

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, 

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? 

Or, if I live, is it not very like, 

The horrible conceit of death and night, 

Together with the terror of the place,— 

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 

Where, for these many hundred years, the bones 

Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d: 

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 


_ Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, 


At some hours in the night spirits resort ; — 
Alack, alack, is it not like that I, 
So early waking, what with loathsome smells, 
And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth, 
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad :— 
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, 
Environed with all these hideous fears ? 
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? 
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? 
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, 
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 
O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost 
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 
Upon a rapier’s point: stay, Tybalt, stay! 
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. 

[She falls upon her bed, within the curtains. 


SCENE IV. — Hall in Capulet’s house. 


Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. 


La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more 
spices, nurse. 
Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. 


Enter Capulet. 


Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath 
crow’d, 

The curfew-bell hath rung, *t is three o’clock: 
Look to the baked meats, good Angelica: 
Spare not for cost. 

Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, 
Get you to bed; faith, you ’ll be sick to-morrow 
For this night’s watching. 

Cap. No, not a whit: what! I have watch’d ere 


now 
All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. 
La. Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in 
your time; 
But I will watch you from such watching now. 
[Hxeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. 
Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! 


Enter three or four Servingmen, with spits, logs, and baskets, 


Now, fellow, 
What ’s there ? 
First Serv. Things for the cook, sir; but 1 know 
not what. 
Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit First Serv.} 
Sirrah, fetch drier logs: 
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. 
Sec. Serv. I haveahead, sir, that will find out logs, 
And never trouble Peter for the matter. | Exit. 
Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! 
Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, ’t is day: 
The county will be here with music straight, 


ACT IV. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE V. 


For so he said he would: I hear him near. 
[ Music within. 
Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! 


Re-enter Nurse. 


Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up; 

Ill go and chat with Paris: hie, make haste, 
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already: 
Make haste, I say. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.— Juliet’s chamber. 


Enter Nurse. 


Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I 
warrant her, she: 
Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed! 
Why, love, [say! madam! sweetheart! why, bride! 
What, not a word ? you take your pennyworths now ; 
Sleep for a week; for the next night, [ warrant, 
The County Paris hath set up his rest, 
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me, 
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep! 
I must needs wake her. Madam, madam, madam! 
Ay, let the county take you in your bed; 
He’ll fright you up, i’ faith. Will it not be? 
[ Undraws the curtains. 

What, dress’d! and in yourclothes! and down again! 
I must needs wake you: Lady! lady! lady! 
Alas, alas! Help, help! my lady ’s dead! 
O, well-a-day, that ever I was born! 
some aqua vite, ho! My lord! my lady! 


Enter Lady Capulet. 


La. Cap. What noise is here ? 
Nurse. O lamentable day! 
La. Cap. What is the matter ? 
Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! 
La. Cap. Ome,O me! My child, my only life, 
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! 
Help, help! Call help. 


Enter Capulet. 


Cap. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is 
come. - the day! 
Nurse. She’s dead, deceased, she’s dead; alack 
La. Cap. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, 
she ’s dead! 
Cap. Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she’s cold; 
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff ; 
Life and these lips have long been separated : 
Death lies on her like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 
Nurse. O lamentable day! 
La. Cap. O woful time! 
Cap. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make 
me wail, 
Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. 


Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with Musi- 
cians. 


Fri. L. Come, is the bride ready to go to church ? 
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. 
O son! the night before thy wedding-day 
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, 
Flower as she was, deflowered by him. 
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; 
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, 
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s. 
Par. Have I thought long to see this morning’s 
And doth it give me such a sight as this ? [face, 
La. Cap. Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful 
Most miserable hour that e’er time saw [day ! 
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! 
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, 
But one thing to rejoice and solace in, 
And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight! 
Nurse. O woe! O woful, woful, woful day! 


Most lamentable day, most woful day, 

That ever, ever, I did yet behold! 

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! 

Never was seen so black a day as this: 

O woful day, O woful day! 

Par. Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! 
Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, 

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! 

O love! O life! not life, but love in death! 

Cap. Despised, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d' 
Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now 
To murder, murder our solemnity ? 

O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! 

Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead ; 

And with my child my joys are buried. 

Fri. L. Peace, ho,forshame! confusion’s cure lives 
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself [not 
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all, 
And all the better is it for the maid: 

Your part in her you could not keep from death, 

But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. 

The most you sought was her promotion: 

For ’t was your heaven she should be advanced: 

And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced 

Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself ? 

O, in this love, you love your child so ill, 

That you run mad, seeing that she is well: 

She ’s not well married that lives married long; 

But she’s best married that dies married young. 

Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary 

On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, 

In all her best array bear her to church: 

For though fond nature bids us all lament, 

Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. 

Cap. All things that we ordained festival, 

Turn from their office to black funeral ; 

Our instruments to melancholy bells, 

Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast, 

Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, 

Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, 

And all things change them to the contrary. 

Fri. L. Sir, go youin; and,madam, go with him; 
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare 
To follow this fair corse unto her grave: 

The heavens do lour upon you for some ill; 

Move them no more by crossing their high will. 
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar. 
first Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes, and 

be gone. 

Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up; 
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. | Hxat. 

First Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be 


amended. 
Enter Peter. 


Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, *‘ Heart’s ease, 
Heart’s ease:’ O, an you will have me live, play 
‘ Heart’s ease.’ 

First Mus. Why ‘ Heart’s ease’ ? 

Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 
‘My heart is full of woe: ’ O, play me some merry 
dump, to comfort me. 

First Mus. Not a dump we; ’t is no time to play 

Pet. You will not, then? [now. 

First Mus. No. 

Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 

First Mus. What will you give us ? 

Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek; I 
will give you the minstrel. ; 

First Mus. Then will I give you the serving- 
creature. 

Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger 
on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I’ll re 
you, Ill fa you; do you note me? 

First Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 

* Sec. Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put 
out your wit. 

Pet. Then have at you with my wit! 


603 


I will dry- 


ACT V. 


beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dag- 
ger. Answer me like men: 
‘When griping grief the heart doth wound, 
And doleful dumps the mind oppress, 
Then music with her silver sound ’— 
why ‘silver sound’? why ‘music with her silver 
sound’? What say you, Simon Catling ? 
First Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet 
sound. 
Pet. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck ? 
Sec. Mus. I say ‘ silver sound,’ because musicians 
sound for silver. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE II. 


aA Pretty too! What say you, James Sound. 
pos 

Third Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. 

Pet. O, I ery you mercy; you are the singer: I 
will say for you. It is ‘music with her silver 
sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sound- 
ing: 

a Then music with her silver sound 

With speedy help doth lend redress.’ [Hwit. 

First Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same! 

Sec. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; 
tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Hvewnt. 


UAICGSELTOOIV, 


SCENE I. — Mantua. 


Enter Romeo. 


Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, 
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: 
My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; 
And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit 
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. 
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead — 
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to 

think !— 

And breathed such life with kisses in my lips, 
That I revived, and was an emperor. 
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d, 
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy! 


Enter Balthasar, booted. 


News from Verona !— How now, Balthasar! 
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar ? 
How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? 

How fares my Juliet ? that I ask again; 

For nothing can be ill, if she be well. 

Bal. 'Then she is well, and nothing can be ill: 

Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, 
And her immortal part with angels lives. 
I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, 
And presently took post to tell it you: 

O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, 
Since you did leave it for my office, sir. 

Rom. Is it evenso? then I defy you, stars! 
Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper, 
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night. 

Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience: 
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import 
Some misadventure. 

Rom. Tush, thou art deceived : 
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. 

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar ? 

Bal. No, my good lord. 

fiom. No matter: get thee gone, 
And hire those horses; Ill be with thee straight. 

[Hxit Balthasar. 

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 
Let’s see for means: O mischief, thou art swift 
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! 
1 do remember an apothecary — 
And hereabouts he dwells,— which late I noted 
in tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, 
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, 
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones: 
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, 
An alligator stuff’d, and other skins 
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves 
A beggarly account of empty boxes, 
Green earthen pots, bladders and musty seeds, 
Remnants of packthread and old cakes of roses, 
Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. : 
Noting this penury, to myself I said 
‘An if a man did need a poison now, 

604 


A street. 


Whose sale is present death in Mantua, 

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.’ 
O, this same thought did but forerun my need ; 
And this same needy man must sell it me. 

As I remember, this should be the house. 
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. 
What, ho! apothecary ! 


Enter Apothecary. 


Ap. Who calls so loud ? 
Rom. Comehither,man. Isee that thou art poor: 
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have 
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear 
As will disperse itself through all the veins 
That the life-weary taker may fall dead 
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath 
As violently as hasty powder fired 
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb. 
Ay. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law 
Is death to any he that utters them. 
Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, 
And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks, 
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, 
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back; 
The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law; 
The world affords no law to make thee rich ; 
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. 
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. 
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. 
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will, 
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength 
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. 
Rom. There is thy gold,worse poison to men’s souls, 
Doing more murders in this loathsome world, 
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. 
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. 
Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. 
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me ~ 
To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.— Friar Laurence’s cell. 


Enter Friar John, 
Fri. J. Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho! 


Enter Friar Laurence. 


Fri. L. This same should be the voice of Friar 
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo? [John. 
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his lettter. 

fri. J. Going to find a bare-foot brother out, 
One of our order, to associate me, 

Here in this city visiting the sick, 

And finding him, the searchers of the town, 

Suspecting that we both were in a house 

Where the infectious pestilence did reign, ; 

Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth ; 

So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. 
Fri. L. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? 
Fri. J. E could not send it,—here it is again,— 


ACT V. 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE III. 


Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, 
So fearful were they of infection. 
Fri. L. Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood, 
The letter was not nice but full of charge 
Of dear import, and the neglecting it 
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence; 
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight 
Unto my cell. 
Fri. J. Brother, Ill go and bring it thee. [Euit. 
Fri. L. Now must I to the monument alone; 
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake: 
She will beshrew me much that Romeo 
Hath had no notice of these accidents ; 
But I will write again to Mantua, 
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come; 
Poor living corse, closed in a dead man’s tom 
eit. 


SCENE III.—A churchyard; in it a tomb belonging | 


to the Capulets. 


Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and 
a torch. 


Par. Give me thy torch, boy; hence, and stand 
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. [aloof : 
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along, 

Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground ; 
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, 
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, 
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me, 

As signal that thou hear’st something approach. 
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. 

Page. | Aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone 
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. 

[ Retires. 

Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I 

strew,— 
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones ;— 

Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, 

Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans: 

The obsequies that I for thee will keep 

Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. 

[The Page whistles. 
The boy gives warning something doth approach. 
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night, 
To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite ? 
What, with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile. 
[ Retires. 


Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mat- 
tock, &c. 


Fom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching 
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning f[iron. 
See thou deliver it to my lord and father. 

Give me the light: upon thy life, I charge thee, 
Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof, 
And do not interrupt me in my course. 
Why I descend into this bed of death, 
Is partly to behold my lady’s face ; 
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger . 
A precious ring, a ring that I must use 
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone: 
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry 
In what I further shall intend to do, 
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint 
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs: 
The time and my intents are savage-wild, 
More fierce and more inexorable far 
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. . 
Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 
Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take 
thou that: 
Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow. 
3al. [Aside] For all this same, Ill hide me here- 
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [about: 
[ Retires. 
Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, 


Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth, 
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, 
And, in despite, Il] cram thee with more food! 
7 [Opens the tomb. 

Par. This is that banish’d haughty Montague, 
That murder’d my love’s cousin, with which grief, 
It is supposed, the fair creature died ; 

And here is come to do some villanous shame 
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him. 

[Comes forward. 
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague! 
Can vengeance be pursued further than death ? 
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee: 
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. 

Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. 
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man; 
Fly hence, and leave me: think upon these gone; 
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, 
Put not another sin upon my head, 


_ By urging me to fury: O, be gone! 
| By heaven, I love thee better than myself; 
For I come hither arm’d against myself: 


Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say, 
A madman’s mercy bade thee run away. 
Par. I do defy thy conjurations, 
And apprehend thee for a felon here. 
Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, 


boy! [ They fight. 
Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the 
watch. [ Exit. 


Par. O, 1am slain! [Falls.] If thou be merciful, 
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [ Dies. 
Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. 
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! 
What said my man, when my betossed soul 
Did not attend him as we rode? I think 
He told me Paris should have married Juliet : 
Said he not so? or did I dream it so ? 
Or am I[ mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 
To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, 
One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book! 
Ill bury thee in a triumphant grave; 
A grave ? O, no! a lantern, slaughter’d youth, 
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes 
This: vault a feasting presence full of light. 
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d. 
[Laying Paris in the tomb. 
How oft when men are at the point of death 
Have they been merry! which their keepers call 
A lightning before death: O, how may I 
Call this a lightning ? O my love! my wife! 
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: 
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, 
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. 
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? 
O, what more favour can I do to thee, 
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain 
To sunder his that was thine enemy ? 
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet, 
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe 
That unsubstantial death is amorous, 
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 
Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? 
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee: 
And never from this palace of dim night 
Depart again: here, here will I remain 
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here 
Will I set up my everlasting rest, 
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars [last ! 
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your 
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 
A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! 
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! 
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 


605 


ACT V. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


SCENE II}. 


The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark! | 
Here ’s to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary! 


Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies. 


inter, at the other end of the churchyard, Friar 
_ Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. 


Fri. L, Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to- | 


night 
Have cea old feet stumbled at graves! Who’sthere? | 
Bal. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows | 
you well. [friend, | 
Fri, L. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my 
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light 
To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern, 
It burneth in the Capels’ monument. [ter, 
Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my mas- 


One that you love. 
Who is it? 
Romeo. 


Fri. L. 
Fri. L. How long hath he been there ? 


Bal. 


Bal. Full half an hour. | 
Fri. L. Go with me to the vault. 
Bal. I dare not, sir: 


My master knows not but I am gone hence; 

And fearfully did menace me with death, 

If I did stay to look on his intents. [upon me: 
fri. L. Stay, then; I’ll go alone. Fear comes 

O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. 
bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, 

I dreamt my master and another fought, 

Ree vay my master slew him. 

a ae Bp 


Romeo! 
[ Advances. 
Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains 
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? 
What mean these masterless and gory swords 
To lie discolour’d by this place of peace ? 
| Enters the tomb. 
Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too ? 
And steep’d in blood ? Ah, what an unkind hour 
Is guilty of this lamentable chance! 
The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes. 
Jul. O comfortable friar! where is my lord ? 
I do remember well where I should be, 
And there lam. Where is my Romeo? 
[ Noise within. 
dvi.L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that 
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep: [nest 
A greater power than we can contradict 
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. 
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; 
And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee 
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns: 
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; 
Come, go, good, Juliet [Noise again], I dare no 
longer stay. 
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. 
[Hvit Fri. DL. 
What ’s here? a cup, closed in my true love’s hand ? 
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end: 
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop 
To help me after ? I will kiss thy lips; 
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, 
To make me die with a restorative. | Kisses him. 
Thy lips are warm. 
tirst Watch. | Within] Lead, boy: which way ? 
Jul. Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy 
dagger! [Snatching Romeo’s dagger. 
This is thy sheath [Stabs herself]; there rust, and 
let me die. [alls on Romeo’s body, and dies. 


Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris. 
Page. This is the place; there, where the torch 
doth burn. 
First Watch. The ground is bloody; search about 
the churchyard: 
Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach. 
606 


Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain; 

And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, 
Who here hath lain these two days buried. 
Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets: 
Raise up the Montagues: some others search: 
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; 
But the true ground of all these piteous woes 
We cannot without circumstance descry. 


fte-enter some of the Watch, with Balthasar. 


Sec. Watch. Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him 
in the churchyard. 

First Watch. Hold him in safety, till the prince 
come hither. 


fte-enter others of the Watch, with Friar Laurence. 


Third Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, 
and weeps ; 
We took this mattock and this spade from him, 
As he was coming from this churchyard side. 
First Watch. A great suspicion : stay the friar too. 


Enter the Prince and Attendants. 


Prince. What misadventure is so early up, 
That calls our person from our morning’s rest ? 


Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others. 


Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek 
abroad ? 
La. Cap. The people in the street cry Romeo, 

Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run, 

With open outcry, toward our monument. [ears ? 
Prince. What fear is this which startles in our 
First Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County 

Paris slain; 

And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, 

Warm and new kill’d. 

Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul 
murder comes. 

First Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter’d 
Romeo’s man; 

With instruments upon them, fit to open 

These dead men’s tombs. {bleeds ! 
Cap. O heaven! O wife, look how our daughter 

This dagger hath mista’en,—for, lo, his house 

Is empty on the back of Montague,— 

And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom ! 

La. Cap. O me! this sight of death is as a bell, 

That warns my old age to a sepulchre. 


Enter Montague and others. 


Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up, 
To see thy son and heir more early down. 

Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night ; 
Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath: 
What further woe conspires against my age ? 

Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. 

Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in this, 
To press before thy father to a grave ? 

Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, 
Till we can clear these ambiguities, 


And know their spring ,their head, their true descent; 


And then will I be general of your woes, 
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear, 
And let mischance be slave to patience. 
Bring forth the parties of suspicion. 
fri. L. Tam the greatest, able to do least, 
Yet most suspected, as the time and place 
Doth make against me, of this direful murder; 
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge 
Myself condemned and myself excused. 
Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in 
this. [breath 
Fri. L. I will be brief, for my short date of 
Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; 
And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife: 


oe 


ACT V. 


I married them; and their stol’n marriage-day 
Was Tybalt’s dooms-day, whose untimely death 
Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city, 
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined. 
You, to remove that siege of erief from her, 
Betroth’d and would have married her perforce 
To County Paris: then comes she to me, 

And, with wild looks, bid me devise some means 
To rid her from this second marriage, 

Or in my cell there would she kill herself. 

Then gave I her, so tutor’d by my art, 

A sleeping potion; which so took effect 

As I intended, for it wrought on her 

The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo, 
That he should hither come as this dire night, 
Yo help to take her from her borrow’d grave, 
Being the time the potion’s force should cease. 
But he which bore my letter, Friar John, 

Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight 
Return’d my letter back. Then all alone 

At the prefixed hour of her waking, 

Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault ; 
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, 

Till I conveniently could send to Romeo: 

But when I came, some minute ere the time 

Of her awaking, here untimely lay 

The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. 

She wakes; and I entreated her come forth, 
And bear this work of heaven with patience: 
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb; 
And she, too desperate, would not go with me, 
But, as it seems, did violence on herself. 

All this I know; and to the marriage 

Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this 
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life 

Be sacrificed, some hour before his time, 

Unto the rigour of severest law. 


Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. 


Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this? 


Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet’s death ; 


i La 
ii 


a a ti) 


ia ay) 
| las * 
HW 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


SCENE III. 


And then in post he came from Mantua 

To this same place, to this same monument. 

This letter he early bid me give his father, 

And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault, 
If I departed not and left him there. 

Prince. Give me the letter; I will look on is. 
Where is the county’s page, that raised the watch ? 
Sirrah, what made your tnaster in this place ? 

Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady’s 


And bid me stand aloof, and so I did: [grave ; 
Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; 

And by and by my master drew on him; 

And then I ran away to call the watch. [words, 


Prince. This letter doth make good the friars 
Their course of love, the tidings of her death: 
And here he writes that he did buy a poison 
Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal 
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. 
Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague! 
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate. 

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. 
And I for winking at your discords too 
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish’d. 

Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand: 
This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more 
Can I demand. 

Mon. But I can give thee more: 

For I will raise her statue in pure gold; 
That while Verona by that name is known, 
There shall no figure at such rate be set 

As that of true and faithful Juliet. 

Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie; 
Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! 

Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it 

brings; 

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head : 

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things ; 

Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished : 

For never was a story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [ Haeeunt. 


Benvolio.—Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. 
Romeo.—Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain ! 

Away to heaven, respective lenity, 

And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now! — 

Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, 

That late thou gav’st me; for Mercutio’s soul 

Is but a little way above our heads, 

Staying for thine to keep him company: 

Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. 
Tybalt.—Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, 


Shalt with him hence. 
Romeo. 


This shall determine that.—Acrt III., 


Scere i. 


60T 


, (4 
{> x 


—— 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Timon, of Athens. 
Lucius, 
Lucullus, 
Sempronius, 
Ventidius, one of Timon’s false friends. 
Alcibiades, an Athenian captain. 
Apemantus, a churlish philosopher. 
Flavius, steward to Timon. 

Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant. 
An old Athenian. 

Flaminius, 
Lucilius, 
Servilius, 


{nasi lords. 


brea to Timon. 


Caphis, 
Philotus, 
Titus, 
Lucius, 
Hortensius, 
And others, 

A Page. <A Fool. 


Phrynia, \ : ne 
Timandra, | mistresses to Alcibiades. 


Cupid and Amazons in the mask. 
Other Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Banditti, and 
Attendants. 


SCENE — Athens, and the neighbouring woods. 


servants to Timon’s creditors. 


Three Strangers. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LxI.] 


Wow CG Biel Ee 


SCENE I.—Athens. <A hall in Timon’s house. 


Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, 
at several doors. 


Poet. Good day, sir. 
Pain. Iam glad you ’re well. 
Poet. I have not seen you long: how goes the 
Pain. It wears, sir, as it grows. [world ? 
Poet. Ay, that’s well known: 

But what particular rarity ? what strange, 

Which manifold record not matches? See, 

Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power 

Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant. 
Pain. I know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller. 
Mer. O, tis a worthy lord. 


Jew. Nay, that’s most fix’d. 
Mer. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it 
Yo an untirable and continuate goodness: (were, 


He passes. 
Jew. I have a jewel here — 
Mer. O,pray, let ’s see ’t : for the Lord Timon, sir ? 
Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but, for that — 
Poet. [Reciting to himself| ‘ When we for recom- 

pense have praised the vile, 

1t stains the glory in that happy verse 

Which aptly sings the good.’ 
Mer. Tis a good form. 

| Looking at the jewel. 
Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye. 

Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedi- 
To the great lord. ; [cation 
Poet. A thing slipp’d idly from me. 

Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes 
From whence ’t is nourish’d: the fire i’ the flint 
Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame 
Provokes itself and like the current flies 
Each bound it chafes. What have you there ? 
Pain. A picture, sir. When comes your book 
forth ? 
Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. 
Let ’s see your piece. 
Pain. °T is a good piece. 
Poet. So ’tis: this comes off well and excellent. 
Pain. Indifferent. 


608 


Poet. Admirable: how this grace 
Speaks his own standing ! what a mental power 
This eye shoots forth! how big imagination 
Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture 
One might interpret. 

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. 

Here isa touch; is’t good? 

Poet. I will say of it, 
It tutors nature: artificial strife 
Lives in these touches, livelier than life. 


Enter certain Senators, and pass over. 


Pain. How this lord is follow’d! 
Poet. The senators of Athens: happy man! 
Pain. Look, more! [visitors. 
Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of 
I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man, 
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug 
With amplest entertainment: my free drift 
Halts not particularly, but moves itself 
In a wide sea of wax: no levell’d malies 
Infects one comma in the course I hoid; 
But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, 
Leaving no tract behind. 
Pain. How shall I understand you ? 
Poet. I will unbolt to you. 
You see how all conditions, how all. minds, 
As well of glib and slippery creatures as 
Of grave and austere quality, tender down 
Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune 
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging 
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance 
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer 
To Apemantus, that few things loves better 
Than to abhor himself: even he drops down 
The knee before him and returns in peace 
Most rich in Timon’s nod. 

Pain. I saw them speak together. 
Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill 
Feign’d Fortune to be throned: the base o’ the 

mount 
Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind of natures, 
That labour on the bosom of this sphere 
To propagate their states: amongst them all, 


ACT I. TIMON 


OF ATHENS. 


SCENE I. 


Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d, 
One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, 
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her; 
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants 
Translates his rivals. 
ain. *T is conceived to scope. 
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, 
With one man beckon’d from the rest below, 
Bowing his head against the steepy mount 
To climb his happiness, would be well express’d 
In our condition. 
Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. 
All those which were his fellows but of late, 
Some better than his value, on the moment 
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, 
Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, 
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him 
Drink the free air. 
Pain. Ay, marry, what of these ? 
Poet. ener Fortune in her shift and change of 
moo 
Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants 
Which labour’d after him to the mountain’s top 
Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, 
Not one accompanying his declining foot. 
Pain. “Tis common: 
A thousand moral paintings I can show 
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of For- 
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well 
To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen 
The foot above the head. 


Trumpets sound, Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself 
courteously to every suitor; a Messenger from Ven- 
tidius talking with him; Lucilius and other servants 
following. 

Tim. Imprison’d is he, say you? 
Mess. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt, 

His means most short, his creditors most strait: 

Your honourable letter he desires 

To those have shut him up; which failing, 

Periods his comfort. 

Tim. Noble Ventidius! Well; 

IT am not of that feather to shake off 

My friend when he must need me. I do know him 

A gentleman that well deserves a help: 

Which he shall have: I ’ll pay the debt, and free him. 
Mess. Your lordship ever binds him. [som ; 
Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ran- 

And being enfranchised, bid him come to me. 

”T is not enough to help the feeble up, 

But to support him after. Fare you well. 


Mess. All happiness to your honour! [Hxit. 


Enter an old Athenian. 


Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak. 

im. Freely, good father. 
Old Ath. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. 
Tim. I have so: what of him ? [thee. 
Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before 
Tim. Attends he here, or no? Lucilius! 

Luc. Here, at your lordship’s service. [creature, 
Old Ath. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy 
By night frequents my house. Iam aman 
That from my first have been inclined to thrift ; 
And my estate deserves an heir more raised 
Than one which holds a trencher. 
Tim. Well; what further ? 
Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, 
On whom I may confer what I have got: 
The maid is fair, 0’ the youngest for a bride, 
And I have bred her at my dearest cost 
In qualities of the best. This man of thine 
Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord, 
Join with me to forbid him her resort ; 
ahaa have spoke in vain. 
im. 


39 


The man is honest. 


[tune’s ' 


Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon: 
His honesty rewards him in itself; 
It must not bear my daughter. 
im. Does she love him ? 
Old Ath. She is young and apt: 
Our own precedent passions do instruct us 
What levity ’s in youth. 
Tim. [To Lucilius.| Love you the maid ? 
Luc. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it. 
Old Ath. If in her marriage my consent be miss- 
I call the gods to witness, I will choose ling, 
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world, 
And dispossess her all. 
Tim. How shall she be endow’d, 
If she be mated with an equal husband ? [all. 
Old Ath. Three talents on the present; in future, 
Tim. This gentleman of mine hath served me long: 
To build his fortune I will strain a little, 
For ’tisa bond in men. Give him thy daughter : 
What you bestow, in him I’ll counterpoise, 
And make him weigh with her. 
Old Ath. Most noble lord, 
Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. [promise. 
Tim. My hand to thee; mine honour on my 
Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship: never may 
That state or fortune fall into my keeping, 
Which is not owed to you! 
[Hxeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian. 
Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your 
lordship! 
Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon: 
Go not away. What have you there, my friend ? 
Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech 
Your lordship to accept. 
Tim. Painting is welcome. 
The painting is almost the natural man; 
For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature, 
He is but outside: these pencill’d figures are 
Even such as they give out. J like your work; 
And you shall find I like it: wait attendance 
Till you hear further from me. 
Pain. The gods preserve ye! 
Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand; 
We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel 
Hath suffer’d under praise. , 
Jew. What, my lord! dispraise ? 
Tim. A mere satiety of commendations. 
If I should pay you for ’t as ’t is extoll’d, 
It would unclew me quite. 
Jew. My lord, ’tis rated 
As those which sell would give: but you well know, 
Things of like value differing in the owners 
Are prized by their masters: believe ’t, dear lord, 
You mend the jewel by the wearing it. 
Tim. Well mock’d. [tongue, 
Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the common 
Which all men speak with him. 
Tim. Look, who comes here: will you be chid ? 


Enter Apemantus. 


Jew. Well bear, with your lordship. 

Mer. He’ll spare none. 

Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus! 

Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good 
morrow ; [honest. 

When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves 

Tim. Why dost thou call them knaves? thou 
know’st them not. 

Apem. Are they not Athenians ? 

Tim. Yes. 

Apem. Then I repent not. : 

Jew. Youknow me, Apemantus ? [name. 

Apem. Thou know’st I do: I call’d thee by thy 

Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus. (Timon. 

Apem. Of nothing so much as that I am not like 

wm. Whither art going ? : 
Apen. To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains. 


609 


ACT I. 


Tim. That’s a deed thou ‘It die for. flaw. 

rans Right, if doing nothing be death by the 

um. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus ? 

Aypem. The best, for the innocence. 

Tim. Wrought he not well that painted it ? 

Apem. He wrought better that made the painter ; 
and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. 

Pain. You’re a dog. 

Apem. Thy mother’s of my generation: what’s 
she, if I be a dog? 

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus ? 

Apem. No; I eat not lords. 

Zim. An thou shouldst, thou ’ldst anger ladies. 

Apem. O, they eat lords; so they come by great 

Tim. That ’s a lascivious apprehension. [bellies. 

Apem. So thou apprehendest it: take it for thy 
labour. 

Tim. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? 

Apem. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will 
not cost a man a doit. 

Tim. What dost thou think ’t is worth ? 

Apem. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet! 

Poet. How now, philosopher ! 

Apem. Thou liest. 

Poet. Art not one? 

Apem. Yes. 

Poet. Then I lie not. 

Apem. Art not a poet ? 

Poet. Yes. 

Apem. Then thou liest: look in thy last work, 
where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow. 

Poet. That’s not feigned; he is so. 

Apem. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee 
for thy labour: he that loves to be flattered is worthy 
o’ the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! 

Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus ? 

Apem. E’en as Apemantus does now; hate a lord 
with my heart. 

Tim. What, thyself ? 

Apem. Ay. 

Tim. Wherefore ? 

Apem. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. 

Art not thou a merchant ? 

Mer. Ay, Apemantus. 

Apem. Traftic confound thee, if the gods will not! 

Mer. If traffic do it, the gods do it. [thee ! 

Apem. Traflic’s thy god; and thy god confound 


Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger. 


Tim. What trumpets that ? 

Mess. *T is Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, 
All of companionship. 

Tim. Pray, entertain them; give them guide to 

us. . [| Hxeunt some Attendants. 

You must needs dine with me: go not you hence 
Till I have thank’d you: when dinner ’s done, 
Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights. 


Enter Alcibiades, with the rest. 


Most welcome, sir! 
Aypem. So, so, there ! 
Aches contract and starve your supple joints ! 
That there should be small love ’mongst these 
sweet knaves, 
And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out 
Into baboon and monkey. 
Alcib. Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed 
Most hungerly on your sight. 
Tim. Right welcome, sir! 
Ere we depart, we ’ll share a bounteous time 
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. 
[Hxeunt all except Apemantus. 


Enter two Lords. 


First Lord. What time o’ day is ’t, Apemantus ? 
Apem. Time to be honest. 
first Lord. That time serves still. 


610 


TIM OM AOF: <A TUL: 


That ever govern’d man. 


SCENE Il. 


aes The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st 
it. 
Sec. Lord. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast ? 
Apem. Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat 
Sec. Lord. Fare thee well, fare thee well. [fools. 
Apem. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice. 
Sec. Lord. Why, Apemantus ? 
Apem. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I 
mean to give thee none. 
First Lord. Hang thyself! 
Apem. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: 
make thy requests to thy friend. 
Sec. Lord. Away, unpeaceable dog, or Ill spurn 
thee hence! 
Apem. I will fly, like a dog, the heels 0’ the _ 
it. 
First Lord. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, 
Shall we in, 
And taste Lord Timon’s bounty ? he outgoes 
The very heart of kindness. gold, 
Sec. Lord. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of 
Is but his steward: no meed, but he repays 
Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him, 
But breeds the giver a return exceeding 
All use of quittance. 
First Lord. The noblest mind he carries 
we in? 


Sec. Lord. Long may he live in fortunes! Shall 
Kirst Lord. Ill keep you company. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A banqueting-room in Timon’s house. 


Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in; 
Flavius and others attending ; then enter Lord Timon, 
Alcibiades, Lords, Senators, and Ventidius. Then 
comes, dropping after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, 
like himself. 


Ven. Most honour’d Timon, 
It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s 
And call him to long peace. lage, | 
He is gone happy, and has left me rich: 
Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound 
To your free heart, I do return those talents, 
Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help 
I derived liberty. 
Tim. O, by no means, 
Honest Ventidius; you mistake my love: 
I gave it freely ever; and there ’s none 
Can truly say he gives, if he receives: 
If our betters play at that game, we must not dare 
To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair. 
Ven. A noble spirit! 
Tim. Nay, my lords, 
[They all stand ceremoniously looking on Tinon. 
Ceremony was but devised at first 
To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, 
Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; [none. 
But where there is true friendship, there needs 
Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes 
Than my fortunes to me. -  [Phveyesits 
First Lord. My lord, we always have confess’d it. 
Aypem. Ho, ho, confess’d it! hang’d it, have you 
Tim. O, Apemantus, you are welcome. {not ? 
Apem. No; 
You shall not make me welcome: 
I come to have thee thrust me out of doors. [there 
Tim. Fie, thou’rt a churl; ye’ve got a humour 
Does not become a man; ’tis much to blame. 
They say, my lords, ‘ ira furor brevis est;’ but yond 
man isever angry. Go, let him havea table by him- 
self, for he does neither affect company, nor is he fit 
for ’t, indeed. 
Apem. Let me satay at thine apperil, Timon: I 
come to observe; I give thee warning on ’t. 
Tim. I take no heed of thee; thou ’rt an Athe- 
nian, therefore welcome: I myself would have no 
power; prithee, let my meat make thee silent. 


ACT I. 


RETROING 5 OF AT EEN. 


SCENE II. 


Apem. I scorn thy meat; ’t would choke me, for 
I should ne’er flatter thee. O you gods, what a 
number of men eat Timon, and he sees ’em not! It 
grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one 
man’s blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them 
up too. 
I wonder men dare trust themselves with men: 
Methinks they should invite them without knives ; 
Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. 
There ’s much example for’t; the fellow that sits 
next him now, parts bread with him, pledges the 
breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest 
man to kill him: ’t has been proved. If I were a 
huge man, I should fear to drink at meals; 
Lest they should spy my windpipe’s dangerous notes : 
Great men should drink with harness on their 
throats. round. 
Tim. My lord, in heart; and let the health go 
Sec. Lord. Let it flow this way, my good lord. 
Apem, Flow this way! <A brave fellow! he keeps 
his tides well. Those healths will make thee and 
thy state look ill, Timon. Here’s that which is too 
weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne’er left 
man i’ the mire: 
This and my food are equals; there ’s no odds: 
Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. 


APEMANTUS’ GRACE. 


Immortal gods, I crave no pelf ; 
I pray for no man but myself: 
Grant I may never prove so fond, 
To trust man on his oath or bond; 
Or a harlot, for her weeping; 
Or a dog, that seems a-sleeping ; 
Or a keeper with my freedom ; 
Or my friends, if I should need ’em. 
Amen. So fall to’t: 
Rich men sin, and I eat root. 
[Hats and drinks. 
Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus! 
Tim. Captain Alcibiades, your heart ’s in the field 


now. 

Alcib. My heart is ever at your service, my lord. 

Tim. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies 
than a dinner of friends. 

Alcib. So they were bleeding-new, my lord, there ’s 
no meat like ’em: I could wish my best friend at 
such a feast. 

Apem. Would all those flatterers were thine ene- 
mies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em and bid 
me to ’em! 

first Lord. Might we but have that happiness, 
my lord, that you would once use our hearts, 
whereby we might express some part of our zeals, 
we should think ourselves for ever perfect. 

Tim. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods 
themselves have provided that I shall have much 
help from you: how had you been my friends else ? 
why have you that charitable title from thousands, 
did not you chiefly belong tomy heart? Ihave told 
more of you to myself than you can with modesty 
speak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm 
you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any 
friends, if we should ne’er have need of ’em ? they 
were the most needless creatures living, should we 
ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble 
sweet instruments hung up in cases that keep their 
sounds to themselves. Why,I have often wished 
myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. 
We are born to do benefits: and what better or 
properer can we Call our own than the riches of our 
friends ? O, what a precious comfort ’tis, to have 
so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s 
fortunes! Ojoy, e’en made away ere ’t can be born! 
Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks: to for- 
get their faults, I drink to you. 

Apem. Thou weepest to make them drink, Timon. 


Sec. Lord. Joy had the like conception in our eyes 
And at that instant like a babe sprung up. [tard 
Apem. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bas+ 
Third Lord. I promise you, my lord, you mover: 
me much. 

Apem. Much! [| Tucket, within 
Tim. What means that trump ? 

Enter a Servant. 
How now ? 

Serv. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies 
most desirous of admittance. 

Tim. Ladies! what are their wills ? 

Serv. There comes with them a forerunner, my 
lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleas- 
ures. 

Tim. I pray, let them be admitted. 


Enter Cupid. 


Cup. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all 
That of his bounties taste! The five best senses 
Acknowledge thee their patron; and come freely 
To gratulate thy plenteous bosom: th’ ear, 

Taste, touch and smell, pleased from thy table rise ; 
They only now come but to feast thine eyes. 
Tim. They ’re welcome all; let ’em have kind ad- 
mittance: 
Music, make their welcome! [Hat Cupid. 

First Lord. You see, my lord, how ample you ’re 

beloved. 


Music. Re-enter Cupid, with a mask of Ladies as Ama- 
zons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing. 

Apem. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes 

They dance! they are mad women. [this way! 

Like madness is the glory of this life, 

As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. 

We make ourselves fools, to disport ourselves; 

And spend our flatteries, to drink those men 

Upon whose age we void it up again, 

With poisonous spite and envy. 

Who lives that ’s not depraved or depraves ? 

Who dies, that bears not one spurn to their graves 

Of their friends’ gift ? 

I should fear those that dance before me now 

Would one day stamp upon me: ’t has been done; 

Men shut their doors against a setting sun. 


The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon ; 
and to show their loves, each singles out an Amazon, and 
all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the 
hautboys, and cease. 


Tim. You have done our pleasures much grace, 
fair ladies, 
Set a fair fashion on our entertainment, 
Which was not half so beautiful and kind; 
You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, 
And entertain’d me with mine own device; 
IT am to thank you for ’t. 
First Lady. My lord, you take us even at the best. 
Apem. ’Faith, for the worst is filthy ; and would 
not hold taking, I doubt me. 
Tim. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you: 
Please you to dispose yourselves. 
All Ladies. Most thankfully, my lord. 
[Hxeunt Cupid and Ladies. 
Tim. Flavius. 
Flav. My lord? 
Tim. The little casket bring me hither. 
Flav. Yes, my lord. More jewels yet! [ Aside. 
There is no crossing him in’s humour; 
Else I should tell him,— well, i’ faith, I should, 
When all ’s spent, he ld be cross’d then, an he could. 
’T is pity bounty had not eyes behind, : 
That man might ne’er be wretched for his ees : 
| Heit. 
First Lord. Where be our men ? 
611 


AGTVIT. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE I. 


Serv. Here, my lord, in readiness. 
Sec. Lord. Our horses ! 


Re-enter Flavius, with the casket. 


Tim. O my friends, {lord, 
I have one word to say to you: look you, my good 
IT must entreat you, honour me so much ; 
As to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it, 
Kind my lord. 

First Lord. I am so far already in your gifts,— 

All. So are we all. 


Enter a Servant. 


Serv. My lord, there are certain nobles of the senate 
Newly alighted, and come to visit you. 

Tim. They are fairly welcome. 

Flav. I beseech your honour, 
Vouchsafe me a word; it does concern you near. 

Tim. Near! why then, another time L’l] hear thee: 
I prithee, let ’s be provided to show them entertain- 

Flav. [Aside] I scarce know how. [ment. 


Enter a second Servant. 


Sec. Serv. May it please your honour, Lord Lucius, 
Out of his free love, hath presented to you 
Four milk-white horses, trapp’d in silver. 

Tim. I shall accept them fairly; let the presents 
Be worthily entertain’d. 


Enter a third Servant. 


How now, what news ? 

Third Serv. Please you, my lord, that honourable 
gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company 
to-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent your 
honour two brace of greyhounds. 

Tim. I ’llhunt with him; and let them be received, 
Not without fair reward. 

WW. [Aside] What will this come to ? 

He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, 
And all out of an empty coffer: 
Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this, 
To show him what a beggar his heart is, 
Being of no power to make his wishes good: 
His promises fly so beyond his state 
That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes 
For every word: he is so kind that he now 
Pays interest for ’t; his land’s put to their books. 
Well, would I were gently put out of office 
Before I were forced out! 
Happier is he that has no friend to feed 
Than such that do e’en enemies exceed. 
I bleed inwardly for my lord. 


[ Exit. 
Tim. 


You do yourselves 


Much wrong, you bate too much of your own merits: 
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. [receive it. 
Sec. Lord. With more than common thanks I will 
Third Lord. O, he’s the very soul of bounty! 
Tim. And now I remember, my lord, you gave 
Good words the other day of a bay courser 
IT rode on: it is yours, because you liked it. _ [that. 
Sec. Lord. O, 1 beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in 
Tim. Youmay take my word, my lord; I know, no 
Can justly praise but what he does affect: [man 
I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own ; 
Ill tell you true. Ill call to you. 
All Lords. O, none so welcome. 
Tim. I take all and your several visitations 
So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give; 
Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends, 
And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades, 
Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich 5 
It comes in charity to thee: for all thy living 
Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast 
Lie in a pitch’d field. 
Alcib. Ay, defiled land, my lord. 
First Lord. We are so virtuously bound — 


im. And so 
Am I to you. 

Sec. Lord. So infinitely endear’d— 

Tim. Allto you. Lights, more lights! 

First Lord. The best of happiness 
Honour and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon 

Tim. Ready for his friends. 

| Hxeunt all but Apemantus and Timon. 

Apem. What a coil’s here! 
Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums! 

I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums 

That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs: 
Methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs. 
Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on court’sies. 

Tim. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, 
I would be good to thee. 

Apem. No, I’ll nothing: for if I should be bribed 
too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and 
then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou givest so 
long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself 
in paper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps, 
and vain-glories ? 

Tim. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I 
am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; 
and come with better music. [ Kvit. 

Apem. So: 

Thou wilt not hear me now; thou shalt not then: 
I’ll lock thy heaven from thee. 
O, that men’s ears should be 


To counsel deaf, but not to flattery ! [Exit. 


ANT Ee 


SCENE I.—A Senator’s house. 
Enter Senator, with papers in his hand, 
Sen. And late, five thousand: to Varro and to 
Isidore 
He owes nine thousand; besides my former sum, 
Which makes it five and twenty. Still in motion 
Of raging waste? It cannot hold; it will not. 
If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog, 
And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. 
If 1 would sell my horse, and buy twenty more 
Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, 
Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight, 
And able horses. No porter at his gate, 
But rather one that smiles and still invites 
All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason 
Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho! 
Caphis, I say! 
612 


Enter Caphis. 


Caph. Here, sir; what is your pleasure? 
Sen. Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord 
Timon; 
Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased 
With slight denial, nor then silenced when— 
‘Commend me to your master ’— and the cap 
Plays in the right hand, thus; but tell him, 


-| My uses ery to me, I must serve my turn 


Out of mine own; his days and times are past 
And my reliances on:his tracted dates 

Have smit my credit: I love and honour him, 
But must not break my back to heal his finger; 
Immediate are my needs, and my relief 

Must not be toss’d and turn’d to me in words, 
But find supply immediate. Get you gone: 
Put on a most importunate aspect, 


AMT TELS 


A visage of demand; for, I do fear, 

When every feather sticks in his own wing, 

Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, 

Which flashes now a pheenix. Get you gone. 
Caph. I go, sir. ~ 
Sen. ‘I go, sir! "— Take the bonds along with you, 

And have the dates in compt. 
Caph. I will, sir. 

Sen. 0. 

[ Hxeunt. 


‘SCENE II.— The same. <A hall in Timon’s house. 


Enter Flavius, with many bills in his hand. 


Flavius. No care, no stop! so senseless of expense, 
That he will neither know how to maintain it, 
Nor cease his flow of riot: takes no account 
How things go from him, nor resumes no care 
Of what is to continue: never mind 
Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. 

What shall be done? he will not hear, till feel: 
If must be round with him, now he comes from hunt- 
Fie, fie, fie, fie! [ing. 


Enter Caphis, and the Servants of Isidore and 
Varro. 


Caph. Good even, Varro: what, 
You come for money ? 
Var. Serv. Is ’t not your business too ? 
Caph. It is: and yours too, Isidore ? 
Isid. Serv. 
Caph. Would we were all discharged! 
Var. Serv. 
Caph. Here comes the lord. 


Enter Timon, Alcibiades, and Lords, &c. 


Tim. So soon as dinner ’s done, we ’ll forth again, 
My Alcibiades. With me? what is your will ? 
Caph. My lord, here isa note of certain dues. 
Tim. Dues! Whence are you ? 
Caph. Of Athens here, my lord. 
Tim. Go to my steward. 
Caph. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off 
To the succession of new days this month : 
My master is awaked by great occasion 
To call upon his own, and humbly prays you 
That with your other noble parts you ’l] suit 
In giving him his right. 
Tim. Mine honest friend, 
I prithee, but repair to me next morning. 
Caph. Nay, good my lord, — 
Tim. Contain thyself, good friend. 
Var. Serv. One Varro’s servant, my good lord,— 
Isid. Serv. From Isidore; 
He humbly prays your speedy payment. [wants— 
Caph. If you did know, my lord, my master’s 
Var. Serv. ’T was due on forfeiture, my lord, six 
And past. [weeks 
Isid. Serv. Your steward puts me off, my lord; 
And I am sent expressly to your lordship. 
Tim. Give me breath. 
I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on ; 
Ill wait upon you instantly. 
[Hxeunt Alcibiades and Lords. 
[To Flav.] Come hither: pray you, 
How goes the world, that I am thus encounter’d 
With clamorous demands of date-broke bonds, 
And the detention of long-since-due debts, 
Against my honour ? 
Flav. Please you, gentlemen, 
The time is unagreeable to this business : 
Your importunacy cease till after dinner, 
That I may make his lordship understand 
Wherefore you are not paid. 
Tim. Do so, my friends. 
tain’d. 
Flav. Pray, draw near. 


It is so. 


I fear it. 


See them well enter- 
[ Hxit. 
| Hatt. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE II 


Enter Apemantus and Fool. 


Caph. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Ape- 
mantus: let ’s ha’ some sport with ’em. 

Var. Serv. Hang him, he ’ll abuse us. 

Isid. Serv. A plague upon him, dog! 

Var. Serv. How dost, fool ? 

sae Dost dialogue with thy shadow ? 

ar. Serv. I speak not to thee. 

Apem. No, ‘tis to thyself. [To the Fool] Come 
away. 

Isid. Serv. There’s the fool hangs on your back 
already. 

Apem. No, thou stand’st single, thou ’rt not on 

Caph. Where’s the fool.now ? [him yet. 

Apem. He last asked the question. Poor rogues, 
and usurers’ men! bawds between gold and want! 

All Serv. What are we, Apemantus ? 

Apem. Asses. 

All Serv. Why? 

Apem. That you ask me what you are, and do not 
know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool. 

Fool. How do you, gentlemen ? 

All Serv. Gramercies, good fool: how does your 
mistress ? 

Fool. She’s e’en setting on water to scald such 
chickens as you are. Would we could see you at 

Apem. Good! gramercy. [Corinth ! 


Enter Page. 


Fool. Look you, here comes my mistress’ page. 

Page. [To the Fool] Why, how now, captain! what 
do you in this wise company? How dost thou, 
Apemantus ? 

Apem. Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I 
might answer thee profitably. 

Page. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the super- 
scription of these letters: I know not which is 
which. 

Apem. Canst not read ? 

Page. No. 

Apem. There will little learning die then, that 
day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon; this 
to Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and 
thou ‘lt die a bawd. 

Page. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt 
famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone. 

[ Hct. 

Apem. E’en so thou outrunnest grace. Fool, I 
will go with you to Lord Timon’s. 

Fool. Will you leave me there ? ’ 

Apem. If Timon stay at home. 
three usurers ? 

All Serv. Ay; would they served us! 

Apem. So would I,—as good a trick as ever hang- 
man served thief. 

Fool. Are you three usurers’ men ? 

All Serv. Ay, fool. 

Fool. I think no usurer but has a fool to his ser- 
vant: my mistress is one, and [am her fool. When 
men come to borrow of your masters, they approach 
sadly, and go away merry; but they enter my mis- 
tress’ house merrily, and go away sadly: the reason 
of this ? 

Var. Serv. I could render one. 

Apem. Do it then, that we may account thee a 
whore-master and a knave; which notwithstanding, 
thou shalt be no less esteemed. 

Var. Serv. What is a whoremaster, fool ? 

Fool. A fool in good clothes, and something like 
thee. ’Tisaspirit: sometime ’t appears like a lord ; 
sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philoso- 
pher, with two stones moe than’s artificial one: he 
is very often like a knight; and, generally, in all 
shapes that man goes up and down in from four- 
score to thirteen, this spirit walks in. 

Var. Serv. Thou art not altogether a fool. 


613 


You three serve 


ACT Il. 


Fool. Nor thou altogether a wise man: as much 
foolery as I have, so much wit thou lackest. 
Apem. That answer might have become Apeman- 


tus. 
All Serv. Aside, aside; here comes Lord Timon. 


Re-enter Timon and Flavius. 


Apem. Come with me, fool, come. 
Fool. I do not always follow lover, elder brother 
and woman; sometime the philosopher. 
[Hxzeunt Apemantus and Fool. 
Flav. Pray you, walk near: 17] speak with you 
anon. [Exeunt Servants. 
Tim. You make me marvel: wherefore ere this 


time 
Had you not fully laid my state before me, 
That I might so have rated my expense, 
As I had leave of means ? 


Flav. You would not hear me, 
At many leisures I proposed. 
Tim. Go to: 


Perchance some single vantages you took, 
When my indisposition put you back; 
And that unaptness made your minister, 
Thus to excuse yourself. 
Flav. O my good lord, 
At many times I brought in my accounts, 
Laid them before you; you would throw them off, 
And say, you found them in mine honesty. 
When, for some trifling present, you have bid me 
Return so much, I have shook my head and wept; 
Yea, ’gainst the authority of manners, pray’d you 
To hold your hand more close: I did endure 
Not seldom, nor no slight checks, when I have 
Prompted you in the ebb of your estate 
And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, 
Though you hear now, too late— yet now ’sa time — 
The greatest of your having lacks a half 
To pay your present debts. 
Tim. Let all my land be sold. 
Flav. ’T is all engaged, some forfeited and gone ; 
And what remains will hardly stop the mouth 
Of present dues: the future comes apace: 
What shall defend the interim ? and at length 
How goes our reckoning ? 
Tim. To Lacedzemon did my land extend. 
Flav. O my good lord, the world is but a word: 
Were it all yours to give it in a breath, 
How quickly were it gone! 
Tim. You tell me true. 
Flav. If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood, 
Call me before the exactest auditors 
And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, 
When all our offices have been oppress*d 
With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept 
With drunken spilth of wine, when every room 
Hath blazed with lights and bray’d with minstrelsy, 
I have retired me to a wasteful cock, 
And set mine eyes at flow. 
Tim. Prithee, no more. 
ae thts! have I said, the bounty of this 
ord! 
How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants 
This night englutted! Who is not Timon’s ? 
What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord 
Timon’s ? 
Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon! - 
Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, 
The breath is gone whereof this praise is made: 
Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, 
These flies are couch’d. 
Tim. Come, sermon me no further: 
No villanous bounty yet hath pass’d my heart; 


614 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE II. 


Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. 
Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience 


lack, 
To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart; 
If I would broach the vessels of my love, 
And try the argument of hearts by borrowing, 
Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use 
ea : can bid thee speak. 
QU. 


crown’d, 
That I account them blessings; for by these 
Shall I try friends: you shall perceive how you 
Mistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my friends. 
Within there! Flaminius! Servilius! 


Enter Flaminius, Servilius, and other Servants. 


Servants. My lord? my lord ? 

Tim. I will dispatch you severally: you to Lord 
Lucius; to Lord Lucullus you: I hunted with his 
honour to-day: you, to Sempronius: commend me 
to their loves, and, I am proud, say, that my occa- 
sions have found time to use ’em toward asupply of 
money: let the request be fifty talents. 

Flam. As you have said, my lord. 

Flav. [Aside] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? hum! 

Tim. Go you, sir, to the senators— 

Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have 
Deserved this hearing — bid ’em send o’ the instant 
A thousand talents to me. 

Flav. I have been bold — 

For that I knew it the most general way — 
To them to use your signet and your name; 
But they do shake their heads, and I am here 

No richer in return. 

Tim. Is ’t true? can ’t be? 

Flav. They answer, ina joint and corporate voice, 
That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot 
Do ‘ii they would; are sorry — you are honour- 

able,— 
But yet they could have wish’d —they know not — 
Something hath been amiss—a noble nature 
May catch a wrench— would all were well—’tis 


pity ;— 
And so, intending other serious matters, 
After distasteful looks and these hard fractions, 
With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods 
They froze me into silence. 

Tim. You gods, reward them! 
Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows 
Have their ingratitude in them hereditary: 

Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows ; 

’T is lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; 

And nature, as it grows again toward earth, 

Is fashion’d for the journey, dull and heavy. 

[To a Serv.] Go to Ventidius. [Zo Flav.] Prithee, 
be not sad, 

Thou art true and honest; ingeniously I speak, 

No roe belongs to thee. [Zo Ser.] Ventidius 
ately 

Buried his father; by whose death he’s stepp’d 

Into a great estate: when he was poor, 

Imprison’d and in scarcity of friends, 

I clear’d him with five talents: greet him from me; 

Bid him suppose some good necessity 

Touches his friend, which craves to be remember’d 

With those five talents [ Kzit Ser.]. [To Flav.| That 
had, give ’t these fellows 

To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think, 

That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink. 

Flav. I would I could not think it: that thought 
_ is bounty’s foe; 
Being free itself, it thinks all others so. [Hweunt. 


AC TUIEE. 


——————E 


ACT 
SCENE I.—A room in Lucullus’ house. 


Flaminius waiting. Enter a Servant to him. 


Serv. I have told my lord of you; he is coming 
down to you. 
Flam. I thank you, sir. 


Enter Lucullus. 


Serv. Here’s my lord. . 

Lucul. [Aside] One of Lord Timon’s men ? a gift, 
I warrant. Why, this hits right; I dreamt of a 
silver basin and ewer to-night. Flaminius, honest 
Flaminius; you are very respectively welcome, sir. 
Fill me some wine. [Hzxit Servant.] And how does 
that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman 
of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and mas- 

Flam. His health is well, sir. [ter ? 

Iucul. I am right glad that his health is well, 
sir: and what hast thou there under thy cloak, 
pretty Flaminius ? 

Flam. ’Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir; 
which, in my lord’s behalf, I come to entreat your 
honour to supply; who, having great and instant 
occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lord- 
ship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present 
assistance therein. 

Lucul. La, la, la,la! ‘nothing doubting,’ says he ? 
Alas, good lord! a noble gentleman ’tis, if he 
would not keep so good a house. Many a time and 
often I ha’ dined with him, and told him on’t, 
and come again to supper to him, of purpose to have 
him spend less, and yet he would embrace no coun- 
sel, take no warning by my coming. Every man 
has his fault, and honesty is his: I ha’ told him 
on ’t, but I could ne’er get him from ’t. 


Re-enter Servant, with wine. 


Serv. Please your lordship, here is the wine. 
Iuecul. Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. 
Here ’s to thee. 
Flam. Your lordship speaks your pleasure. 
Lucul. I have observed thee always for a towardly 
prompt spirit—give thee thy due—and one that 
knows what belongs to reason; and canst use the 
time well, if the time use thee well: good parts in 
thee. [Zo Serv.] Get you gone, sirrah [Hxit Serv.]. 
Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord’s a boun- 
tiful gentleman: but thou art wise; and thou 
knowest well enough, although thou comest to me, 
that this is no time to lend money, especially upon 
bare friendship, without security. Here’s three 
solidares for thee: good boy, wink at me, and say 
thou sawest me not. Fare thee well. 
Flam. Is’t possible the world should so much 
differ, 
And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness, 
To him that worships thee! 
[Throwing the money back. 
Lucul. Ha! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for 
thy master. [ Exit. 
Flam. May these add to the number that may 
scald thee ! 
Let molten coin be thy damnation, 
Thou disease of a friend, and not himself! 
Has friendship such a faint and milky heart, 
It turns in less than two nights? O you gods, 
I feel my master’s passion! this slave, 
Unto his honour, has my lord’s meat in him: 
Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment, 
When he is turn’d to poison ? 
O, may diseases only work upon’t! 
And, when he’s sick to death, let not that part of 
Which my lord paid for, be of any power [nature 
To expel sickness, but prolong his hour ! | Hait. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE ITI. 


a Bd bd to 


SCENE II.—A public place. 


Enter Lucius, with three Strangers. 


Luc. Who, the Lord Timon ? he is my very good 
friend, and an honourable gentleman. 

first Stran. We know him for no less, though 
we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you 
one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common 
rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done 
and past, and his estate shrinks from him. 

Luc. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want 
for money. 

Sec. Stran. But believe you this, my lord, that, 
not long ago, one of his men was with the Lord Lu- 
cullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged ex- 
tremely for ’t and showed what necessity belonged 
to ’t, and yet was denied. 

Iuc. How! 

Sec. Stran. I tell you, denied, my lord. 

Luc. What a strange case was that! now, before 
the gods, lam ashamed on ’t. Denied that honour- 
able man! there was very little honour showed in ’t. 
For my own part, I must needs confess, I have re- 
ceived some small kindnesses from him, as money, 
plate, jewels and such-like trifies, nothing com- 
paring to his; yet, had he mistook him and sent 
to me, I should ne’er have denied his occasion 
so many talents. 


Enter Servilius. 


Ser. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have 
sweat to see his honour. My honoured lord,— 

[To Lucius. 

Luc. Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare 
thee well: commend me to thy honourable virtuous 
lord, my very exquisite friend. 

Ser. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent — 

Luc. Ha! what has he sent? Iam so much en- 
deared to that lord; he’s ever sending: how shall 
I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he 
sent now ? 

Ser. Has only sent his present occasion now, my 
lord; requesting your lordship to supply his instant 
use with so many talents. 

Luc. I know his lordship is but merry with me; 
He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. 

Ser. But in the mean time he wants less, my lord. 
If his occasion were not virtuous, 

I should not urge it half so faithfully. 

Luc. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius ? 

Ser. Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir. 

Luc. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish 
myself against such a good time, when I might ha’ 
shown myself honourable! how unluckily it hap- 
pened, that I should purchase the day before for a 
little part, and undo a great deal of honour! Ser- 
vilius, now, before the gods, I am not able to do,— 
the more beast, I say :—I was sending to use Lord 
Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I 
would not, for the wealth of Athens, I had done ’t 
now. Commend me bountifully to his good lord- 
ship; and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest 
of me, because I have no power to be kind: and tell 
him this from me, I count it one of my greatest af- 
flictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honour- 
able gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend 
me so far, as to use mine own words to him ? 

Ser. Yes, sir, I shall. 

Luc. Ill look you out a good turn, Servilius. 

[Hxit Servilius. 
True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed ; 
And he that’s once denied will hardly speed. [Hait. 
First Stran. Do you observe this, Hostilius ? 
Sec. Stran. Ay, too well. 


615 


ADOT VILL, 


First Stran. Why, this is the world’s soul; and 
just of the same piece 
Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him 
His friend that dips in the same dish ? for, in 
My knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father, 
And kept his credit with his purse, 
Supported his estate; nay, Timon’s money 
Has paid his men their wages: he ne’er drinks, 
But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip; 
And yet—O, see the monstrousness of man 
When he looks out in an ungrateful shape! — 
He does deny him, in respect of his, 
What charitable men afford to beggars. 
Third Stran. Religion groans at it. 
First Stran. For mine own part, 
I never tasted Timon in my life, 
Nor came any of his bounties over me, 
To mark me for his friend; yet, I protest, 
For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue 
And honourable carriage, 
Had his necessity made use of me, 
I would have put my wealth into donation, 
And the best half should have return’d to him, 
So much I love his heart: but, I perceive, 
Men must learn now with pity to dispense; 
For policy sits above conscience. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A room in Sempronius’ house. 


Enter Sempronius, and a Servant of Timon’s. 


Sem. Must he needs trouble me in ’t,—hum!— 
’bove all others ? 
He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; 
And now Ventidius is wealthy too, 
Whom he redeem’d from prison: all these 
Owe their estates unto him. 
Serv. My lord, 
They have all been touch’d and found base metal, for 
They have all denied him, 
Sem. How! have they denied him ? 
Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him ? 
And does he send to me? Three? hum! 
It shows but little love or judgment in him: 
Must I be his last refuge ? His friends, like physi- 
cians, [me ? 
Thrive, give him over: must I take the cure upon 
Has much disgraced me in ’t; I’m angry at him, 
That might have known my place: I see no sense for’t, 
But his occasions might have woo’d me first; 
For, in my conscience, I was the first man 
That e’er received gift from him: 
And does he think so backwardly of me now, 
That I’) requite it last? No: 
So it may prove an argument of laughter 
To the rest, and ’mongst lords I be thought a fool. 
I’ld rather than the worth of thrice the sum, 
Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake; 
I’dsuchacourage todohim good. Butnow return, 
And with their faint reply this answer join; 
Who bates mine honour shall not know my on 
vit. 
Serv. Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly villain. 
The devil knew not what he did when he made man 
politic; he crossed himself by ’t: and I cannot think 
but, in the end, the villanies of man will set him 
clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! 
takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that un- 
der hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire: 
Of such a nature is his politic love. 
This was my lord’s best hope; now all are fled, 
Save only the geds: now his friends are dead, 
Doors, that were ne’er acquainted with their wards 
Many 2 bounteous year, must be employ’d 
Now to guard sure their master. 
And this is all a liberal course allows ; 
Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house. 
[ Hvit. 
616 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE IV. 


SCENE IV.— The same. 


Enter two Servants of Varro, and the Servant of Lu- 
cius, meeting Titus, Hortensius, and other Servants of 
Timon’s creditors, waiting his coming out. 

First Var. Serv. Well met; good morrow, Titus 


and Hortensius. 
Tit. The like to you, kind Varro. 


A hallin Timon’s house. 


Hor. Lucius! 
What, do we meet together ? 
Luc. Serv. Ay, and I think 
One business does command us all; for mine 
Is money. 
Tit. So is theirs and ours. 
Enter Philotus. 
Luc. Serv. And Sir Philotus too! 
Phi. Good day at once. 
Luc. Serv. Welcome, good brother. 
What do you think the hour ? 
Phi. Labouring for nine. 
Luc. Serv. So much ? 
Pha, Is not my lord seen yet ? 
Tue. Serv. Not yet. 


Phi. Iwonder on ’t; he was wont to shine at seven. 

Luc. Serv. Ay, but the days are wax’d shorter with 
You must consider that a prodigal course —_ [him: 
Is like the sun’s; but not, like his, recoverable. 
I fear ’tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse; 
That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet 
Find little. 

Phi. I am of your fear for that. 

Tit. I 11 show you how to observe a strange event. 
Your lord sends now for money. 

Hfor. Most true, he does. 

Tit. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift, 
For which I wait for money. 

Hor. It is against my heart. 

Luc. Serv. Mark, how strange it shows, 
Timon in this should pay more than he owes: 
And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels, 
And send for money for ’em. [ness : 

Hor. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can wit- 
I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth, 
And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. 

First Var. Serv. Yes, mine’s three thousand 

crowns: what’s yours ? 
Luc. Serv. Five thousand mine. 
First Var. Serv. "Tis much deep: and it should 
seem by the sum, 

Your master’s confidence was above mine; 
Else, surely, his had equall’d. 


Enter Flaminius. 


Tit. One of Lord Timon’s men. 

Lue. Serv. Flaminius! Sir, a word: pray, is my 
lord ready to come forth ? 

Flam. No, indeed, he is not. 

Tit. Weattend his lordship; pray, signify so much. 

Flam. I need not tell him that; he knows you 
are too diligent. [ Hxit. 


Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled. 


Luc. Serv. Ha! is not that his steward muffled so ? 
He goes away in a cloud: call him, call him. 

Tit. Do you hear, sir ? 

Sec. Var. Serv. By your leave, sir,— 

Flav. What do ye ask of me, my friend ? 

Tit. We wait for certain money here, sir. 

Flav. AY, 
If money were as certain as your waiting, 
’T were sure enough. 
Why then preferr’d you not your sums and bills, 
When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat ? 
Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts 
And take down the interest into their gluttonous 
You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up; [maws. 


ACT III. 


Let me pass quietly : 
Believe ’t, my lord and I have made an end; 
I have no more to reckon, he to spend. 

Luc. Serv. Ay, but this answer will not serve. 

Flav. Tf *t will not serve, ’tis not so base as you; 
For you serve knaves. [ Exit. 

First Var. Serv. How! what does his cashiered 
worship mutter ? 

Sec. Var. Serv. No matter what; he’s poor, and 
that’s revenge enough. Who can speak broader 
than he that has no house to put his head in ? such 
may rail against great buildings. 


Enter Servilius. 


Tit. O, here ’s Servilius; now we shall know some 
answer. 

Ser. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair 
some other hour, I should derive much from TOr, 
take ’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to dis- 
content: his comfortable temper has forsook him; 
he’s much out of health, and keeps his chamber. 

Luc. Serv. Many do keep their chambers are not 
And, if it be so far beyond his health, [sick : 
Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts, 

And make a clear way to the gods. 


Ser. Good gods! 
Tit. We cannot take this for answer, sir. [lord! 
Flam. [Within] Servilius, help! My lord! my 


Hnter Timon, ina rage; Flaminius following. 


Tim. What, are my doors opposed against my pas- 
Have I been ever free, and must my house [sage ? 
Be my retentive enemy, my gaol ? 

The place which I have feasted, does it now, 
Like all mankind, show me an iron heart ? 

Luc. Serv. Put in now, Titus. 

Tit. My lord, here is my bill. 

Luc. Serv. Here’s mine. 

Hor. And mine, my lord. 

Both Var. Serv. And ours, my lord. 

Phi. All our bills. [girdle. 

Tim. Knock me down with ’em: cleave me to the 

Duc. Serv. Alas, my lord,— 

Tim. Cut my heart in sums. 

Tit. Mine, fifty talents. 

Tim. Tell out my blood. 

Luc. Serv. Five thousand crowns, my lord. 

Tim. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours? 

—and yours? 

First Var. Serv. My lord,— 

Sec. Var. Serv. My lord,— 

Tim. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall pat 

eit 

Hor. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw 
their caps at their money: these debts may well be 
called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em. 

; i | Hxeunt. 
Re-enter Timon and Flavius. 


Tim. They have e’en put my breath from me, the 


Creditors ? devils! [slaves. 
Flav. My dear lord ,— 
Tim. What if it should be so ? 
Flav. My lord,— 
Tim. Ill have it so. My steward! 


. Here, my lord. 
. So fitly ? Go, bid all my friends again, 
Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius: 
All, sirrah, all: 
I ‘ll once more feast the rascals. 
Fiav. O my lord, 
You only speak from your distracted soul; 
There is not so much left, to furnish out 
A moderate table. 
Tim. Be ’t not in thy care; go, 
I charge thee, invite them all: let in the tide 
Of knaves once more; my cook and Il] provide. 
[ Hxeunt. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE V. 


SCENE V.— The same. 


The Senate sitting. 


First Sen. My lord, you have my voice to it; the 
Bloody; ’tis necessary he should die: [fault ? S 
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. 

Sec. Sen. Most true; the law shall bruise him. 


Enter Alcibiades, with Attendants. 


Alcib. Honour, health, and compassion to the 
First Sen. N ow, captain | ? [senate ! 
Alcib. Lam an humble suitor to your virtues ; 
For pity is the virtue of the law, 
And none but tyrants use it cruelly. 
It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy 
Upon a friend of mine, who, in hot blood, 
Hath stepp’d into the law, which is past depth 
To those that, without heed, do plunge into ’t. 
He is a man, setting his fate aside, 
Of comely virtues: 
Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice — 
An honour in him which buys out his fault — 
But with a noble fury and fair spirit, 
Seeing his reputation touch’d to death, 
He did oppose his foe: 
And with such sober and unnoted passion 
He did behave his anger, ere ’t was spent, 
As if he had but proved an argument. 
First Sen. You undergo too strict a paradox, 
Striving to make an ugly deed look fair: 
Your words have took such pains as if they labour’d 
To bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling 
Upon the head of “valour ; which indeed 
Is valour misbegot and came into the world 
When sects and factions were newly born: 
He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer 
The worst that man can breathe, and make his 
wrongs [lessly, 
His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, care- 
And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart, 
To bring it into danger. 
If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, 
What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill! 
Alcib. My lord [look clear: 
First Sen. You cannot make gross sins 
To revenge is no valour, but to bear. 
Alcib. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me, 
If I speak like a captain. 
Why do fond men expose themselves to battle, 
And not endure all threats ? sleep upon ’t, 
And let the foes quietly cut their throats, 
Without repugnancy? If there be 
Such valour in the bearing, what make we 
Abroad ? why then, women are more valiant 
That stay at home, ‘if bearing carry it, 
And the ass more captain than the lion, the felons 
Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, 
If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords, 
As you are great, be pitifully good: 
Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood ? 
To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust ; 
But, in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. 
To be in anger 1s impiety ; 
But who is man that is not angry ? 
Weigh but the crime with this. 
Sec. Sen. You breathe in vain. 
Alcib. In vain! his service done 
At Lacedzemon and Byzantium 
Were a suflicient briber for his life. 
First Sen. What’s that ? 
Alcib. I say, my lords, he has done fair service, 
And slain in fight many ‘of your enemies: 
How full of valour did he bear himself 
In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds! 
Sec. Sen. He has made too much plenty with ’em; 
He’s a sworn rioter: he has a sin that often 
Drowns him, and takes his valour prisoner: 


617 


The senate-house, 


TIMON 


If there were no foes, that were enough 
To overcome him: in that beastly fury 
He has been known to commit outrages, 
And cherish factions: ’tis inferr’d to us, 
His days are foul and his drink dangerous. 
First Sen. He dies. 
Alcib. Hard fate! he might have died in war. 
My lords, if not for any parts in him — 
Though his right arm might purchase his own time 
And be in debt to none — yet, more to move you, 
Take my deserts to his, and join ’em both: 
And, for I know your reverend ages love 
Security, Ill pawn my victories, all 
My honours to you, upon his good returns. 
If by this crime he owes the law his life, 
Why, let the war receive ’t in valiant gore; 
For law is strict, and war is nothing more. [more, 
First Sen. We are for law: he dies; urge it no 
On height of our displeasure: friend or brother, 
He forfeits his own blood that spills another. 
Alcib. Must it be so? it must not be. My lords, 
I do beseech you, know me. 
Sec. Sen. How! 
Alcib. Call me to your remembrances. 
Third Sen. What! 
Alcib. I cannot think but your age has forgot me; 
It could not else be, I should prove so base, 
To sue, and be denied such common grace: 
My wounds ache at you. 
First Sen. Do you dare our anger ? 
°T is in few words, but spacious in effect ; 
We banish thee for ever. 
Alcib. Banish me! 
Banish your dotage; banish usury, 
That makes the senate ugly. [tain thee, 
First Sen. If, after two days’ shine, Athens con- 
Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell 
He shall be executed presently. [our spirit, 
[Hxeunt Senators. 
Alcib. Now the gods keep you old enough; that 
you may live 
Only in bone, that none may look on you! 
I’m worse than mad: I have kept back their foes, 
While they have told their money and let out 
Their coin upon large interest, I myself 
Rich only in large hurts. All those for this ? 
Is this the balsam that the usuring senate 
Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment ! 
It comes not ill; I hate not to be banish’d; 
It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, 
That I may strike at Athens. I7’ll cheer up 
My discontented troops, and lay for hearts. 
*T is honour with most lands to be at odds; 
Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. [Evit. 


ACT IfT. 


SCENE VI.— The same. A banqueting-room in 
Timon’s house. 
Music. Tables sct out: Servants attending. Enter divers 
Lords, Senators and others, at several doors. 


First Lord. The good time of day to you, sir. 

Sec. Lord. Lalso wish itto you. Ithink this hon- 
ourable lord did but try us this other day. 

first Lord. Upon that were my thoughts tiring, 
when we encountered: I hope it is not so low with 
him as he made it seem in the trial of his several 
friends. 

Sec. Lord. It should not be, by the persuasion of 
his new feasting. 

First Lord. I should think so: he hath sent me an 
earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did 
urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond 
them, and I must needs appear. 

See. Lord. In like manner was I in debt to my im- 
portunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. 
Lam sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my 
provision was out. 

618 


OF ATHENS. 


SCENE VI. 


First Lord. I am sick of that grief too, as I un- 
derstand how all things go. 

Sec. Lord. Every man here’s so. What would he 
have borrowed of you ? 

First Lord. A thousand pieces. 

Sec. Lord. A thousand pieces! 

First Lord. What of you? 

Sec. Lord. He sent to me, sir, — Here he comes. 


Enter Timon and Attendants. 


Tim. With all my heart, gentlemen both; and 
how fare you? 

First Lord. Ever at the best, hearing well of 
your lordship. 

Sec. Lord. The swallow follows not summer more 
willing than we your lordship. 

Tim. [Aside] Nor more willingly leaves winter ; 
such summer-birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner 
will not recompense this long stay: feast your ears 
with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly 
o’ the trumpet’s sound; we shall to ’t presently. 

First Lord. I hope it remains not unkindly with 
your lordship that I returned you an empty mes- 

Tim. QO, sir, let it not trouble you. [senger. 

Sec. Lord. My noble lord,— 

Tim. Ah, my good friend, what cheer ? 

Sec. Lord. My most honourable lord, I am e’en 
sick of shame, that, when your lordship this other 
day sent to me, I was so unfortunate a beggar. 

Tim. Think not on’t, sir. 

Sec. Lord. If you had sent but two hours before,— 

Tim. Let it not cumber your better remembrance. 
[ The banquet brought in.] Come, bring in all together. 

Sec. Lord. All covered dishes! 

First Lord. Royal cheer, I warrant you. 

Third Lord. Doubt not that, if money and the 
season can yield it. 

First Lord. How do you? What’s the news ? 

Third Lord. Alcibiades is banished: hear you of 

First and Sec. Lord. Alcibiades banished! [it ? 

Third Lord. ’T is so, be sure of it. 

First Lord. How! how! 

Sec. Lord. I pray you, upon what ? 

Tim. My worthy friends, will you draw near ? 

Third Lord. Ill tell you more anon. Here’s a 
noble feast toward. 

Sec. Lord. This is the old man still. 

Third Lord. Will ’t hold ? will ’t hold ? 

Sec. Lord. It does: but time will—-and so — 

Third Lord. I do conceive. 

Tim. Each man to his stool, with that spur as 
he would to the lip of his mistress: your diet shall 
be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, 
to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first 
place: sit, sit. The gods require our thanks. 


You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with 
thankfulness. For your own gifts, make your- 
selves praised: but reserve still to give, lest your 
deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, 
that one need not lend to another; for, were your 
godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the 
gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the 
man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be 
without a score of villains: if there sit twelve 
women at the table, let a dozen of them be—as 
they are. The rest of your fees, O gods—the sena- 
tors of Athens, together with the common lag of 
people— what is amiss in them, you gods, make 
suitable for destruction. For these my present 
friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing 
bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. 


Uncover, dogs, and lap. 
[The dishes are uncovered and seen to be full 
of warm water. 
Some speak. What does his lordship mean ? 


ACT IV. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE II. 


a 


Some other. I know not. 
Zim. May you a better feast never behold, 
You knot of mouth-friends! smoke and luke-warm 
Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last; [water 
Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, 
Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces 
Your reeking villany. 
[Throwing the water in their faces. 
Live loathed and long, 

Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, 
Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, 
You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies, 
Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks! 
Of man and beast the infinite malady 
Crust you quite o’er! What, dost thou go? 
Soft ! take thy physic first —thou too —and thou ;— 
Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. 

[Throws the dishes at them, and drives them out. 
What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast, 
Whereat a villain ’s not a welcome guest. 


Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be 
Of Timon, man and all humanity! [ Hxit. 


Re-enter the Lords, Senators, &c. 


First Lord. How now, my lords! [fury ? 

Sec. Lord. Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s 

Third Lord. Push! did you see my cap? 

Fourth Lord. I have lost my gown. 

first Lord. He’s but a mad lord, and nought but 
humour sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other 
day, and now he has beat it out of my hat: did you 
see my jewel ? 

Third Lord. Did you see my cap ? 

Sec. Lord. Here ’t is. 

Fourth Lord. Here lies my gown. 

First Lord. Let’s make no stay. 

Sec. Lord. Lord Timon’s mad. 

Third Lord. I feel ’t upon my bones. 

Fourth Lord. One day he gives us diamonds, next 

day stones. [ Hxeunt. 


JN \ O74 Iya EA 


SCENE I.— Without the walls of Athens. 


Enter Timon. 


Tim. Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall, 
That girdlest in those wolves, dive in the earth, 
And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent! 
Obedience fail in children! slaves and fools, 

Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench, 
And minister in their steads! to general filths 
Convert 0’ the instant, green virginity, 

Do ’t in your parents’ eyes! bankrupts, hold fast ; 
Rather than render back, out with your knives, 
And cut your trusters’ throats! bound servants,steal! 
Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, 
And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed; 

Thy mistress is 0’ the brothel! Son of sixteen, 
Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, 
With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear, 
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, 
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood, 
Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades, 
Degrees, observances, customs, and laws, 

Decline to your confounding contraries, 

And let confusion live! Plagues, incident to men, 
Your potent and infectious fevers heap 

On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica, 
Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt 

As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty 
Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth, 
That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive, 
And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, 
Sow all the Athenian bosoms; and their crop 

Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath, 

That their society, as their friendship, may 

Be merely poison! Nothing [ll bear from thee, 
But nakedness, thou detestable town! 

Take thou that too, with multiplying bans! 
Timon will to the woods; where he shall find 

The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. 
The gods confound — hear me, you good gods all— 
The Athenians both within and out that wall! 
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow 
To the whole race of mankind, high and low! 
Amen. [ Heit. 


SCENE II.— Athens. 


Enter Flavius, with two or three Servants, 


First Serv. Hear you, master steward, where’s 
our master ? , ae 
Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining ? 


A room in Timon’s house. 


Flav. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to 
Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, [you ? 
I am as poor as you. 

First Serv. Such a house broke! 

So noble a master fall’n! All gone! and not 
One friend to take his fortune by the arm, 
And go along with him! 

Sec. Serv. As we do turn our backs 

From our companion thrown into his grave, 

So his familiars to his buried fortunes 

Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, 
Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self, 

A dedicated beggar to the air, 

With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty, 

Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows. 


Enter other Servants. 


Flav. All broken implements of a ruin’d house. 
Third Serv. Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s 


ivery; 
That see I by our faces; we are fellows still, 
Serving alike in sorrow: leak’d is our bark, 
And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, 
Hearing the surges threat: we must all part 
Into this sea of air. 

Flav. Good fellows all, 
The latest of my wealth I ’ll share amongst you. 
Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake, 
Let ’s yet be fellows; let ’s shake our heads, and say, 
As ’t were a knell unto our master’s fortunes, 
‘We have seen better days.’ Let each take some; 
Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: 
Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. 
[Servants embrace, and part several ways. 
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! 
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, 
Since riches point to misery and contempt ? 
Who would be so mock’d with glory ? or to live 
But in a dream of friendship ? 
To have his pomp and all what state compounds 
But only painted, like his varnish’d friends ? 
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, 
Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood, 
When man’s worst sin is, he does too much good! 
Who, then, dares to be half so kind again ? 
For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. 
My dearest lord, bless’d, to be most accursed, 
Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes 
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord! 
He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat 
Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to 
619 


ACT IV. 


PIM ON VOLVATH BENS. 


SCENE III. 


Supply his life, or that which can command it. 
I’ll follow and inquire him out: 

I ll ever serve his mind with my best will; 
Whilst I have gold,1’ll be his steward still. [Hwit. 


SCENE III.— Woods and cave, near the sea-shore. 


Enter Timon, from the cave. 


Tim. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth 
Rotten humidity; below thy sister’s orb 
Infect the air! Twinn’d brothers of one womb, 
Whose procreation, residence, and birth, 
Searce is dividant,touch them with several fortunes ; 
The greater scorns the lesser: not nature, 
To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune, 
But by contempt of nature. 
Raise me this beggar, and deny ’t that lord ; 
The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, 
The beggar native honour. 
It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, 
The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who 
In purity of manhood stand upright, [dares, 
And say ‘This man’s a flatterer’? if one be, 
So are they all; for every grise of fortune 
Is smooth’d by that below: the learned pate 
Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique; 
There ’s nothing level in our cursed natures, 
But direct vilany. Therefore, be abhorr’d 
All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! 
His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains: 
Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots! 
[ Digging. 
Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate 
With thy most operant poison! What is here? 
Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, 
I am no idle votarist: roots, you clear heavens! 
Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair, 
Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant. 
Ha, you gods! why this? what this, you gods? 
Why, this 
Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, 
Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads: 
This yellow slave 
Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed, 
Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves 
And give them title, knee and approbation 
With senators on the bench: this is it 
That makes the wappen’d widow wed again; 
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores 
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices 
To the April day again. Come, damned earth, 
Thou common whore of mankind, that put’st odds 
Among the rout of nations, I will make thee 
Do thy right nature. [March afar off.| Ha! adrum? 
Thou ’rt quick, 
But yet Ill bury thee: thou ‘lt go, strong thief, 
When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. 
Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [/teeping some gold. 


Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike 
manner; Phrynia and Timandra. 
Alcib. What art thou there? speak. 
Tim. A beast, as thou art. The eanker gnaw thy 


For showing me again the eyes of man! [heart, 
Alcib. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to 
That art thyself a man ? [thee, 


Tim. 1am Misanthropos, and hate mankind. 
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, 
That I might love thee something. 
Alcib. I know thee well; 
But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange. 
Tim. 1 know thee too; and more than that I 
know thee, 
I not desire to know. Follow thy drum; 
With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, gules: 
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; 


Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, 
For all her cherubin look. 

Phry. Thy lips rot off! 

Tim. I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns 
To thine own lips again. 

Alcib. How came the noble Timon to this change ? 

Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to give: 
But then renew I could not, like the moon; 
There were no suns to borrow of. 


Alcib. - Noble Timon, 
What friendship may I do thee? 

Tim. None, but to 
Maintain my opinion. 

Alcib. What is it, Timon ? 


Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform none: 
if thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for 
thou art a man! if thou dost perform, confound 
thee, for thou art a man! 

Alcib. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. 

Tim. Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity. 

Alcib. I see them now; then was a blessed time. 

Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. 

Timan. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the 
Voiced so regardfully ? [world 

Tim. Art thou Timandra ? 

Timan. Yes. [use thee; 

Tim. Be a whore still: they love thee not that 
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. 
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves 
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth 
To the tub-fast and the diet. 

Timan. Hang thee, monster! 

Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits 
Are drown’d and lost in his calamities. 

I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, 

The want whereof doth daily make revolt 

In my penurious band: I have heard, and grieved, 
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, 
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, 
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,— — 

Tim. I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone. 

Alcib. Lam thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. ~ 

Tim. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost 
I had rather be alone. [trouble ? 


Alcib. Why, fare thee well: 
Here is some gold for thee. 
Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it. 


Alcib. When I have laid proud Athens on.a heap,— 
Tim. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens ? 
Alcib. Ay, Timon, and have cause. 
Tim. The gods confound them all in thy conquest ; 
And thee after, when thou hast conquer’d! 
Alcib. Why me, Timon ? 
Tim. That, by killing of villains, 
Thou wast born to conquer my country. 
Put up thy gold: go on,—here’s gold,— go on; 
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove 
Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison 
In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one: 
Pity not honour’d age for his white beard; 
He is an usurer: strike me the counterfeit matron ; 
It is her habit only that is honest, 
Herself ’s a bawd: let not the virgin’s cheek 
Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk-paps, 
That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes, 
Are not within the leaf of pity writ, [babe, 
But set them down horrible traitors: spare not the 
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their 
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle [mercy ; 
Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, 
And mince it sans remorse: swear against objects; 
Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes; | 
Whose proof, nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, _ 
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, By 
Shall piercea jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers: 
Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent, 


Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine | Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone. 


620 


ACT IV. 


LIILON SORA THE NS. 


SCENE III. 


Alcib. Hast thou gold yet? Ill take the gold 

thou givest me, 

Not all thy counsel. [upon thee! 
Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse 
Phr.and Timan. Give us some gold, good Timon: 

hast thou more ? 

Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, 
And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, 
Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable,— 
Although, I know, you ’ll swear, terribly swear 
Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues 
The immortal gods that hear you,— spare your oaths, 
Ill trust to your conditions: be whores still; 

And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, 

Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; 

Let your close fire predominate his smoke, 

And benoturncoats: yet may your pains,six months, 

Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs 

With burthens of the dead;—some that were 

hang’d, [still ; 

No matter :— wear them, betray with them: whore 

Paint till a horse may mire upon your face: 

A pox of wrinkles! 

Phr. and Timan. Well, more gold: what then ? 
Believe ’t, that we ’ll do any thing for gold. 

Tim. Consumptions sow 
In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins, 
And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice, 
That he may never more false title plead, 

Nor sound his quillets shrifly: hoar the flamen, 

That scolds against the quality of flesh, 

And not believes himself: down with the nose, 

Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away 

Of him that, his particular to foresee, 

Smells from the general weal: make curl’d-pate 

ruffians bald ; 

And let the unscarr’d braggarts of the war 

Derive some pain from you: plague all; 

That your activity may defeat and quell 

The source of all erection. There’s more gold: 

Do you damn others, and let this damn you, 

And ditches grave you all! 

Phr. and Timan. More counsel with more money, 

bounteous Timon. 

Tim. More whore, more mischief first; I have 

given you earnest. 

Alcib. Strike up the drum towards Athens! Fare- 

well, Timon: 

If I thrive well, Ill visit thee again. 

Tim. If I hope well, 111 never see thee more. 

Alcib. I never did thee harm. 

Tim. Yes, thou spokest well of me. 

Alcib. Call’st thou that harm ? 

Tim. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take 
Thy beagles with thee. 

Alcib. We but offend him. Strike! 

Exeunt Alcibiades, Phrynia, 
and Timandra. 

Tim. That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, 
Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou, 

[ Digging. 

Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast, 

Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle, 

Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d, 

Engenders the black toad and adder blue, 

The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm, 

With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven 

Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine; 

Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate, 

From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root! 

Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, 

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man ! 

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears ; 

Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face 

Hath to the marbled mansion all above 

Never presented !—O, a root,—dear thanks ! — 

Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas; 


[Drum beats. 


Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts 
And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, 
That from it all consideration slips! 


Enter Apemantus. 
More man? plague, plague! 

Apem. I was directed hither: men report 
Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them. 

Tim. ’T is, then, because thou dost not keep a dog, 
Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee! 

Apem. This is in thee a nature but infected; 

A poor unmanly melancholy sprung 

From change offortune. Why this spade? this place? 

This slave-like habit ? and these looks of care ? 

Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft; 

Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot 

That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods, 

By putting on the cunning of a carper. 

Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive 

By that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee, 

And let his very breath, whom thou ‘It observe, 

Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain, 

And call it excellent: thou wast told thus; 

Thou gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome 

To Knaves and all approachers: ’t is most just 

That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again, 

Rascals should have ’t. Do not assume my likeness. 
Tim. Were I like thee, I ’ld throw away myself. 
Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like 

thyself ; 

A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st 

That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, 

Will put thy shirt on warm ? willthese moss’d trees,. 

That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels, 

And eh oe thou point’st out? will the cold 

rook, 

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste, 

To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit ? Call the creatures 

Whose naked natures live in all the spite 

Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, 

To the conflicting elements exposed, 

Answer mere nature; bid them flatter thee; 

O, thou shalt find— 

Tim. A fool of thee: depart. 

Apem. I love thee better now than e’er I did. 

Tim. I hate thee worse. 

Apem. Why? . 

wm. Thou flatter’st misery.. 

Aypem. I flatter not; but say thou art a caitiff. 

Tim. Why dost thou seek me out ? 

Apem. To vex thee. 

Tim. Always a villain’s office or a fool’s. 

Dost please thyself in ’t ? 

Apem. y. 

Tim. What! a knave too ? 

Apem. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on 
To castigate thy pride, ’t were well: but thou 
Dost it enforcedly ; thou ’ldst courtier be again, 
Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery 
Outlives incertain pomp, is crown’d before: 

The one is filling still, never complete ; 

The other, at high wish: best state, contentless, 
Hath a distracted and most wretched being, 
Worse than the worst, content. 

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable. 

Tim. Not by his breath that is more miserable. 
Thou art a slave, whom Fortune’s tender arm 
With favour never clasp’d; but bred a dog. 

Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded 
The sweet degrees that this brief world affords 

To such as may the passive drugs of. it 

Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself 
In general riot; melted down thy youth 

In different beds of lust; and never learn’d 

The icy precepts of respect, but follow’d 

The sugar’d game before thee. But myself, 

Who had the world as my confectionary, 


621 


ACT IV. 


The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men 

At duty, more than I could frame employment, 

That numberless upon me stuck as leaves 

Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush 

Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare 

For every storm that blows: I, to bear this, 

That never knew but better, is some burden: 

Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time 

Hath A galego hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate 
men: 

They never flatter’d thee: what hast thou given ? 

If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, 

Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff 

To some she beggar and compounded thee 

Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone! 

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, 

Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer. 


Apem. Art thou proud yet ? 
Tim. Ay, that I am not thee. 
Apem. I, that I was 
No prodigal 
Tim. I, that I am one now: 


Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, 

I’ld give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. 
That the whole life of Athens were in this! 

Thus would I eat it. [Hating a root. 

Apem. Here; I will mend thy feast. 

[Offering him a root. 

Tim. First mend my company, take away thyself. 

Apem. So I shall mend mine own, by the lack 

of thine. 

Tim. ’T is not well mended so, it is but botch’d; 
If not, I would it were. 

Apem. What wouldst thou have to Athens ? 

Tim. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, 
Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have. 

Apem. Here is no use for gold. 

Tim. The best and truest ; 
For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm. 

Apem. Where lest 0’ nights, Timon ? 

Tim. Under that ’s above me. 
Where feed’st thou 0’ days, Apemantus ? 

Apem. Where my stomach finds meat; or, rather 
where I eat it. (mind! 

Tim. Would poison were obedient and knew my 

Apem. Where wouldst thou send it ? 

‘ Tim. To sauce thy dishes. 

Apem. The middle of humanity thou never knew- 
est, but the extremity of both ends: when thou 
wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked 
thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know- 
est none, but art despised for the contrary. There ’s 
a medlar for thee, eat it. 

Tim. On what I hate I feed not. 

Apem. Dost hate a medlar ? 

Tim. Ay, though it look like thee. 

Apem. An thou hadst hated meddiers sooner, 
thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What 
man didst thou ever know unthrift that was be- 
loved after his means ? 

Tim. Who, without those means thou talkest of, 
didst thou ever know beloved ? 

Apem. Myself. 

Zim. I understand thee; thou hadst some means 
to keep a dog. 

Apem. What things in the world canst thou 
nearest compare to thy flatterers ? 

Tim. Women nearest; but men, men are the 
things themselves. What wouldst thou do with 
the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power ? 

Apem. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men. 

Tim. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the con- 
fusion of men, and remain a beast with the beasts ? 

Apem. Ay, Timon. 

Tim. A beastly ambition, which the gods grant 
thee t’ attain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox 
would beguile thee: if thou wert the lamb, the fox 


622 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE IIf, 


would eat thee: if thou wert the fox, the lion would 

suspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused 

by the ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness 

would torment thee, and still thou livedst but as a 

breakfast to the wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thy 

greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst 
hazard thy life for thy dinner: wert thou the uni- 
corn, pride and wrath would confound thee and 
make thine own self the conquest of thy fury: wert 
thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse: 
wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the 
leopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german 
to the lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors 
on thy life: all thy safety were remotion and thy 
defence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that 
were not subject to a beast ? and what a beast art 
eats already, that seest not thy loss in transforma- 
ion ! 

Apem. If thou couldst please me with speaking to 
me, thou mightst have hit upon it here: the com- 
monwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts. 

Tim. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou 
art out of the city ? 

Apem. Yonder comes a poet and a painter: the 
plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to 
catch it and give way: when I know not what else 
to do, L711 see thee again. 

Tim. When there is nothing living but thee, thou 
shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog 
than Apemantus. 

Apem. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive. 

Tim. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon! 

Apem. A plague on thee! thou art too bad to curse. 

Tim. All villains that do stand by thee are pure. 

Apem. There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st. 

Tim. If I name thee, 

Ill beat thee, but I should infect my hands. 
Apem. I would my tongue could rot them off! 
Tim. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! 

Choler does kill me that thou art alive; 


I swound to see thee. 

Would thou wouldst burst! 
Away, 
Thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose 
A stone by thee. | Throws a stone at him. 


Apem. Beast! 

Tim. Slave ! 

Apem. Toad! 

Tim. Rogue, rogue, rogue! 


I am sick of this false world, and will love nought 
But even the mere necessities upon ’t. 
Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave; 
Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat 
Thy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph, 
That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. [vorcee 
[To the gold] O thou sweet king-killer, and dear di- 
*Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler 
Of Hymen’s purest bed! thou valiant Mars ! 
Thou ever young, fresh, loved and delicate wooer, 
Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow 
That lies on Dian’s lap! thou visible god, 
That solder’st close impossibilities, [tongue, 
And makest them kiss! that speak’st with every 
To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts! 
Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue 
Set them into confounding odds, that beasts 
May have the world in empire! 

Apem. Would ’t were so! 
But not till Iam dead. Ill say thou ’st gold: 
Thou wilt be throng’d to shortly. 


Tim. Throng’d to! 
Apem. Ay. 
Tim. Thy back, I prithee. 

Apem. Live, and love thy misery. 


Tim. Long live so,and so die. [Hxit Apemantus.] 
I am quit. 


Moe thingslike men! Eat, Timon, and abhor them. — 


OTe Vv. 


TIM OIN, (OF A TIEN, 


SCENE III. 


Enter Banditti. 


First Ban. Where should he have this gold? It 
is some poor fragment, some slendor ort of his 
remainder: the mere want of gold, and the falling- 
from of his friends, drove him into this melancholy. 

Sec. Ban. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure. 

Third Ban. Let us make the assay upon him: if 
he care not for ’t, he will supply us easily; if he 
covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it? 

Sec. Ban. True; for he bears it not about him, 

First Ban. Is not this he ? (tis hid. 

Banditti. Where ? 

Sec. Ban. ’T is his description. 

Third Ban. He; I know him. 

Banditti. Save thee, Timon. 

Tim. Now, thieves ? 

Banditti. Soldiers, not thieves. 

Tim. Both too; and women’s sons. 

Banditti. We are not thieves, but men that much 

do want. [meat. 

Tim. Your greatest want is, you want much of 
Why should you want ? Behold, the earth hath roots ; 
Within this mile break forth a hundred springs ; 
The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips; 

The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush 
Lays her full mess before you. Want! why want? 

First Ban. We cannot live on grass, on berries, 
As beasts and birds and fishes. [ water, 

mee "4 or on the beasts themselves, the birds, and 

shes; 
You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con 
That you are thieves profess’d, that you work not 
In holier shapes: for there is boundless theft 
In limited professions. Rascal thieves, 
Here’s gold. Go,suck the subtle blood o’ the grape, 
Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, 
And so ’seape hanging: trust not the physician ; 
His antidotes are poison, and he slays 
More than you rob: take wealth and lives together: 
Do villany, do, since you protest to do’t, 
Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery: 
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction 
Robs the vast.sea; the moon’s an arrant thief, 
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun: 
The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves 
The moon into salt tears: the earth ’s a thief, 
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen 
From general excrement: each thing ’s a thief: 
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power 
Have uncheck’d theft. Love not yourselves: away, 
Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut throats: 
All that you meet are thieves: to Athens go, 
Break open shops; nothing can you steal, 
But thieves do lose it: steal no less for this 
I give you; and gold confound you howsoe’er! 
Amen. 

Third Ban. Has almost charmed me from my 
profession, by persuading me to it. 

First Ban. ’T is in the malice of mankind that he 
thus advises us ; not to have us thrive in our mystery. 

Sec. Ban. Ill believe him as an enemy, and give 
over my trade. 

First Ban. Let us first see peace in Athens: there 
is no time so miserable but a man may be true. 

: [Hxeunt Banditti. 
Enter Flavius. 

Flav. O you gods! 

Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord ? 
Full of decay and failing? O monument 

And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d ! 
What an alteration of honour 

Has desperate want made ! 

What viler thing upon the earth than friends 
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends ! 
How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, 
When man was wish’d to love his enemies! 


Grant I may ever love, and rather woo 

Those that would mischief me than those that do! 
Has caught me in his eye: I will present 

My honest grief unto him; and, as my lord, 

Still serve him with my life. My dearest master! 

Tim. Away! what art thou? 

Flav. Have you forgot me, sir ? 

Tim. Why dost ask that ? I have forgot all men; 
Then, if thou grant’st thou ’rt a man, I have forgot 

Flav. An honest poor servant of yours. [thee. 

Tim. Then I know thee not: 

I never had honest man about me, I; all 
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains. 
Flav. The gods are witness, 
Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief 
For his undone lord than mine eyes for you. 
Tim.What, dost thou weep? Comenearer. Then 
I love thee, 
Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st 
Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give 
But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping: 
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with 
weeping! 

Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my lord, 
To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts 
To entertain me as your steward still. 

Tim. Had I a steward 
So true, so just, and now so comfortable ? 

It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. 

Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man 

Was born of woman. 

Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, 
You perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim 

One honest man —mistake me not —but one; 
No more, I pray,—and he’s a steward. 

How fain would I have hated all mankind! 

And thou redeem’st thyself: but all, save thee, 
I fell with curses. 

Methinks thou art more honest now than wise; 
For, by oppressing and betraying me, 

Thou mightst have sooner got another service: 
For many so arrive at second masters, 

Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true— 
For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure — 
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, 

If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts, 
Expecting in return twenty for one? 

Flav. No, my most worthy master ; in whose breast 
Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late: 

You should have fear’d false times when you did 
Suspect still comes where an estate is least. [feast : 
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, 
Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, | 

Care of your food and living; and, believe it, 

My most honour’d lord, 

For any benefit that points to me, 

Either in hope or present, I ‘Id exchange 

For this one wish, that you had power and wealth 
To requite me, by making rich yourself. 

Tim. Look thee, ’tisso! Thousingly honest man, 
Here, take: the gods out of my misery 
Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy; 
But thus condition’d: thou shalt build from men ; 
Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, 

But let the famish’d flesh slide from the bone, 

Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs 

What thou deny’st to men; let prisons swallow ’em, 

Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted 
woods, 

And may diseases lick up their false bloods! 

And so farewell and thrive. 


Flav. O, let me stay, 
And comfort you, my master. 
Tim. If thou hatest curses, 


Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free: 
Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee. 
[Exit Flavius. Timon retires to his cave. 
628 


AGT V5 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE I. 


PANO TD Ve 


SCENE I.— The woods. 


Enter Poet and Painter; Timon watching them | 
from his cave. 


Pain. As I took note of the place, it cannot be 
far where he abides. 

Poet. What’s to be thought of him? does the 
rumour hold for true, that he’s so full of gold ? 

Pain. Certain: Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and 
Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched 
poor straggling soldiers with great quantity: ’tis 
said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. 

Poet. Then this breaking of his has been but a 
try for his friends. 

Pain. Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in 
Athens again, and flourish with the highest. There- 
fore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him, in 
this supposed distress of his: it will show honestly 
in us; and is very likely to load our purposes with 
what they travail for, if it be a just and true report 
that goes of his having. 

Poet. What have you now to present unto him ? 

Pain. Nothing at this time but my visitation: 
only I will promise him an excellent piece. 

Poet. I must serve him so too, tell him of an in- 
tent that ’s coming toward him. 

Pain. Good as the best. Promising is the very 
air o’ the time: it opens the eyes of expectation: 
performance is ever the duller for his act; and, but 
in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed 
of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most 
courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind of 
will or testament which argues a great sickness in 
his judgment that makes it. 

[Timon comes from his cave, behind. 

Tim. [Aside] Excellent workman! thou canst not 
paint a man so bad as is thyself. 

Poet. 1 am thinking what I shall say I have pro- 
vided for him: it must be a personating of himself ; 
a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a 
discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth 
and opulency. 

Tim. [Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain 
in thine own work ? wilt thou whip thine own faults 
in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee. 

Poet. Nay, let ’s seek him: 

Then do we sin against our own estate, 
When we may profit meet, and come too late. 

Pain. True; 

When the day serves, before black-corner’d night, 
F ind what thou want’st by free and offer’d light. 


Some. 
Tim. [Aside] I ll meet you at the turn. What a 
god’s gold, 

That he is worshipp’d i in a baser temple 
Than where swine feed! [foam, 
’T is thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the 
Settlest admired reverence in a slave: 
To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye 
Be crown’d with plagues that thee alone obey! 
Fit I meet them. [Coming forward. 

Poet. Hail, worthy Timon! 

Pain. Our late noble master ! 

Tim. Have I once lived to see two honest men ? 

Poet. Sir 
Having often of your open bounty tasted, 
Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off, 
Whose thankless natures —O abhorred spirits !— 
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough: 
What! to you, 
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence 
To their whole being! I am rapt and cannot cover 
The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude 
With any size of words. 

624 


Before Timon’s cave. 


Tim. Let it go naked, men may see ’t the better: 
You that are honest, by being what you are, 

Make them best seen and known. 

Pain. He and myself 
Have travail’d in the great shower of your gifts, 
And sweetly felt it. 

Tim. Aye, you are honest men. 

Pain. Weare hither come to offer you our service. 

Tim. Most honest men! Why, how shall I re- 

quite you? 
Can you eat roots, and drink cold water ? no. 

Both. What we can do, we’ll do, to do you ser- 

vice. {8° : 

Tim. Ye’re honest men: ye ’ve heard that 1 have 
I am sure you have: speak truth; ye ’re honest men. 

Pain. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore 
Came not my friend nor I. [terfeit 

Tim. Good honest men! Thou draw’st a coun- 
Best in all Athens: thou ’rt, indeed, the best; 
Thou counterfeit’st most lively. 

Pain. So, so, my lord. 

Tim. E’en so, sir, as I say. And, for ‘thy fiction, 
Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth 
That thou art even natural in thine art. 

But, for all this, my honest-natured friends, 

T must needs say you have a little fault: 

Marry, ’t is not monstrous in you, neither wish I 
You take much pains to mend. 


Both. Beseech your honour 
To make it known to us. 
Tim. You’ll take it ill. 


Both. Most thankfully, my lord. 
Tim. Will you, indeed ? 
Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord. 
Tim. There’s never a one of you but trusts a 
That mightily deceives you. [knave, 
Both. Do we, my lord ? 
Tim. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dis- 
semble, 
Know his eTOSS patchery, love him, feed him, 
Keep in your bosom: yet remain assured 
That he ’s a made-up villain. 
Pain. I know none such, my lord. 
Poet. Nor I. 
Tim. Look you, I love you well; I ll give you gold. 
Rid me these villains from your companies : 
Hang them or stab them, drown them ina draught, 
Confound them by some course, and come to me, 
Ill give you gold enough. 
Both. Name them, my lord, let ’s know them. 
Tim. You that way and you this, but two in com- 
Each man apart, all single and alone, [pany ; 
Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. 
If where thou art two villains shall not be, - 
Come not near him. If thou wouldst not reside 
But where one villain is, then him abandon. 
Hence, pack! there ’s gold; you came for gold, ye 
slaves: 
[To Painter] You have work’d for me; there ’s pay- 
ment for you: hence! 
[To Poet] You are an alchemist; make gold of that. 
Out, rascal dogs! [Beats them out, and then 
retires to his cave. 


Enter Flavius and two Senators. 


Flav. It is in vain that you would speak with 
For he is set so only to himself [Timon; 
That nothing but himself which looks like man 
Is friendly with him. 

First Sen Bring us to his cave: 

It is our part and promise to the Athenians 
To speak with Timon. 

Sec. Sen Atalltimesalike | 

Men are not still the same: *t was time and griefs 


ACT V. 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


BOE WN Er Et, 


That framed him thus: time, with his fairer hand, 


Offering the fortunes of his former days, 
The former man may make him. Bring us to him, 
And chance it as it may. 

Flav. Here is his cave. 
Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon! 
Look out, and speak to friends: the Athenians, 
By two of their most reverend senate, greet thee: 
Speak to them, noble Timon. 


Timon comes from his cave. 


Tim. Thou sun, that comfort’st, burn! 
and be hang’d: 
For each true word, a blister! and each false 
Be as a cauterizing to the root o’ the tongue, 
Consuming it with speaking ! 
First Sen. Worthy Timon,— 
Tim. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. 
First Sen. The senators of Athens greet thee, 


Speak, 


Timon. 
Tim. I thank them; and would send them back 
the plague, - 
Could I but catch it for them. 
First Sen. O, forget 


What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. 
The senators with one consent of love 
Entreat thee back to Athens; who have thought 
On special dignities, which vacant lie 
For thy best use and wearing. 
Sec. Sen. They confess 
Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross: 
~ Which now the public body, which doth seldom 
Play the recanter, feeling in itself 
A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal 
Of its own fail, restraining aid to Timon; 
And send forth us, to make their sorrow’d render, 
Together with a recompense more fruitful 
Than their offence can weigh down by the dram ; 
Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth 
As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs 
And write in thee the figures of their love, 
Even to read them thine. 
LT; You witch me in it; 
Surprise me to the very brink of tears: 
Lend mea fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes, 
And Ill beweep these comforts, worthy senators. 
First Sen. Therefore, so please thee toreturn with 
And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take [us 
The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks, 
Allow’d with absolute power and thy good name 
Live with authority: so soon we shall drive back 
Of Alcibiades the approaches wild, 
Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up 
His country’s peace. 
Sec. Sen. And shakes his threatening sword 
Against the walls of Athens. 
First Sen. Therefore, Timon ,— 
Tim. Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir; thus: 
If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, 
Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, 
That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens, 
And take our goodly aged men by the beards, 
Giving our holy virgins to the stain 
Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain’d war, 
Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it, 
In pity of our aged and our youth, 
I cannot choose but tell him, that I care not, 
And let him take’t at worst; for their knives care 
not 
While you have throats to answer: for myself, 
There ’s not a whittle in the unruly camp 
But I do prize it at my love before 
The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you 
To the protection of the prosperous gods, 
As thieves to keepers. 
Flav. Stay not, all’s in vain. 
Tim. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; 
40 


It will be seen to-morrow: my long sickness 
Of health and living now begins to mend, 
And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still; 
Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, 
And last so long enough ! 
First Sen. We speak in vain. 
Tim. But yet I love my country, and am not 
One that rejoices in the common wreck, 
AS common bruit doth put it. 
First Sen. That ’s well spoke. 
Tim. Commend me to my loving countrymen,— 
First Sen. These words become your lips as they 
pass thorough them. [ers 
Sec. Sen. And enter in our ears like great triumph- 
In their applauding gates. 
Tim. Commend me to them, 
And tell them that, to ease them of their griefs, 
Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, 
Their pangs of léve, with other incident throes 
That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain 
In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do 


em: 

Ill teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath. 
First Sen. I like this well; he will return again. 
Tim. I havea tree, which grows here in my close, 

That mine own use invites me to cut down, 

And shortly must I fell it: tell my friends, 

Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree 

From high to low throughout, that whoso please 

To stop affliction, let him take his haste, 

Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe, 

And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting. 
Flav. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall 

find him. 
Tim. Come not to me again: but say to Athens, 

Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 

Upon the beached verge of the salt flood; 

Who once a day with his embossed froth 

The turbulent surge shall cover: thither come, 

And let my grave-stone be your oracle. 

Lips, let sour words go by and language end: 

What is amiss plague and infection mend ! 

Graves only be men’s works and death their gain! 

Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign. 

[| Retires to his cave. 
First Sen. His discontents are unremoveably 

Coupled to nature. 

Sec. Sen. Our hope in him is dead; let us return, 

And strain what other means is left unto us 

In our dear peril. 

First Sen. It requires swift foot. 


SCENE II.— Before the walls of Athens. 


Enter two Senators and a Messenger. 
First Sen. Thou hast painfully discover’d: are his 


[Hxeunt. - 


As full as thy report ? [files 
Mess. I have spoke the least: 

Besides, his expedition promises 

Present approach [Timon. 


Sec. Sen. We stand much hazard, if they bring not 
Mess. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend ; 
Whom, though in general part we were opposed, 
Yet our old love made a particular force, 
And made us speak like friends: this man was riding 
From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave, 
With letters of entreaty, which imported 
His fellowship i’ the cause against your city, 
In part for his sake moved. 
First Sen. Here come our brothers. 


Enter the Senators from Timon. 


Third Sen. No talk of Timon, nothing of him 
expect. 
The enemies’ drum is heard, and fearful scouring 
Doth choke the air with dust: in, and prepare: 
Ours is the fall, I fear; our foesthe snare. [xeunt. 


625 


AV: 


TIMON OF ATHENS. 


SCENE IV. 


SCENE III.—The woods. Timon’s cave, and a 
rude tomb seen. 


Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon. 


Sold. By all description this should be the place. 
Who’shere ? speak, ho! Noanswer! What is this? 
Timon is dead, who hath outstretch’d his span: 
Some beast rear’d this; there does not live a man. 
Dead, sure; and thishis grave. What ’s on this tomb 
I cannot read; the character I ’ll take with wax: 
Our captain hath in every figure skill, 

An aged interpreter, though young in days: 
Before proud Athens he’s set down by this, 
Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. [ Hxit. 


SCENE IV.— Before the walls of Athens. 


Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers. 


Alcib. Sound to this coward and lascivious town 
Our terrible approach. [A parley sounded. 


Enter Senators on the walls. 


Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time 
With all licentious measure, making your wills 
The scope of justice; till now myself and such 
As slept within the shadow of your power 
Have wander’d with our traversed arms and breathed 
Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush, 
When crouching marrow in the bearer strong 
Cries of itself ‘No more:’ now breathless wrong 
Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, 
And pursy insolence shall break his wind 
With fear and horrid flight. 
First Sen. Noble and young, 
When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, 
Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, 
We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm, 
To wipe out our ingratitude with loves 
Above their quantity. 
Sec. Sen. So did we woo 
Transformed Timon to our city’s love 
By humble message and by promised means: 
We were not all unkind, nor all deserve 
The common stroke of war. 
First Sen. These walls of ours 
Were not erected by their hands from whom 
You have received your griefs; nor are they such 
That these great towers, trophies and schools should 
For private faults in them. [fall 
Sec. Sen. Nor are they living 
Who were the motives that you first went out; 
Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess 
Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, 
Into our city with thy banners spread: 
By decimation, and a tithed death — 
If thy revenges hunger for that food 
Which nature loathes—take thou the destined tenth, 
And by the hazard of the spotted die 
Let die the spotted. 
First Sen. All have not offended: 
Tor those that were, it is not square to take © 


On those that are, revenges: crimes, like lands, 
Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, 
Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage: 
Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin 

Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall 
With those that have offended: like a shepherd, 
Approach the fold and cull the infected forth, 
But kill not all together. 

Sec. Sen. What thou wilt, 
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile 
Than hew to ’t with thy sword. 

First Sen. Set but thy foot 
Against our rampired gates, and they shall ope; 

So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before, 
To say thou ’lt enter friendly. 

Sec. Sen. Throw thy glove, 
Or any token of thine honour else, . 
That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress 
And not as our confusion, all thy powers 
Shall make their harbour in our town, till we 
Have seal’d thy full desire. 

Alcib. Then there ’s my glove; 
Descend, and open your uncharged ports: 

Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own 
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof 
Fall and no more: and, to atone your fears 
With my more noble meaning, not a man 
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream 
Of regular justice in your city’s bounds, 

But shall be render’d to your public laws 

At heaviest answer. 

Both. °T is most nobly spoken. 

Alcib. Descend, and keep your words. 

[The Senators descend, and open the gates. 


Enter Soldier. 


Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead; 
Entomb’d upon the very hem 0’ the sea; 
And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which 
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression 
Interprets for my poor ignorance. 
Alcib. [Reads the epitaph] ‘Here lies a wretched 
corse, of wretched soul bereft: 


Seek not my name: a plague consume you wicked — 


caitiffs left! [hate : 
Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did 
Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay not here 
thy gait.’ 
These well express in thee thy latter spirits: 
Though thou abhorr’dst in us our human griefs, 
Seorn’dst our brain’s flow and those our droplets 
which 
From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit 
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye 
On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead 
Is noble Timon: of whose memory 
Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, 
And I will use the olive with my sword, 


Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make — 


Prescribe to other as each other’s leech. 
Let our drums strike. 


[each 
[ Haeunt. 


426 


3d Bandit.—Let us make the assay upon him.—Acr IV., Scene ili. 


a a 


a ee ee a a ee a ee 


; 
4 
q 


JULIUS 


A] = 
» ’ S 
a 


CAISAR. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Julius Cesar. 


Octavius Cesar, triumvirs after the death 


Marcus Antonius, of Tule Ceae 


M. Aimilius Lepidus, 
Cicero, 
Publius, 
Popilius Lena, 
Marcus Brutus, 


senators. 


Cassius, 

Casca, 

Trebonius, conspirators against Julius 
Ligarius, Cesar. 


Decius Brutus, 

Metellus Cimber, 

Cinna, 

Flavius and Marullus, tribunes. 
Artemidorus of Cnidos, a teacher of Rhetoric. 
A Soothsayer. 


Cinna, a poet. Another Poet. 


Lucilius, 
Titinius, 
Messala, t 
Young Cato, | 
Volumnius, 
Varro, 
Clitus, 
Claudius, 
Strato, 
Lucius, 
Dardanius, J 

Pindarus, servant to Cassius. 
Calpurnia, wife to Cesar. 
Portia, wife to Brutus. 


| 
friends to Brutus and Cassius, 


; servants to Brutus. 


Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c. 


SCENE -- Rome: the neighbourhood of Sardis: the 
neighbourhood of Philippi. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lxt.] 


parce T) Ts 


SCENE I.—Rome. 4 street. 


Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Com- 
moners. 


Flav. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you 
Is this a holiday ? what! know you not, [home: 
Being mechanical, you ought not walk 
Upon a labouring day without the sign 
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? 

First Com. Why, sir, a carpenter. 

Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule ? 
What dost thou with thy best apparel on ? 

You, sir, what trade are you? 

Sec. Com. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine work- 
man, Il am but, as you would say, a cobbler. 

Mar. But what trade art thou? answer me directly. 

Sec. Com. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use 
with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a 
mender of bad soles. 

Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty 

knave, what trade ? 

Sec. Com. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with 
me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. 

Mar. What meanest thou by that? mend me, 
thou saucy fellow! 

Sec. Com. Why, sir, cobble you. 

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? 

Sec. Com. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the 
awl: I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor 
women’s matters, but with awl. Iam, indeed, sir, 
a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great 
danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever 
trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handi- 
work. 

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day ? 
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ? 

Sec. Com. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to 
get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we 


make holiday, to see Cesar and to rejoice’in his 

triumph. [he home ? 
Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ? 

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless 

things! 

O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 

Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft 

Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, 

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 

The live-long day, with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome: 

And when you saw his chariot but appear, 

Have you not made an universal shout, 

That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, 

To hear the replication of your sounds 

Made in her concave shores ? 

And do you now put on your best attire ? 

And do you now cull out a holiday ? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way 

That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood ? 

Be gone! 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 


| Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 


That needs must light on this ingratitude. 

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, 
Assemble all the poor men of your sort; 
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears 
Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. 

[Hxeunt all the Commoners. 

See, whether their basest metal be not moved ; 
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. 
Go you down that way towards the Capitol; 
This way will 1: disrobe the images, 


If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies. 


627 


JULIUS 


A OT ts 


CASA R. 


SCENE II. 


Mar. May we do so? 
You know it is the feast of Lupercal. 
Flav. It is no matter; let no images 
Be hung with Cesar’s trophies. Ill about, 
And drive away the vulgar from the streets: 
So do you too, where you perceive them thick. 
These growing feathers pluck’d from Cesar’s wing 
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
Who else would soar above the view of men 
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A public place. 


Flourish. Enter Ceesar; Antony, for the course; Cal- 
purnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and 
Casca; a great crowd following, wmong them a Sooth- 
sayer. 


Oces. Calpurnia! 

Casca. 

Ces. 

Cal. Here, my lord. 

Ces. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, 
When he doth run his course. Antonius! 

Ant. Cesar, my lord ? 

Ces. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, 
To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, 
The barren, touched in this holy chase, 
Shake off their sterile curse. 

Ant. I shall remember: 
When Cesar says ‘ do this,’ it is perform’d. 

Ces. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. 

[ Flourish. 


Peace, ho! Cesar speaks. _ 
Calpurnia! 


Sooth. Cesar! 
Ces. Ha! who calls ? 
Casca. Bid every noise be still: peace yet again! 
Ces. Who is it in the press that calls on me ? 
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, 
Cry ‘ Cesar!’ Speak : Cesar is turn’d to hear. 
Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 
Ces. What man is that ? 
Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of 
March. 
Coes. Set him before me; let me see his face. 
Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon 
Ceesar. [again. 
Ces. What say’st thou to me now? speak once 
Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 
Ces. He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass. 
[Sennet. Hxeunt all except Brutus and 
Cassius. 
Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? 
Bru. Not I. 
Cas. I pray you, do. 
Bru. 1am not gamesome: I do lack some part 
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; 
I?ll leave you. 
Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: 
I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
And show of love as I was wont to have: 
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand 
Over your friend that loves you. 
Bru. Cassius, 
Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, 
/ turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am 
Of late with passions of some difference, 
Conceptions only proper to myself, 
Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours; 
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved — 
Among which number, Cassius, be you one— 
Nor construe any further my neglect, 
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, 
Forgets the shows of love to other men. 
Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your 
passion ; 
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried 
628 


Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, 
But by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. *T-is just: 

And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 

That you have no such mirrors as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 

That you might see your shadow. I have heard, 
Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
Except immortal Cesar, speaking of Brutus 
And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, 

Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes. 

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cas- 
That you would have me seek into myself [sius, 
For that which is not in me? 

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear: 
And since you know you cannot see yourself 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 

Will modestly discover to yourself 
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus: 
Were I a common laugher, or did use 
To stale with ordinary oaths my love 
To every new protester; if you know 
That I do fawn on men and hug them hard 
And after scandal them, or if you know 
That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. 

[ Flourish, and shout. 

Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear, the 
Choose Cesar for their king. [people 

Cas. Ay, do you fear it ? 
Then must I think you would not have it so. 

Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well. 
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ? 

What is it that you would impart to me ? 

If it be aught toward the general good, 

Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, 

And I will look on both indifferently, 

For let the gods so speed me as I love 

The name of honour more than I fear death. 
Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 


_As well as I do know your outward favour. 
FWell, honour is the subject of my story. 


I cannot tell what you and other men 

Think of this life; but, for my single self, 

I had as lief not be as live to be 

In awe of such a thing as I myself. 

I was born free as Cesar; So were you: 

We both have fed as well, and we can both 
Endure the winter’s cold as well as he: 

For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
Cesar said to me ‘ Darest thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point?’ Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in 

And bade him follow; so indeed he did. 

The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy ; 
But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
Cesar cried ‘ Help me, Cassius, or I sink!’ 

I, as Aineas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber 
Did I the tired Cesar. And this man 

Is now become a god, and Cassius is 

A wretched creature and must bend his body, 
If Cesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake: 
His coward lips did from their colour fly, 

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world 
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan: 


er 


ee ee 


ee ee | 


ie ee 


in S 


JULIUS 


AKT AS 


CHISAR. 


SCENE II. 


Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans 
Mark him and write his speeches in their books, 
Alas, it cried ‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’ 
Asa sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me 

A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world 
And bear the palm alone. [ Shout. 

Bru. Another general shout! 

I do believe that these applauses are 
For some new honours that are heap’d on Cesar. 

Cas.,Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world 
Like a Colossus, and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 

Men at some time are masters of their fates: 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 

But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

Brutus and Cesar: what should bein that ‘ Ceesar’ ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours? 
Write them together, yours is as fair a name; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cesar. 

Now, in the names of all the gods at once, 

Upon what meat doth this our Cesar feed, 

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed ! 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was famed with more than with one man ? 
When could they say till now, that talk’d of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompass’d but one man ? 
Now is it Rome indeed and room enough, 

When there is in it but one only man. 

O, you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d 
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome 

AS easily as a king.» 

Bru. That you do love me, Iam nothing jealous ; 
What you would work me to, I have some aim: 
How I have thought of this and of these times, 

I shall recount hereafter; for this present, 

I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further moved. What you have said 

I will consider; what you have to say 

I will with patience hear, and find a time 
Both meet to hear and answer such high things. 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: 
Brutus had rather be a villager 

Than to repute himself a son of Rome 

Under these hard conditions as this time 

Is like to lay upon us. 

Cas. Iam glad that my weak words 
Have struck but thus much showof fire from Brutus. 

Bru. The games are done and Cesar is returning. 

Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; 
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you 
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 


Flourish. 


Re-enter Ceesar and his Train. - 


Bru. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, 
The angry spot doth glow on Cesar’s brow, 
And all the rest look like a chidden train: 
Calpurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero 
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes 
As we have seen him in the Capitol, 

Being cross’d in conference by some senators. 

Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is. 

Ces. Antonius! 

Ant. Ceesar ? 

Ces. Let me have men about me that are fat: 
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep 0’ nights: 
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; 

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. 

Ant. Fear him not, Cesar; he’s not dangerous ; 
He is a noble Roman and well given. 

Cos. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: 
Yet if my name were liable to fear, 


I do not know the man I should avoid 

So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; 

He is a great observer and he looks 

Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays, 

As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; 

Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a-sort 

As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit 

That could be moved to smile at any thing. 

Such men as he be never at heart’s ease 

Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, 

And therefore are they very dangerous. 

I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d 

Than what I fear; for always I am Cesar. 

Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, 

And tell me truly what thou think’st of him. 
[Sennet. Hxeunt Coesar and all his 

Train, but Casca. 

Casca. You pull’d me by the cloak; would you 

speak with me ? [day, 

Bru. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanced to- 
That Ceesar looks so sad. . 

Oasca. Why, you were with him, were you not ? 

Bru. I should not then ask Casca what had 

chanced. 

Casca. Why, there was a crown offered him: and 
being offered him, he put it by with the back of his 
hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. 

Bru. What was the second noise for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Cas. They shouted thrice: what was the last ery 

Casca. Why, for that tco. [for ? 

Bru. Was the crown offered him thrice ? 

OCasca. Ay, Marry, was ’t, and he put it by thrice, 
every time gentler than other, and at every putting- 
by mine honest neighbours shouted. 

Cas. Who offered him the crown ? 

Casca. Why, Antony. 

Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. 

Oasca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner 
of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. Isaw 
Mark Antony offer him a crown;—yet ’t was not a 
crown neither, ’t was one of these coronets;—and, 
as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to 
my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he 
offered it to him again; then he put it by again: 
but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his 
fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time ; 
he put it the third time by: and still as he refused 
it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their chapped 
hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps and 
uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Ceesar 
refused the crown that it had almost choked Cesar ; 
for he swounded and fell down at it: and for mine 
own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my 
lips and receiving the bad air. : 

Cas. But, soft, I pray you: what, did Cesar 

swound ? 

Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and 
foamed at mouth, and was speechless. 

Bru. ’Tis very like: he hath the falling sickness. 

Cas. No, Cesar hath it not; but you and I 
And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness. 

Casca. I know not what you mean by that; but, 
I am sure, Ceesar fell down. If the tag-rag people 
did not clap him and hiss him, according as he ~ 
pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the 
players in the theatre, am no true man. ; 

Bru. What said he when he came unto himself ? 

Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he per- 
ceived the common herd was glad he refused the 
crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered 
them his throat to cut. AnIhad been aman of any 
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, 
I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And 
so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, 
If he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired 
their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three 


629 


JULIUS 


or four wenches, where I stood, cried ‘Alas, good 
soul!’ and forgave him with all their hearts: but 
there ’s no heed to be taken of them; if Czesar had 
stabbed their mothers, they would have done no 
less. 
Bru. And after that, he came, thus sad, away ? 
Casca. AY. 
Cas. Did Cicero say anything ? 
Oasca. Ay, he spoke Greek. 
Cas. To what effect ? 
Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, Il] ne’er look you 
i’ the face again: but those that understood him 
smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, 
for mine own part, it was Greek tome. I could tell 
you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pull- 
ing searfs off Ceesar’s images, are put to silence. 
Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I 
could remember it. 
Cas. Will you sup with me to-night, Casca ? 
Casca. No, I am promised forth. 
Cas. Will you dine with me to-morrow ? 
Casca. Ay, if I be alive and your mind hold and 
your dinner worth the eating. 
Cas. Good: I will expect you. 
Casca. Doso. Farewell, both. [ Hxit. 
Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! 
He was quick mettle when he went to school. 
Cas. So is he now in execution 
Of any bold or noble enterprise, 
However he puts on this tardy form. 
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 
Which gives men stomach to digest his words 
With better appetite. 
Bru. And soitis. For this time I will leave you: 
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, 
I will come home to you; or, if you will, 
Come home to me, and I will wait for you. 
Cas. I will do so: till then, think of the world. 
[Exit Brutus. 
Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, 
Thy honourable metal may be wrought 
From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet 
That noble minds keep ever with their likes; 
For who so firm that cannot be seduced ? 
Ceesar doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus: 
If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, 
He should not humour me. I will this night, 
In several hands, in at his windows throw, 
As if they came from several citizens, 
Writings all tending to the great opinion 
That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely 
Ceesar’s ambition shall be glanced at: 
And after this let Cesar seat him sure; 
For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [ Evit. 


SCENE IIT.— The same. A street. 


Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, 
Casca, with his sword drawn, and Cicero. 


Cic. Good even, Casca; brought you Cesar home ? 
Why are you breathless ? and why stare you so ? 
Casca. Are not you moved, when all the sway of 
Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero; {earth 
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 
Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen 
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, 
To be exalted with the threatening clouds: 
But never till to-night, never till now, 
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 
Either there is a civil strife in heaven, 
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 
Incenses them to send destruction. 
Cic. Why, saw you any thing more wonderful ? 
Casca. A common slave—you know him well by 
sight — 
Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn 
Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, 


630 


ACT I. 


CHISA R. 


Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d. 
Besides—I ha’ not since put up my sword — 
Against the Capitol I met a lion, 
Who glared upon me, and went surly by, 
Without annoying me: and there were drawn 
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, 
Transformed with their fear: who swore they saw 
Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. 
And yesterday the bird of night did sit 
Even at noon-day upon the market-place, 
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say 
‘These are their reasons; they are natural; ’ 
For, I believe, they are portentous things 
Unto the climate that they point upon. 
Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time : 
But men may construe things after their fashion, 
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. 
Comes Ceesar to the Capitol to-morrow ? 
Casca. He doth; for he did bid Antonius 
Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. 
Cic. Good-night then, Casca: this disturbed sky 
Is not to walk in. 
Casca. 


SCENE III. 


Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero. 


Enter Cassius. 


Cas. Who’s there ? 
} A Roman. 

Cas. Casca, by your voice. 
Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is 
Oas. A very pleasing night to honest men. [this! 
Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace so ? 
Cas. Those that have known the earth so full of 

For my part, [have walk’d about thestreets, [faults. 

Submitting me unto the perilous night, 

And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, 

Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone ; 

And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open 

The breast of heaven, I did present myself 

Even in the aim and very flash of it. [heavens ? 
Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the 

It is the part of men to fear and tremble, 

When the most mighty gods by tokens send 

Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. [life 
Cas. You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of 

That should be in a Roman you do want, 

Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze 

And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, 

To see the strange impatience of the heavens: 

But if you would consider the true cause 

Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, 

Why birds and beasts from quality and kind, 

Why old men fool and children calculate, 

Why all these things change from their ordinance 

Their natures and preformed faculties 

To monstrous quality,— why, you shall find 

That heaven hath infused them with these spirits, 

To make them instruments of fear and warning 

Unto some monstrous state. 

Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man 

Most like this dreadful night, 

That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars 

As doth the lion in the Capitol, 

A man no mightier than thyself or me 

In personal action, yet prodigious grown 

And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. 
Casca.’T is Cesar that you mean; is it not,Cassius ? 
Cas. Let it be who it is: for Romans now 

Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; 

But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, 

And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits ; 

Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. 
Casca. Indeed, they say the senators to-morrow 

Mean to establish Ceesar as a king ; 

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, 

In every place, save here in Italy. 
Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then 


ACT It. 


Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: 

Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong ; 

Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: 

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, 

Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, 

Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; 

But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 

Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 

If I know this, know all the world besides, 

That part of tyranny that I do bear 

I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunder still. 
Casca. So can L: 

So every bondman in his own hand bears 

The power to cancel his captivity. 

Cas. And why should Ceesar be a tyrant then ? 
Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, 

But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: 

He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. 

Those that with haste will make a mighty fire 
Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, 
What rubbish and what offal, when it serves 
For the base matter to illuminate 

So vile a thing as Cesar! But, O grief, 

Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this 
Before a willing bondman; then I know 

My answer must be made. But I am arm’d, 
And dangers are to me indifferent. 

Casca. You speak to Casca, and to such a man 
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: 
Be factious for redress of all these griefs, 

And I will set this foot of mine as far 
As who goes farthest. 

Cas. There ’s a bargain made. 
Now know you, Casca, I have moved already 
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans 
To undergo with me an enterprise 
Of honourable-dangerous consequence ; 

And I do know, by this, they stay for me 

In Pompey’s porch: for now, this fearful night, 
There is no stir or walking in the streets; 

And the complexion of the element 


JULIUS 


a 


CHISA R. 


In favour ’s like the work we have in hand, 

Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. [haste. 
Casca. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in 
Cas. ’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait: 

He is a friend. 


SCENE I. 


Enter Cinna. 


Cinna, where haste you so? 
Cin. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus 
Cimber ? 
Cas. No, it is Casca; one incorporate 
To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna? 
Cin. lam glad on’t. Whatafearful night is this! 
There ’s two or three of us have seen strange sights. 
Be Am I not stay’d for? tell me. 
in. 
O Cassius, if you could 
But win the noble Brutus to our party — 
Cas. Be you content: good Cinna, take this paper, 
And look you lay it in the preetor’s chair, 
Where Brutus may but find it: and throw this 
In at his window; set this up with wax 
Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done, 
Repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find us. 
Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there ? 
Cin. All but Metellus Cimber; and he’s gone 
To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, 
And so bestow these papers as you bade me. 
Cas. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre. 
[Hait Cinna. 
Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day 
See Brutus at his house: three paris of him 
Is ours already, and the man entire 
Upon the next encounter yields him ours. 
Casca. O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts: 
And that which would appear offence in us, 
His countenance, like richest alchemy, 
Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 
Cas. Him and his worth and our great need of 


Yes, you are. 


You have right well conceited. Let us go, [him 
For it is after midnight; and ere day 
We will awake him and be sure of him. [Hveunt. 


os CD Vd Riggaae FB 


SCENE I.— Rome. 


Enter Brutus. 
Bru. What, Lucius, ho! 
I cannot, by the progress of the stars, 
Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! 
I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. 
When, Lucius, when ? awake, I say! what, Lucius! 


Brutus’s orchard. 


Enter Lucius. 

Lue. Call’d you, my lord ? 

Bru. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: 
When it is lighted, come and call me here. 

Luc. I will, my lord. [ Hatt. 

Bru. It must be by his death: and for my part, 
I know no personal cause to spurn at him, 
But for the general. He would be crown’d: 
How that might change his nature, there’s the 

question. 

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; 
And that craves wary walking. Crown him ?— 
And then,I grant, we putastinginhim, [that;— 
That at his will he may do danger with. 
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 
Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Cesar, 
I have not known when his affections sway’d 
More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, 
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, 
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; 
But when he once attains the upmost round, 


He then unto the ladder turns his back, 

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 

By which he did ascend. So Ceesar may. 

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel 
Will bear no colour for the thing he is, 

Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, 
Would run to these and these extremities: 

And therefore think him as a serpent’segg 
Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischiev- 
And kill him in the shell. [ous, 


Re-enter Lucius. 


Luc. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. 
Searching the window for a flint, I found 
This paper, thus seal’d up; and, I am sure, 
It did not lie there when I went to bed. 
[Gives him the letter. 
Bru. Get you to bed again; it is not day. 
Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March ? 
Luc. I know not, sir. 
Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. 
Luc. I will, sir. | Haxit. 
Bru. The exhalations whizzing in the air 
Give so much light that I may read by them. 
[Opens the letter and reads 
‘Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake, and see thyself. 
Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress! 
Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake! ’ 
Such instigations have been often dropp’d 
Where I have took them up. 


631 


JULIUS 


‘Shall Rome, &c.’?’ Thus must I piece it out: 

Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, 
Rome ? 7 

My ancestors did from the streets of Rome 

The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king, 

‘ Speak, strike, redress!’ Am I entreated 

To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee prom- 

If the redress will follow, thou receivest [ise ; 

Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! 


ACT If. 


Re-enter Lucius. 


Inc. Sir, March is wasted fourteen days. 
Knocking within. 
Bru. "Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody 
knocks. [ Hait Lucius. 
Since Cassius first did whet me against Cesar, 
I have not slept. 
Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
And the first motion, all the interim is 
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: 
The Genius and the mortal instruments 
Are then in council; and the state of man, 
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
The nature of an insurrection. 


Re-enter Lucius. 


Luc. Sir, tis your brother Cassius at the door, 
Who doth desire to see you. 

Bru. Is he alone ? 

Luc. No, sir, there are moe with him. 

Bru. Do you know them ? 

Ime. No, sir; their hats are pluck’d about their 
And half their faces buried in their cloaks, — [ears, 
That by no means I may discover them 
By any mark of favour. 

ru. Let ’em enter. 

They are the faction. O conspiracy, 
Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, 
When evils are most free? O, then by day 
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, con- 
Hide it in smiles and affability : [spiracy ; 
For if thou path, thy native semblance on, 
Not Erebus itself were dim enough 
To hide thee from prevention. 


[Heit Lucius. 


Enter the conspirators, Cassius, Casca, Decius, 
Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. 


Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest: 
Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? 
Bru. I have been up this hour, awake all night. 
Know I these men that come along with you? 
Cas. Yes, every man of them, and no man here 
But honours you; and every one doth wish 
You had but that opinion of yourself 
Which every noble Roman bears of you. 
This is Trebonius. 


Bru. He is welcome hither. 
Cas. This, Decius Brutus. 
Bru. He is welcome too. 


Cas. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus 

Bru. They are all welcome. [Cimber. 
What watchful cares do interpose themselves 
Betwixt your eyes and night ? 

Cas. Shall I entreat a word ? 

4 [Brutus and Cassius whisper. 

Dec. Here lies the east: doth not the day break 

Casca. No. [here ? 

Cin. QO, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon gray lines 
That fret the clouds are messengers of day. 

Casca. You shall confess that you are both de- 
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, [ceived. 
Which is a great way growing on the south, 
Weighing the youthful season of the year. 

Some two months hence up higher toward the north 
He first presents his fire; and the high east 
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. 

632 


CHISA R. 


Bru. Give me your hands all over, one by one. 

Cas. And let us swear our resolution. 

Bru. No, not an oath : if not the face of men, 
The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse,— 
If these be motives weak, break off betimes, 

And every man hence to his idle bed; 

So let high-sighted tyranny range on, 

Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, 
As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 

To kindle cowards and to steel with valour 
The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, 
What need we any spur but our own cause, 

To prick us to redress ? what other bond 

Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, 
And will not palter? and what other oath 
Than honesty to honesty engaged, 

That this shall be, or we will fall for it? 

Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, 
Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls 
That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear 
Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain 
The even virtue of our enterprise, 
Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, 

To think that or our cause or our performance 
Did need an oath; when every drop of blood 
That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, 

Is guilty of a several bastardy, 

If he do break the smallest particle 

Of any promise that hath pass’d from him. 

Cas. But what of Cicero ? shall we sound him ? 
I think he will stand very strong with us. 

Casca. Let us not leave him out. 

in. No, by no means. 

Met. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs 
Will purchase us a good opinion 
And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds: 

It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands; 
Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, 
But all be buried in his gravity. 

Bru. O, name him not: let us not break with him ; 
For he will never follow any thing 
That other men begin. 

Cas. Then leave him out. 

Casca. Indeed he is not fit. 

Dec. Shall no man else be touch’d but only Cesar ? 

Cas. Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet, 
Mark Antony, so well beloved of Ceesar, 

Should outlive Cesar: we shall find of him 

A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means, 
If he improve them, may well stretch so far 

As to annoy us all: which to prevent, 

Let Antony and Cesar fall together. [sius, 

Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cas- 
To cut the head off and then hack the hmbs, 
Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; 

For Antony is but a limb of Cesar: 

Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. 
We all stand up against the spirit of Cesar ; 
And in the spirit of men there is no blood: 

O, that we then could come by Ceesar’s spirit, 
And not dismember Ceesar! But, alas, 

Ceesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, 
Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully ;_ 
Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, 

Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds : 

And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, 

Stir up their servants to an act of rage, 

And after seem to chide ’em. This shall make 
Our purpose necessary and not envious: 
Which so appearing to the common eyes, 

We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. 
And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; 

For he can do no more than Ceesar’s arm 
When Ceesar’s head is off. 

Cas. Yet I fear him ; 

For in the ingrafted love he bears to Cesar — 

Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: 


SCENE I. 


Ss 


JULIUS 


ACT II. 


If he love Cesar, all that he can do 
Is to himself, take thought and die for Ceesar: 
And that were much he should; for he is given 
To sports, to wildness and much company. 

Treb. There is no fear in him; let him not die; 
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. 

[ Clock strikes. 

Bru. Peace! count the clock. 

ae The clock hath stricken three. 

Treb. 


*T is time to part. 
as. But it is doubtful yet, 
Whether Cesar will come forth to-day, or no; 
For he is superstitious grown of late, 
Quite from the main opinion he held once 
Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies: 
It may be, these apparent prodigies, 
The unaccustom’d terror of this night, 
And the persuasion of his augurers, 
May hold him from the Capitol to-day. 
Dec. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, 
I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear 
That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, 
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, 
Lions with toils and men with flatterers ; 
But when I tell him he hates flatterers, 
He says he does, being then most flattered. 
Let me work ; 
For I can give his humour the true bent, 
And I will bring him to the Capitol. 
Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. 
Bru. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost ? 
Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. 
Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Cesar hard, 
Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey: 
I wonder none of you have thought of him. 
Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: 
He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; 
Send him but hither, and Ill fashion him. 
Cas. The morning comes upon ’s: we ’ll leave you, 
Brutus. 
And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember 
What you have said, and show yourselves true Ro- 
mans. 
Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily ; 
Let not our looks put on our purposes, 
But bear it as our Roman actors do, 
With untired spirits and formal constancy : 
And so good morrow to you every one. 
[EHxeunt all but Brutus. 
Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; 
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: 
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, _ 
Which busy care draws in the brains of men; 
Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. 


Enter Portia. 

Por. Brutus, my lord! 
Bru. Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you 

It is not for your health thus to commit [now ? 

Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. 
Por. Nor for yours neither. You’ve ungently, 

Brutus, 

Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, 

You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, 

Musing and sighing, with your arms across, 

And when I ask’d you what the matter was, 

You stared upon me with ungentle looks; 

I urged you further; then you scratch’d your head, 

And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; 

Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, 

But, with an angry wafture of your hand, 

Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did; 

Fearing to strengthen that impatience 

Which seem’d too much enkindled, and withal 

Hoping it was but an effect of humour, 

Which sometime hath his hour with every man. 

It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, 


CHSAR. 


And could it work so much upon your shape 

As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, 

I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, 

Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. 
Bru. Tam not well in health, and that is all. 
Por. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, 

He would embrace the means to come by it. 
Bru. Why,so Ido. Good Portia, go to bed. 
Por. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical 

To walk unbraced and suck up the humours 

Of the dank morning ? What, is Brutus sick, 

And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, 

To dare the vile contagion of the night 

And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air 

To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; 

You have some sick offence within your mind, 

Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 

I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, 

I charm you, by my once-commended beauty, 

By all your vows of love and that great vow 

Which did incorporate and make us one, 

That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, 

Why you are heavy, and what men to-night 

Have had resort to you: for here have been 

Some six or seven, who did hide their faces 

Even from darkness. 


SCENE I, 


‘ia Kneel not, gentle Portia. 
Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. 

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 

Is it excepted I should know no secrets 

That appertain to you? Am I yourself 

But, as it were, in sort or limitation, 

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, 

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the 

suburbs 

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, 

Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife. 
Bru. You are my true and honourable wife, 

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 

That visit my sad heart. [secret. 
Por. If this were true, then should I know this 

I grant Iam a woman; but withal 

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife: 

I grant Iam a woman; but withal 

A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter. 

Think you I am no stronger than my, sex, 

Being so father’d and so husbanded ¢ 

Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em: 

I have made strong proof of my constancy, 

Giving myself a voluntary wound 

Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience, 

And not my husband’s secrets ? 


Bru. O ye gods, 
Render me worthy of this noble wife! 
[Knocking within. 


Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; 

And by and by thy bosom shall partake 

The secrets of my heart. 

All my engagements I will construe to thee, 

All the charactery of my sad brows: 

Leave me with haste. [Mxit Portia.| Lucius, who’s 
that knocks ? 


Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius. 


Iuc. Here is asick man that would speak with you. 
Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. 
Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how? 
Lig. V ouchsafe good morrow froma feeble tongue. 
Bee what a time have you chose out, brave 
aius 
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick ! 
Lig. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand 
Any exploit worthy the name of honour. ' 
Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, 
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. 
Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before, 
I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! 


633 


JULIUS 


Brave son, derived from honourable loins! 
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up 
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, 
And I will strive with things impossible ; 
Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do? 
Bru. A piece of work that will make sick men 
whole. [sick ? 
Lig. But are not some whole that we must make 
Bru. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, 
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going 
To whom it must be done. 
Lig. Set on your foot, 
And with a heart new-fired I follow you, 
To do I know not what: but it sufficeth 
That Brutus leads me on. 
Bru. Follow me, then, 


SCENE II.—Cesar’s house. 


Thunder and lightning. Enter Ceesar, in his 
night-gown. 
Ces. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace to- 
night : 
Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, 
‘Help, ho! they murder Cesar!’ Who’s within ? 


ACT II. 


| Hxeunt. 


Enter a Servant. 
Serv. My lord? 
Ces. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice 
And bring me their opinions of success. 
Serv. I will, my lord. [Hxit. 
Enter Calpurnia. 


Cal. What mean you, Cesar? think you to walk 
You shall not stir out of your house to-day. [forth ? 
Cees. Cesar shall forth: the things that threat- 
en’d me 
Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see 
The face of Cesar, they are vanished. 
Cal. Ceesar, I never stood on ceremonies, 
Yet now they fright me. There is one within, 
Besides the things that we have heard and seen, 
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. 
A lioness hath whelped in the streets ; 
And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead : 
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds, 
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, 
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol: 
The noise of battle hurtled in the air, 
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, 
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. 
O Cesar! these things are beyond all use, 
And I do fear them. 
Ces. What can be avoided 
Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? 
Yet Cesar shall go forth; for these predictions 
Are to the world in general as to Ceesar. 
Cal. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; 
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of 
princes. 
Cees. Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never taste of death but once. 
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 
It seems to me most strange that men should fear; 
Seeing that death, a necessary end, 
Will come when it will come. 


Re-enter Servant. 


: What say the augurers ? 
_ Serv. They would not have you to stir forth to- 
Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, [day. 
They could not find a heart within the beast. 

Ces. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: 
Ceesar should be a beast without a heart, 
If he should stay at home to-day for fear. 
No, Cesar shall not: danger knows full well 
That Cesar is more dangerous than he: 


634 


CHSA R. 


We are two lions litter’d in one day, 
And I the elder and more terrible: 
And Cesar shall go forth. 
Cal. Alas, my lord, 
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. 
Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear 
That keeps you in the house, and not your own. 
We’ll send Mark Antony to the senate-house : 
And he shall say you are not well to-day: 
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. 
Coes. Mark Antony shall say I am not well; 
And, for thy humour, I will stay at home. 


SCENE II- 


Enter Decius. 


Here ’s Decius Brutus, be shall tell them so. 

Dec. Ceesar, all hail! good morrow, worthy Cesar : 
I come to fetch you to the senate-house. 

Coes. And you are come in very happy time, 7 
To bear my greeting to the senators ; 
And tell them that I will not come to-day: 

Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser: 
I will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius. 

Cal. Say he is sick. 

Ces. Shall Ceesar send a lie ? 

Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, | 
To be afeard to tell graybeards the truth ? 
Decius, go tell them Ceesar will not come. 

Dec. Most mighty Cesar, let me know some cause, 
Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so. 4 

Coes. The cause is in my will: I will not come; 

That is enough to satisfy the senate. 

But for your private satisfaction, } 

Because I love you, I will let you know: 

Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home: 

She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, 

Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, 

Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans 

Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it: 

And these does she apply for warnings, and portents, : 

And evils imminent; and on her knee ye 

Hath begg’d that I will stay at home to-day. 
Dec. This dream is all amiss interpreted ; 

It was a vision fair and fortunate: 

Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, 

In which so many smiling Romans bathed, 

Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck 

Reviving blood, and that great men shall press 

For tinctures, stains, relics and cognizance. 

This by Calpurnia’s dream is signified. 

Coes. And this way have you well expounded it. 

Dec. I have, when you have heard what Ican say: 
And know it now: the senate have concluded 
To give this day a crown to mighty Cesar. 

If you shall send them word you will not come, 
Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock 
Apt to be render’d, for some one to say 

‘ Break up the senate till another time, 

When Cesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.’ 
If Cesar hide himself, shall they not whisper 

‘Lo, Cesar is afraid’ ? 

Pardon me, Cesar; for my dear dear love 

To your proceeding bids me tell you this; 

And reason to my love is liable. 

Cees. How foolish do your fears seem now, Cal- 
IT am ashamed I did yield to them. [purnia! 
Give me my robe, for I will go. 


Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, 
Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna. 


And look where Publius is come to fetch me. 
Pub. Good morrow, Ceesar. 
Oces. Welcome, Publius. 
What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too? 
Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, 
Cesar was ne’er So much your enemy 
As that same ague which hath made you lean. 
What is ’t o’elock ? 


JULIUS 


Bru. Cesar, ’t is strucken eight. 
Ces. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. 


ACT III. 


Enter Antony. 


See! Antony, that revels long 0’ nights, 
Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. 
Ant. So to most noble Cesar. 
Cees. Bid them prepare within: 
T am to blame to be thus waited for. 
Now, Cinna: now, Metellus: what, Trebonius! 
I have an hour’s talk in store for you; 
Remember that you call on me to-day: | 
Be near me, that I may remember you. 
Treb. Cesar, I will: [Aside] and so near will I be, 
That your best friends shall wish I had been further. 
Ces. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine 
with me; 
And we, like friends, will straightway go together. 
Bru. | Aside] That every like is not the same, O 
Ceesar, 
The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! [ Hzeunt. 


SCENE III.—A street near the Capitol. 


Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper. 


Art. ‘Cesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of 
Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna ; 
trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber ; 
Decius Brutus loves thee not: thou hast wronged 
Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these 
men, and it is bent against Cesar. If thou beest 
not immortal, look about you: security gives way 
to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy 
lover, ARTEMIDORUS.’ 
Here will I stand till Cesar pass along, 

And as a suitor will I give him this. 

My heart laments that virtue cannot live 

Out of the teeth of emulation. 

If thou read this, O Ceesar, thou mayst live; 

If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. ([vzit. 

SCENE IV.— Another part of the same street, before 
the house of Brutus. 


Enter Portia and Lucius. 


Por. I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house ; 
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone: 
Why dost thou stay ? 

Tuc. To know my errand, madam. 

Por. I would have had thee there, and here again, 


Wak nd 


SCENE I.— Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate 


sitting above. 


A crowd of people; among them Artemidorus and the 
Soothsayer. Hlourish. Enter Ceesar, Brutus, Cas- 
sius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, 
Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, and others. 


Oces. [To the Soothsayer|] The ides of March are 
come. 

Sooth. Ay, Cesar; but not gone. 

Art. Hail, Cesar! read this scbedule. 

Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, 
At your best leisure, this his humble suit. 

Art. O Cesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit 
That touches Ceesar nearer: read it, great Ceesar. 

Ces. What touches us ourself shall be last served. 

Art. Delay not, Cesar; read it instantly. 

Ces. What, is the fellow mad ? 

Pub. Sirrah, give place. 

Oas. What, urge you your petitions in the street ? 
Come to the Capitol. 


CHISA R. 


Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. 
O constancy, be strong upon my side, 
Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! 
I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. 
How hard it is for women to keep counsel! 
Art thou here yet ? ; 
Tuc. Madam, what should I do? 
Run to the Capitol, and nothing else ? 
And so return to you, and nothing else ? [ well. 
Por. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look 
For he went sickly forth: and take good note 
What Cesar doth, what suitors press to him. 
Hark, boy! what noise is that ? 
Luc. I hear none, madam. 
Or: Prithee, listen well; 
I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, 
And the wind brings it from the Capitol. 
Luc. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. 


SCENE I, 


Enter the Soothsayer. 


Por. Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou 
Sooth. At mine own house, good lady. [been ? 
Por. What is ’t o’clock ? 
Sooth. About the ninth hour, lady. 
Por. Is Cesar yet gone to the Capitol ? 
Sooth. Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand, 
To see him pass on to the Capitol. 
Por. Thou hast some suit to Cesar, hast thou not ? 
Sooth. That I have, lady: if it will please Czesar 
To be so good to Cesar as to hear me, 
I shall beseech him to befriend himself. 
Por. Why, know’st thou any harm ’s intended 
towards him ? 
Sooth. None that I know will be, much that I 
fear may chance. 
Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow: 
The throng that follows Cesar at the heels, 
Of senators, of preetors, common suitors, 
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: 
I ll get me to a place more void, and there 
Speak to great Ceesar as he comes along. [ Hoit. 
Por. I must goin. Ay me, how weak a thing 
The heart of woman is! O Brutus, 
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise ! 
Sure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit 
That Cesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. 
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; 
Say Iam merry: come to me again, 
And bring me word what he doth say to thee. 
[Hxeunt severally. 


ECSU: 


Ceesar goes up to the Senate-House, the rest following. 


Pop. I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive. 
Cas. What enterprise, Popilius ? 
Pop. Fare you well. 
[Advances to Cesar. 

Bru. What said Popilius Lena ? 

Cas. He wish’d to-day our enterprise might thrive. 
I fear our purpose is discovered. 

Bru. Look, how he makes to Cesar: mark him. 

Oas. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention. 
Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, 
Cassius or Ceesar never shall turn back, 

For I will slay myself. 

Bru. Cassius, be constant: 
Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; 
For, look, he smiles, and Cesar doth not change. 

Cas. Trebonius knows his time; for, look you, 


Brutus, 
He draws Mark Antony out of the way. 
[Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. 


635 


JULIUS 


Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go, 
And presently prefer his suit to Cesar. 

Bru. He is address’d: press near and second him. 

Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. 

Oces. Are we all ready? What is now amiss 
That Cesar and his senate must redress ? 

Met. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant 


BE big bel ig 1 


eesar, 
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat 
An humble heart,— [ Kneeling. 
Cees. I must prevent thee, Cimber. 
These couchings and these lowly courtesies 
Might fire the blood of ordinary men, 
And turn pre-ordinance and first decree 
Into the law of children. Be not fond, 
To think that Ceesar bears such rebel blood 
That will be thaw’d from the true quality 
With that which melteth fools ; I mean, sweet words, 
Low-crooked court’sies and base spaniel-fawning. 
Thy brother by decree is banished : 
If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, 
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. 
Know, Cezesar doth not wrong, nor without cause 
Will he be satisfied. 
Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, 
To sound more sweetly in great Ceesar’s ear 
For the repealing of my banish’d brother ? 
Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Cesar ; 
Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may 
Have an immediate freedom of repeal. 
Ces. What, Brutus! 
Cas. Pardon, Cesar; Cesar, pardon: 
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, 
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. 
Cees. I could be well moved, if I were as you; 
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: 
But I am constant as the northern star, 
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality 
There is no fellow in the firmament. 
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, 
They are all fire and every one doth shine, 
But there ’s but one in all doth hold his place: 
So in the world; ’t is furnish’d well with men, 
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive ; 
Yet in the number I do know but one | 
That unassailable holds on his rank, 
Unshaked of motion: and that I am he, 
Let me a little show it, even in this; 
That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d, 
And constant do remain to keep him so. 
Cin. O Ceesar,— 
Oves. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus ? 
Dec. Great Cesar,— 
Oes. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel ? 
Casca. Speak, hands, for me! 
[Casca first, then the other Conspirators and 
Marcus Brutus stab Ceesar. 
Jes. Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Cesar! | Dies. 
Cin. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! 
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. 
Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry out 
‘ Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement! ’ 
Bru. People and senators, be not affrighted ; 
Fly not; stand still: ambition’s debt is paid. 
Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. 
Dee. And Cassius too. 
Bru. Where’s Publius ? 
Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. 
Met. Stand fast together, lest some friend of 
Should chance— [Ceesar’s 
Bru. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer; 
There is no harm intended to your person, 
Nor to no Roman else: so tell them, Publius. 
Cas. And leave us, Publius; lest that the people, 
Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief. 
Bru. Do so: and let no man abide this deed, 
But we the doers. 


636 


CHSA R. SCENE I. 
Re-enter Trebonius. 
Cas. Where is Antony ? 
Tre. Fled to his house amazed: 


Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run 
As it were doomsday. 

Bru. Fates, we will know your pleasures: 
That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time 
And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 

Cas. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life 
Cuts off so many years of fearing death. 

Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit: 

So are we Cesar’s friends, that have abridged 

His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, 
And let us bathe our hands in Ceesar’s blood 

Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: 

Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, 
And, waving our red weapons o’er our heads, 

Let ’s all cry ‘ Peace, freedom and liberty!’ 

Cas. Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages 
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over [hence 
In states unborn and accents yet unknown! 

Bru. How many times shall Ceesar bleed in sport, 
That now on Pompey’s basis lies along 
No worthier than the dust! 

as. So oft as that shall be, 
So often shall the knot of us be call’d 
The men that gave their country liberty. 

Dec. What, shall we forth ? 

Cas. Ay, every man away: 
Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels 
With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. 


Enter a Servant. 


_ Bru. Soft! who comes here ? A friendof Antony’s. 
Serv. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel; 

Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down; 
And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: 
Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; 
Cesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving: 
Say I love Brutus, and I honour him; 
Say I fear’d Cesar, honour’d him and loved him, 
If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony 
May safely come to him, and be resolved 
How Cesar hath deserved to lie in death, 


| Mark Antony shall not love Ceesar dead 


So well as Brutus living; but will follow 
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus 
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state 
With all true faith. So says my master Antony. 
Bru. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; 
I never thought him worse. 
Tell him, so please him come unto this place, 
He shall be satisfied; and, by my honour, 
Depart untouch’d. 
Serv. I’ll fetch him presently. [ Hzit. 
Bru. I know that we shall have him well to friend. 
Cas. I wish we may: but yet have I a mind 
That fears him much; and my misgiving still 
Falls shrewdly to the purpose. 
Bru. But here comes Antony. 


Re-enter Antony. 


Welcome, Mark Antony. 

Ant. O mighty Cesar! dost thou lie so low? 
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, 
Shrunk to this little measure ? Fare thee well. 
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, 
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: 
If I myself, there is no hour so fit 
As Cesar’s death hour, nor no instrument 
Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich — 
With the most noble blood of all this world. . 
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, 
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke. 
Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, 
I shall not find myself so apt to die: 


JULIUS 


AOT Ill. 


No place will please me so, no mean of death, 
As here by Cesar, and by you cut off, 
‘The choice and master spirits of this age. 

Bru. O Antony, beg not your death of us. 
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, 
As, by our hands and this our present act, 

You see we do, yet see you but our hands 

And this the bleeding business they have done: 
Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; 

And pity to the general wrong of Rome — 

As fire drives out fire, so pity pity — 

Hath done this deed on Cesar. For your part, 

To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony: 
Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts 
Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in 

With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. 

Cas. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s 
In the disposing of new dignities. 

Bru. Only be patient till we have appeased 
The multitude, beside themselves with fear, 

And then we will deliver you the cause, 
Why I, that did love Cesar when I struck him, 
Have thus proceeded. 

Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. 
Let each man render me his bloody hand: 

First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; 
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand; - 

Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; 
Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; 
Though last, not least in love,yours, good Trebonius. 
Gentlemen all,—alas, what shall I say ? 

My credit now stands on such slippery ground, 
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, 
Either a coward or a flatterer. 

. That I did love thee, Cesar, O, ’tis true: 

If then thy spirit look upon us now, 

Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, 

To see thy Antony making his peace, 

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, 

Most noble! in the presence of thy corse ? 

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, 

It would become me better than to close 
In terms of friendship with thine enemiés. 
Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave 
Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, 
Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. 

O world, thou wast the forest to this hart ; 

And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. 

How like a deer, strucken by many princes, 

Dost thou here lie! 

Cas. Mark Antony,— 

Ant. _ Pardon me, Caius Cassius: 
The enemies of Cesar shall say this; 

Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. 

Cas. I blame you not for praising Cesar so; 

But what compact mean you to have with us ? 
Will you be prick’d in number of our friends; 
Or shall we on, and not depend on you? 

Ant. Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed, 
Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Cesar. 
Friends am I with you all and love you all, 

Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons 
Why and wherein Cesar was dangerous. 

Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle: 
Our reasons are so full of good regard 
That were you, Antony, the son of Cesar, 
You should be satisfied. 

Ant. That’s all I seek: 
And am moreover suitor that I may 
Produce his body to the market-place ; 

And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, 
Speak in the order of his funeral. 

Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. 

OS. Brutus, a word with you. 
[Aside to Bru.] You know not what you do: do not 
That Antony speak in his funeral: [consent 


[hart ;. 


CHISA R. 


Know you how much the people may be moved 
By that which he will utter ? 
Bru. By your pardon ; 
I will myself into the pulpit first, 
And show the reason of our Cezesar’s death: 
What Antony shall speak, I will protest 
He speaks by leave and by permission, 
And that we are contented Cesar shall 
Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. 
It shall advantage more than do us wrong. 
Cas. I know not what may fall; I like it not. 
Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Ceesar’s body. 
You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, 
But speak all good you can devise of Ceasar, 
And say you do ’t by our permission ; 
Else shall you not have any hand at all 
About his funeral: and you shall speak 
In the same pulpit whereto I am going, 
After my speech is ended. 
Ant. 
I do desire no more. 
Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us. 
[Exeunt all but Antony. 
Ant. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth 
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,— 
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue— 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; 
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy ; 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use 
And dreadful objects so familiar 
That mothers shall but smile when they behold 
Their infants quarter’d with the hands of war; 
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds: 
And Ceesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, 
With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice 
Cry ‘ Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial. 


SCENE II. 


Be it so; 


4 


Enter a Servant. 


You serve Octavius Cesar, do you not ? 
Serv. I do, Mark Antony. 
Ant. Ceesar did write for him to come to Rome. 
Serv. He did receive his letters, and is coming; 
And bid me say to you by word of mouth— 
O Cesar ! — [Seeing the body. 
Ant. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. 
Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine eyes, 
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, 
Began to water. Is thy master coming? . 
erv. He lies to-night within seven leagues of 
Rome. [chanced : 
Ant. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath 
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, 
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet ; 
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile; 
Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse 
Into the market-place: there shall I try, 
In my oration, how the people take 
The cruel issue of these bloody men: 
According to the which, thou shalt discourse 
To young Octavius of the state of ne ; 
Lend me your hand. [Hxeunt with Coesar’s body. 


SCENE II. — The Forum. 


Enter Brutus and Cassius, anda throng of Citizens. 
Citizens. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied. 
Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, 

Cassius, go you into the other street, [friends. 

637 


JULIUS 


AOT SLL 


And part the numbers. 

Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; 
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ; 
And public reasons shall be rendered 

Of Ceesar’s death. 

First Cit. I will hear Brutus speak. [reasons, 

Sec. Cit. I will hear Cassius; and compare their 
When severally we hear them rendered. 

[ Hxit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus 
; goes into the pulpit. 
Third Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended: silence! 

Bru. Be patient till the last. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my 
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me 
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, 
that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, 
and awake your senses, that you may the better 
judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear 
friend of Ceesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to 
Cesar was no less than his. If then that friend de- 
mand why Brutus rose against Cesar, this is my 
answer :— Not that I loved Cesar less, but that I 
loved Rome more. Had you rather Cesar were 
living and die all slaves, than that Ceesar were dead, 
to live all freemen? As Cesar loved me, I weep 
for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he 
was vahant, I honour him: but, as he was ambi- 
tious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy 
for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death 
for his ambition. Who is here so base that would 
bea bondman? If any, speak; for him have I of- 
fended. Whois here so rude that would not be a 
Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. 
Who is here so vile that will not love his country ? 
If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for 
a reply. 

All. None, Brutus, none. 

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no 
more to Cesar than you shall do to Brutus. The 
question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his 
glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor 
his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. 


Enter Antony and others, with Ceesar’s body. 


Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: 

who, though he had no hand in his death, shall re- 

ceive the benefit of his dying, a place in the com- 
monwealth; as which of you shall not ?. With this 

I depart,—that, as I slew my best lover for the 

good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, 

when it shall please my country to need my death. 
All. Live, Brutus! live, live! [house. 
First Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his 
Sec. Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 
Third Cit. Let him be Cesar. 

_ Fourth Cit. Cesar’s better parts 

Shall be crown’d in Brutus. 

First Cit. We ’ll bring him to his house 

With shouts and clamours. 

Bru. My countrymen ,— 
Sec. Cit. Peace, silence! Brutus speaks. 

Kirst Cit. Peace, ho! 
Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, 

And, for my sake, stay here with Antony: 

Do grace to Cesar’s corpse, and grace his speech 

Tending to Cesar’s glories; which Mark Antony, 

By our permission, is allow’d to make. 

I do entreat you, not a man depart, 

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [ Exit. 
First Cit. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony. 
Third Cit. Let him go up into the public chair; 

We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. 

Ant. For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you. 

[ Goes into the pulpit. 
Fourth Cit. What does he say of Brutus ? 
Third Cit. He says, for Brutus’ sake, 

He finds himself beholding to us all. 

638 


CHSAR. 


‘ourth Cit. ’T were best he speak no harm of 
Brutus here. 

First Cit. This Cesar was a tyrant. 

Third Cit. Nay, that’s certain: 
We are blest that Rome is rid of him. [say. 

Sec. Cit. Peace! let us hear what Antony can 

Ant. You gentle Romans, — 

Citizens. Peace, ho! let us hear him. 

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me 

your ears ; 
I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones; 
So let it be with Cesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Cesar was ambitious: 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Cesar answer’d it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest — 
For Brutus is an honourable man ; 
So are they all, all honourable men — 
Come I to speak in Ceesar’s funeral. 
He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
Did this in Cesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Cesar hath wept: 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
You all did see that on the Lupercal 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And, sure, he is an honourable man. 
J speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once, not without cause: 
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him ? 
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Cesar, 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

First Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his 

sayings. 

Sec. Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, 
Ceesar has had great wrong. 

Third Cit. Has he, masters ? 

I fear there will a worse come in his place. 
Fourth Cit. Mark’d ye his words ? He would not 
take the crown ; 
Therefore ’t is certain he was not ambitious. 

First Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 

Sec. Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with 

weeping. [Antony. 

Third Cit. There ’s not a nobler man in Rome than 

Fourth Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to 

speak. 

Ant. But yesterday the word of Cesar might 
Have stood against the world; now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

O masters, if I were disposed to stir 

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honourable men: 

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 
Than I will wrong such honourable men. 

But here’s a parchment with the seal of Czesar; 
I found it in his closet, ’tis his will: 

Let but the commons hear this testament — 
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read— 
And they would go and kiss dead Czesar’s wounds 
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 


SCENE II. 


| 


JULIUS 


ACT III. 


Bequeathing it as a rich legacy 

Unto their issue. [Antony. 
Fourth Cit. Well hear the will: read it, Mark 
All. The will, the will! we will hear Ceesar’s will. 
Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not 

read it; 

It is not meet you know how Cesar loved you. 

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; 

And, being men, hearing the will of Cesar, 

It will inflame you, it will make you mad: 

' Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; 

For, if you should, O, what would come of it! 
Fourth Cit. Read the will; we ’ll hear it, Antony ; 

You shall read us the will, Ceesar’s will. 
Ant. Will you be patient ? will you stay awhile? 

I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it: 

I fear I wrong the honourable men 

Whose daggers have stabb’d Ceesar; I do fear it. 
Fourth Cit. They were traitors: honourable men ! 
All. The will! the testament! 

Sec. Cit. They were villains, murderers: the will! 
read the will. | 
Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ? 

Then make a ring about the corpse of Cesar, 
And let me show you him that made the will. 
Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave? 
Several Cit. Come down. 
Sec. Cit. Descend. 
Third Cit. You shall have leave. 
[Antony comes down. 
Fourth Cit. A ring; stand round. [body. 
First Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the 
Sec. Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony. 
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. 
Several Cit. Stand back; room; bear back. 
Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle: I remember 
The first time ever Ceesar put it on; 
”T was on a summer’s evening, in his tent, 
That day he overcame the Nervii: 
Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: 
See what a rent the envious Casca made: 
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d; 
And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Cesar follow’d it, 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Cesar’s angel: 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cesar loved him! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all; 
For when the noble Cesar saw him stab, 
ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, 
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
T’ven at the base of Pompey’s statua, 


Which all the while ran blood, great Ceesar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. 
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold 
Our Cesar’s vesture wounded ? Look you here, 
Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors. 
Kirst Cit. O piteous spectacle! 
Sec. Cit. O noble Cesar! 
Third Cit. O woful day! 
Fourth Cit. O traitors, villains! 
First Cit. O most bloody sight! 
Sec. Cit. We will be revenged. 
All. Revenge! About! Seek! 
Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live! 
Ant. Stay, countrymen. 
First Cit. Peace there! hear the noble Antony. 


Burn! Fire! 


CHS A R. 


To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 

They that have done this deed are honourable: 

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 

That made them do it: they are wise and honourable, 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: 

J am no orator, as Brutus is; } 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 

That love my friend; and that they know full well 

That gave me public leave to speak of him: 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 

To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on; 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know; 

Show you sweet Ceesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb 

mouths, 

And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue 

In every wound of Cesar that should move 

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 

All. We’ll mutiny. 

First Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus. 

Third Cit. Away, then! come, seek the con- 
spirators. 

Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. 

All. Peace, ho! Hear Antony. Most noble Antony’ 

Ant. MA friends, you go to do you know not 
what: 

Wherein hath Cesar thus deserved your loves ? 

Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then: 

You have forgot the will I told you of. [the will. 
All. Most true. The will! Let’s stay and hear 
Ant. Here is the will, and under Cesar’s seal. 

To every Roman citizen he gives, 

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 

Sec. Cit. Most noble Cesar! Well revenge his 
Third Cit. O royal Cesar! [death, 
Ani. Hear me with patience. 

All. Peace, ho! 

Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, 

His private arbours and new-planted orchards, 

On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, 

And to your heirs for ever, common pleasures, 

To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 

Here was a Cesar! when comes such another ? 
First Oit. Never, never. Come, away, away ! 

We’ll burn his body in the holy place, 

And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. 

Take up the body. 

Sec. Cit. Go fetch fire. 
Third Cit. Pluck down benches. 
Fourth Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, any- 
thing. [Exeunt Citizens with the body. 
Ant. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, 
Take thou what course thou wilt! 


SCENE III. 


Enter a Servant. 


How now, fellow! 
Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome. 
Ant. Where is he? 
Serv. He and Lepidus are at Ceesar’s house. 
Ant. And thither will I straight to visit him: 
He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, 
And in this mood will give us anything. 
Serv. I heard him say, Brutus and Cassius 
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. 
Ant. Belike they had some notice of the people, 
How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE III.— A street. 


Enter Cinna the poet. 
Cin. I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Cesar, 


Sec. Cit. We'll hear him, we ’ll follow him, well | And things unlucky charge my fantasy : 


die with him. ’ 


[you up | I have no will to wander forth of doors, 


Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir | Yet something leads me forth. 


639 


ACT IV. JULIUS 


CHSA R. SCENE II. 


Enter Citizens. 


First Cit. What is your name? 

Sec. Cit. Whither are you going ? 

Third Cit. Where do you dwell ? 

Fourth Cit. Ave youa married man or a bachelor ? 

Sec. Cit. Answer every man directly. 

First Cit. Ay, and briefly. 

Fourth Cit. Ay, and wisely. 

Third Cit. Ay, and truly, you were best. 

Oin. What ismy name? Whither am I going? 
Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a 
bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly 
and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, l am a 
bachelor. 

Sec. Cit. That ’s as much as to say, they are fools 
that marry: you ’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. 
Proceed; directly. 

Oin. Directly, I am going to Cesar’s funeral. 


First Cit. As a friend or an enemy ? 

Cin. As a friend. 

Sec. Cit. That matter is answered directly. 

Fourth Cit. For your dwelling,— briefly. 

Cin. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. 

Third Cit. Your name, sir, truly. 

Oin. Truly, my name is Cinna. 

First Cit. Tear him to pieces; he ’s a conspirator, 

Cin. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. 

Fourth Cit. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him 
for his bad verses. 

Cin. I am not Cinna the conspirator. 

Fourth Cit. It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; 
pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him 

oing. 

, Third Cit. Tear him, tear him! Come, brands, 
ho! fire-brands: to Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all: 
some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s ; some 
to Ligarius’: away, go!. [Exeunt. 


PGa Ty ST Vi. 


SCENE I.—A house in Rome. 


Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, seated at a table. 


Ant. These many, then, shall die; their names 

are prick’d. [pidus ? 

Oct. Your brother too must die; consent you, Le- 

Lep. I do consent,— 

Oct. Prick him down, Antony. 

Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not live, 

Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony. {him. 

Ant. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn 
But, Lepidus, go you to Cesar’s house; 

Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine 
How to cut off some charge in legacies. 

Lep. What, shall I find you here? 

Oct. Or here, or at the Capitol. [Exit Lepidus. 

Ant. This is a slight unmeritable man, 

Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit, 
The three-fold world divided, he should stand 
One of the three to share it ? 

Oct. So you thought him ; 
And took his voice who should be prick’d to die, 
In our black sentence and proscription. 

Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days than you: 
And though we lay these honours on this man, 

To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 

He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, 

To groan and sweat under the business, 

Either led or driven, as we point the way ; 

And having brought our treasure where we will, 
Then take we down his load, and turn him off, 
Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, 

And graze in commons. 

Oct. You may do your will; 
But he’s a tried and valiant soldier. 

Ant. So is my horse, Octavius; and for that 
I do appoint him store of provender: 

It is a creature that I teach to fight, 

To wind, to stop, to run directly on, 

His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. 

And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so; 

He must be taught and train’d and bid go forth; 
A barren-spirited fellow ; one that feeds 

On abjects, orts and imitations, 

Which, out of use and staled by other men, 
Begin his fashion: do not talk of him, 

But as a property. And now, Octavius, 

Listen great things: — Brutus and Cassius 

Are levying powers: we must straight make head: 
Therefore let our alliance be combined, 

Our best friends made, our means stretch’d; 
And let us presently go sit in council, 


640 


How covert matters may be best disclosed, 
And open perils surest answered. 
Oct. Let us do so: for we are at the stake, 
And bay’d about with many enemies; 
And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, 
Millions of mischiefs. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—Camp near Sardis. 
tent. 


Before Brutus’s 


Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Sol- 
diers; Titinius and Pindarus meeting them, 


Bru. Stand, ho! 
Incil. Give the word, ho! and stand. 
Bru. What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near ? 
Lucil. He is at hand; and Pindarus is come 
To do you sadutation from his master. 
Bru. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, 
In his own change, or by ill officers, 
Hath given me some worthy cause to wish 
Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand, 
I shall be satisfied. 
Pin. I do not doubt 
But that my noble master will appear 
Such as he is, full of regard and honour. 
Bru. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius; 
How he received you, let me be resolved. 
Lucil. With courtesy and with respect enough 3 
But not with such familiar instances, 
Nor with such free and friendly conference, 
As he hath used of old. 
Bru. Thou hast described 
A hot friend cooling: ever note, Lucilius, 
When love begins to sicken and decay, 
It useth an enforced ceremony. 
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith 3 
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, 
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle: 
But when they should endure the bloody spur, 
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades, 
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on ? {ter’d; 
Lucil. They mean this night in Sardis to be quar- 
The greater part, the horse in general, 
Are come with Cassius. 
Bru. Hark! he is arrived. 
[Low march within. 
March gently on to meet him. 


Enter Cassius and his powers. 


Cas. Stand, ho! 
Bru. Stand, ho! 


Speak the word along. 
First Sol. Stand! 


ACT IY. JULIUS 


CHS A R. SCENE III. 


Sec. Sol. Stand! 

Third Sol. Stand! 

Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. 

Bru. Judge me, you gods! wrong I mine enemies ? 
And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother ? 

Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs; 
And when you do them — 

Bru. Cassius, be content ; 
Speak your griefs softly : I do know you well. 
Before the eyes of both our armies here, 
Which should perceive nothing but love from us, 
Let us not wrangle: bid them move away; 
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, 
And I will give you audience. 

Cas. Pindarus, 
Bid our commanders lead their charges off 
A little from this ground. 

Bru. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man 
Come to our tent till we have done our conference. 
Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE III.— Brutus’s tent. 


Enter Brutus and Cassius. 


“Cas, That you have wrong’d me doth appear in 
You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella [this: 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 

Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 

Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 

Bru. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm ; 

To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm! 

You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. Thename of Cassius honours this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March re- 

member : 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake ? 
What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 
Us. Brutus, bay not me; 
J ’ll not endure it: you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. 

Cas."Dam:. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man! 

Cas. Is’t possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this? 

Bru. All this! ay, more: fret till your proud 

heart break ; 
Go show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 


41 


Go to; you are not, Cassius. 


Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, 
Ill use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier: 
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well: for mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, 
I said, an elder soldier, not a better: [Brutus ; 
Did I say ‘ better’ ? 


Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Cesar lived, he durst not thus have 
moved me, [him. 

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted 

Cas. I durst not! 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What, durst not tempt him! 


Bru. For your life you durst not. 
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, 
For I am arm’d so strong in honesty 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me: 
For I can raise no money by vile means: 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection: I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; 
Dash him to pieces! 


Cas. 
Bru. You did. 
Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought 
My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart: 
A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 
- Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 
Cas. You love me not. 
Bru. I do not like your faults. 
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 
Bru. A fiatterer’s would not, though they do 
As huge as high Olympus. [appear 
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world; 
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother ; 
Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learn’d, and conn’d by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep 
My spirit from mineeyes! There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold: 
If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: 
Strike, as thou didst at Cesar; for, I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. [better 
Bru. Sheathe your dagger: 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; 
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 


I denied you not. 


Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, | 
When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. 


641 


JULIUS 


Give me your 


ACT IV. 


{ 


. Do you confess so much? 


Bru. And my heart too. {hand. 
Cas O Brutus! 

Bru, What’s the matter ? 
Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, 


When that rash humour which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He ’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 
Poet. [ Within] Let me go in to see the generals; 
There is some grudge between ’em, ’t is not meet ~ 
They be alone. 
Lucil. [Within] You shall not come to them. 
Poet. [Within] Nothing but death shall stay me. 


Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and 
Lucius. 


Cas. How now! What’s the matter ? [mean ? 
Poet. For shame, you generals! what do you 
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; 
For I have seen more years, I ’m sure, than ye. 
Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme! 
Bru. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence! 
Cas. Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion. 
Bru. Ill know his humour, when he knows his 


time : 

What should the wars do with these jigging fools ? 

Companion, hence! 
Cas. Away, away, be gone! 

[Exit Poet. 

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders 
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night. 

Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala 
Immediately to us. [with you 

[Hxeunt Lucilius and Titinius. 

Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine! [Hait Lucius. 

Cas. I did not think you could have been so angry. 

Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. 

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use, 

If you give place to accidental evils. | 
Bru. No man bears sorrow better. 
Cas. Ha! Portia! 

Bru. She is dead. 

Cas. How ’scaped I killing when I cross’d you so? 
O insupportable and touching loss! 

Upon what sickness ? 

Bru. Impatient of my absence, 
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
Have made themselves so strong:—for with her 

death 

That tidings came ;— with this she fell distract, 

And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire. 
te And died so? 

TU. 


. Cas. 


Portia is dead. 


Even so. 


Re-enter Lucius with wine and taper. 


Bru. Speak no more of her. Give mea bow] of 
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [wine. 
Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. 

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup; 
I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. 
Bru. Come in, Titinius! 


Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. 


Welcome, good Messala. 

Now sit we close about this taper here, 
And call in question our necessities. 

Cas. Portia, art thou gone ? 

Bru. No more, I pray you. 
Messala, I have here received letters, 
That young Octavius and Mark Antony 
Come down upon us with a mighty power, 
Bending their expedition toward Philippi. 

Mes. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenour. 

Bru. With what addition ? 


642 


O ye immortal gods! | 


[ Hxit Lucius. | 


CHSA Rk. 


Mes. That by proscription and bills of outlawry, 
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus, 
Have put to death an hundred senators. 
Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree ; 
Mine speak of seventy senators that died 
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. 
Cas. Cicero one! 
Mes. Cicero is dead, 
And by that order of proscription. 
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord ? 
Bru. No, Messala. 
Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her ? 
Bru. Nothing, Messala. 
Mes. That, methinks, is strange. 
Bru. Why ask you? hear you aught of her in 
Mes. No, my lord. [yours ? 
Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. 
Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: 
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. 
Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Mes- 
With meditating that she must die once, [sala : 
I have the patience to endure it now. [dure. 
Mes. Even so great men great losses should en- 
Cas. I have as much of this in art as you, 
But yet my nature could not bear it so. 
Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think 
Of marching to Philippi presently ? 
oo I do not think it good. 
TU. 


SCENE III. 


Your reason ? 
Cas. This it is: 

’T is better that the enemy seek us: 

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, 

Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still, 

Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. 

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to 
better. 

The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground 

Do stand but in a forced affection ; 

For they have grudged us contribution: 

The enemy, marching along by them, 

By tbem shall make a fuller number up, 

Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encouraged ; 

From which advantage shall we cut him off, 

If at Philippi we do face him there, 

These people at our back. . 
Cas. Hear me, good brother. 
Bru. Under your pardon. You must note beside, 

That we have tried the utmost of our friends, 

Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe: 

The enemy increaseth every day ; 

We, at the height, are ready to decline. 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune: 


| Omitted, all the voyage of their life 


Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
On such a full sea are we now afloat; 
And we must take the current when it serves, 
Or lose our ventures. 
Cas. Then, with your will, go on; 
We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. 
Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, 


| And nature must obey necessity ; 


Which we will niggard with a little rest. 
There is no more to say ? 
Cas. No more. Good-night: 
Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence. 
Bru. Lucius! [Enter Lucius.| My gown. [vit 
Lucius.) Farewell, good Messaja: 
Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, 
Good night, and good repose. 
Cas. O my dear brother! 
This was an ill beginning of the night: - 
Never come such division ’tween our souls! 
Let it not, Brutus. 
Bru. Every thing is well. 
Cas. Good night, my lord. - 
Bru. Good night, good brother. 


ee 


Ca 
(a 
ya 
GS 
n 
8 
it 
> 
a 
| 
> 
= 
< 
n 
Q 
0) 
5 
0) 


RFE ART 


a 


= 


VU 


= 


— SS 


= == 


4 
—S; 


Yjjj2:. 


Saas PLL 


TH 


‘ 


le 
Wii 


il 2 LN WN OT My 


ACT V. LULLOS 


Tit. Mes. Good night, Lord Brutus. 
Bru. Farewell, every one. 
[Hxeunt all but Brutus. 


Re-enter Lucius, with the gown. 


Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument ? 

Tuc. Here in the tent. 

Bru. What, thou speak’st drowsily ? 
Poor knave, I blame thee not: thou art o’erwatch’d. 
Call Claudius and some other of my men; 

Ill have them sleep on cushions in my tent. 

Luc. Varro and Claudius! 


Enter Varro and Claudius. 


Var. Calls my lord ? 

Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; 
It may be I shall raise you by and by 
On business to my brother Cassius. 

Var. So please you, we will stand and watch your 

pleasure. 

Bru. I will not have it so: lie down, good sirs; 
It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. 
Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so ; 
I put it in the pocket of my gown. 

[ Var. and Clau. lie down. 

Luc. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. 

Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forget- 
Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, (ful. 
And touch thy instrument a strain or two? 

Ic. Ay, my lord, an ’t please you. 

Bru. It does, my boy: 
I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. 

LInuc. It is my duty, sir. 

Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might; 
I know young bloods look for a time of rest. 

Luc. I have slept, my lord, already. 

Bru. It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again ; 
I will not hold thee long: if I do live, 
I will be good to thee. [ Music, and a song. 
This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, 
Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, 
That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night: 
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee: 


CHSA R. 


Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down 
Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. 


Enter the Ghost of Ceesar. 


How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here ? 

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 

That shapes this monstrous apparition. 

It comes upon me. Art thou any thing ? 

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, 

That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? 

Speak to me what thou art. 

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. 

Bru. Why comest thou ? 

Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. 

Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again ? 

Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. 

Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then. 
[Hxit Ghost. 

Now I have taken heart thou vanishest : 

Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. 

Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs,awake! Clau- 
Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. [dius! 
Bru. He thinks he still is at his instrument. 

Lucius, awake! 

Luc. My lord ? 

Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so 
eriedst out ? 

Inc. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. 

Bru. Yes, that thou didst: didst thou see any 
thing ? 

Luc. Nothing, my lord. 

Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius! [To 

Var.] Fellow thou, awake! 

Var. My lord? 

Clau. My lord ? 

Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep ? 
Var. Clau. Did we, my lord? 


SCENE I. 


Bru. Ay: saw you any thing? 
Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing. 
Clau. Nor I, my lord. 


Bru. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius ; 
Bid him set on his powers betimes before, 
And we will follow. 


If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; Var. Clau. It shall be done, my lord. 
1’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. [ Hxeunt. 
eA Cuddy Vi. 

SCENE I.—The plains of Philippi. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; 


Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army. 


Oct. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered: 
You said the enemy would not come down, 
But keep the hills and upper regions; 
It proves not so: their battles are at hand; 
They mean to warn us at Philippi here, 
Answering before we do demand of them. 

Ant. Tut, Iam in their bosoms, and I know 
Wherefore they do it: they could be content 
To visit other places; and come down 
With fearful bravery, thinking by this face 
To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; 
But ’tis not so. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Prepare, you, generals: 
The enemy comes on in gallant show; 
Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, 
And something to be done immediately. 

Ant. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, 
Upon the left hand of the even field. 

Oct. Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left. 

Ant. Why do you cross me in this exigent ? 

Oct. I do not cross you; but I will do so. 

[ March. 


Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and others. 


Bru. They stand, and would have parley. 
Cas. Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk. 
Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle ? 
Ant. No, Cesar, we will answer on their charge. 
Make forth; the generals would have some words. 
Oct. Stir not until the signal. 
Bru. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen ? 
Oct. Not that we love words better, as you do. 
Bru. Good words are better than bad strokes, 
Octavius. [words : 
Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good 
Witness the hole you made in Ceesar’s heart, 
Crying ‘ Long live! hail, Cesar!’ 
Cas. Antony, 
The posture of your blows are yet unknown; 
But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, 
And leave them honeyless. 
Ant. Not stingless too. 
Bru. O, yes, and soundless too; 
For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, 
And very wisely threat before you sting. _ [gers 
Ant. Villains, you did not so, when your vile dag- 
Hack’d one another in the sides of Cesar : 


643 


JULIUS 


You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like 
hounds, 

And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Cesar’s feet ; 

Whilst damn’d Casca, like a cur, behind 

Struck Cesar on the neck. O you flatterers! 

Oas. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself: 
This tongue had not offended so to-day, 

If Cassius might have ruled. 

Oct. Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us 

sweat, 
The proof of it will turn to redder drops. 
Look; 
I draw a sword against conspirators ; 
When think you that the sword goes up again ? 
Never, till Czesar’s three and thirty wounds 
Be well avenged; or till another Ceesar 
Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. 

Bru. Cesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands, 
Unless thou bring’st them with thee. 

Oct. So I hope; 
I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword. 

Bru. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, 
Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. 

Cas. A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such hon- 
Join’d with a masker and a reveller! [our, 

Ant. Old Cassius still! 

Oct. Come, Antony, away ! 
Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth: 

If you dare fight to-day, come to the field; 
If not, when you have stomachs. 
[Hxeunt Octavius, Antony, and their army. 

Cas. Why, now, blow wind, swell billow and 

swim bark! 
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 

Bru. Ho, Lucilius! hark, a word with you. 

Lucil. [Standing forth] My lord ? 

eee and Lucilius converse apart. 

Cas. Messala! 

Mes. (Standing forth] What says my general ? 

Cas. Messala, 

This is my birth-day; as this very day 

Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala: 
Be thou my witness that against my will, 

As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set 

Upon one battle all our liberties. 

You know that I held Epicurus strong 

And his opinion: now I change my mind, 

And partly credit things that do presage. 
Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign 
Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d, 
Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands; 
Who to Philippi here consorted us: 

This morning are they fled away and gone; 
And in their steads do ravens, crows and kites, 
Fly o’er our heads and downward look on us, 
As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem 

A canopy most fatal, under which 

Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. 

Mes. Believe not so. 

Cas. I but believe it partly; 
For I am fresh of spirit and resolved 
To meet all perils very constantly. 

Bru. Even so, Lucilius. . 

Cas. Now, most noble Brutus, 
The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may, 
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to-age! 

But since the affairs of men rest still incertain, 
Let ’s reason with the worst that may befall. 
If we do lose this battle, then is this 

The very last time we shall speak together : 
What are you then determined to do ? 

Bru. Even by the rule of that philosophy 
By which I did blame Cato for the death 
Which he did give himself, I know not how, 

But I do find it cowardly and vile, 
For fear of what might fall, so to prevent 
The time of life: arming myself with patience 


644 


ACT VV. 


» 


CHSAR. 


To stay the providence of some high powers 
That govern us below. 

Oas. Then, if we lose this battle, 
-You are contented to be led in triumph 
Thorough the streets of Rome ? [man, 

Bru. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Ro- 
That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; 

He bears too great amind. But this same day 
Must end that work the ides of March begun; 

And whether we shall meet again I know not. 
Therefore our everlasting farewell take: 

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius! 

If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; 

If not, why then, this parting was well made. 

Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus! 
If we do meet again, we ’ll smile indeed ; 

If not, ’tis true this parting was well made. 

Bru. Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might 
The end of this day’s business ere it come! [know 
But it sufficeth that the day will end, 

And then the end is known. Come, ho! away! 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. The field of battle. 


Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. 


Bru. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills 
Unto the legions on the other side. [Loud alarum. 
Let them set on at once; for I perceive 
But cold demeanour in Octavius’ wing, 

And sudden push gives them the overthrow. 
Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III. — Another part of the field. 


Alarums. Hnter Cassius and Titinius. 


Cas. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly ! 
Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy: ~ 
This ensign here of mine was turning back; 
I slew the coward, and did take it from him. 

Tit. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early ; 
Who, having some advantage on Octavius, 
Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil, 
Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed. 


SCENE III, 


Enter Pindarus. 


Pin. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off; 
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord: 

Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. 

Cas. This hillisfarenough. Look, look, Titinius, 
Are those my tents where I perceive the fire ? 

Tit. They are, my lord. 

Cas. Titinius, if thou lovest me, 
Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him, 
Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops, 
And here again; that I may rest assured 
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. 

Tit. I will be here again, even with a thought. 


[ Exit 
Cas. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill; 
My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius, 
And tell me what thou notest about the field. 
[Pindarus ascends the hill. 
This day I breathed first: time is come round, 
And where I did begin, there shall I end; 
My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news? 
Pin. [Above] O my lord! 
Cas. What news ? ; 
Pin. [Above] Titinius is enclosed round about 
With horsemen, that make to him on the spur; 
Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. 
Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. 
He’s ta’en. [Shout.] And hark! they shout for joy. 
Cas. Come down, behold no more. 
O, coward that I am, to live so long, 
To see my best friend ta’en before my face! 


————————— 


ACT V. HELLS 


CHS A R. SCENE Vv. 


Pindarus descends. 


Come hither, sirrah : 

In Parthia did I take thee prisoner ; 

And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, 

That whatsoever I did bid thee do, [oath ; 

Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine 

Now be a freeman: and with this good sword, 

That ran through Ceesar’s bowels, search this bosom. 

Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts; 

And, when my face is cover’d, as ’t is now, 

Guide thou the sword. [Pindarus stabs him.] Cesar, 

thou art revenged, 

Even with the sword that kill’d thee. [ Dies. 
Pin. So, I am free; yet would not so have been, 

Durst I have done my will. O Cassius, 

Far from this country Pindarus shall run, 

Where never Roman shall take note of him. [/vit. 


Re-enter Titinius with Messala. 


Mes. It is but change, Titinius ; for Octavius 
Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, 
As Cassius’ legions are by Antony. 
Tit. These tidings will well comfort Cassius. 
Mes. Where did you leave him ? 
Tit. All disconsolate, 
With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. 
Mes. Is not that he that lies upon the ground ? 
Tit. He lies not like the living. O my heart! 
Mes. Is not that he? 
Tit. No, this was he, Messala, 
But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, 
As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night, 
So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set ; 
The sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone; 
Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done! 
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. 
Mes. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. 
O hateful error, melancholy’s child, 
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men 
The things that are not? O error, soon conceived, 
Thou never comest unto a happy birth, 
But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee! 
Tit. What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus ? 
Mes. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet 
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report 
Into his ears; I may say, thrusting it; 
For piercing steel and darts envenomed 
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus 
As tidings of this sight. 
es Hie you, Messala, 
And I will seek for Pindarus the while. 
[ Hxit Messala. 
Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ? 
Did I not meet thy friends? and did not they 
Put on my brows this wreath of victory, [shouts ? 
And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their 
Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything ! 
But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; 
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I 
Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, 
And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. 
By your leave, gods:— this is a Roman’s part: 
Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart. 
[Kills himself. 


Alarum. Se-enter Messala, with Brutus, young 
Cato, Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius. 


Bru. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie ? 

Mes. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. 

Bru. Titinius’ face is upward. 

Cato. He is slain. 

Bru. O Julius Cesar, thou art mighty yet! 

Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords 

In our own proper entrails. [Low alarums. 
Cato. Brave Titinius! 

Look, whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius! 


Bru. Are yet two Romans living such as these ? 
The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! 
It is impossible that ever Rome 
Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears 
To this dead man than you shall see me pay. 
I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. 
Come, therefore, and to Thasos send his body: 
His funerals shall not be in our camp, 
Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come; 
And come, young Cato; let us to the field. 
Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on: 
"T is three o’clock; and, Romans, yet ere night 
We shall try fortune in a second fight. | Heeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Another part of the field. 


Alarum. Enter fighting, Soldiers of both armies; 
then Brutus, young Cato, Lucilius, and others. 


Bru. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! 
Cato. What bastard doth not? Who will go 
with me? 
I will proclaim my name about the field: 
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! 
A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend; 
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! 
Bru. And Iam Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; 
Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for sae 
vit. 
LInucil. O young and noble Cato, art thou down ? 
Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius; 
And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son. 
First Sold. Yield, or thou diest. 
Lucil. Only I yield to die: 
There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight; 
[Offering money. 
Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death. 
First Sold. We must not. A noble prisoner! 
Sec. Sold. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is 


ta’en, [general. 
First Sold. Ill tell the news. 


Here comes the 
Enter Antony. 


Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord. 
Ant. Where is he? 
Lucil. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough: 
I dare assure thee that no enemy 
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus: 
The gods defend him from so great a shame! 
When you do find him, or alive or dead, 
He will be found like Brutus, like himself. 
Ant. Thisis not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, 
A prize no less in worth: keep this man safe; 
Give him all kindness: I had rather have 
Such men my friends than enemies. Goon, 
And see whether Brutus be alive or dead; 
And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent 
How everything is chanced. 


SCENE V.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and 
Volumnius. 


Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this 
rock. 
Cli. Statilius show’d the torch-light, but, my lord, 
He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain. 
Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word: 
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. 
[ Whispers. 
Cli. What,I,my lord? No, not for all the world. 
Bru. Peace then! no words. 
a. Ill rather kill myself. 
Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius. [ Whispers. 
ar. Shall I do such a deed ? 
Cli. O Dardanius! 


Dar. O Clitus! 
Cli. What ill request did Brutus make to thee ? 


645 


[| Hxeunt. 


JULIUS 


Dar. 'To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates. 
Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, 
That it runs over even at his eyes. 
Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word. 
Vol. What says my lord? 
Bru. Why, this, Volumnius: 
The ghost of Cesar hath appear’d to me 
Two several times by night; at Sardis once, 
And, this last night, here in Philippi fields: 
I know my hour is come. 
Vol. Not so, my lord. 
Bru. Nay, 1am sure it is, Volumnius. 
Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; 
Our enemies have beat us to the pit: 
[Low alarums. 
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, 
Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, 
Thou know’st that we two went to school together: 
Even for that our love of old, I prithee, 
Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. 
Vol. That ’s not an office for a friend, my lord. 
[Alarum still. 
Cli. Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here. 
Bru. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Vo- 
lumnius. 
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; 
Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, 
My heart doth joy that yet in all my life 
I found no man but he was true to me. 
I shall have glory by this losing day 
More than Octavius and Mark Antony 
By this vile conquest shall attain unto. 
So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue 
Hath almost ended his life’s history : 
Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, 
That have but labour’d to attain this hour. 
[Alarum. Cry within, ‘ Fly, fly, fly!’ 
is Fly, my lord, fly. 
ru. 


AOD Vie 


Hence! I will follow. 
[Hxeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius. 
I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: 
Thou art a fellow of a good respect ; 


Sal 
SS ; x 


a iia 


CHSA fh. 


Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it: 
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, 
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato ? 
Stra. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, 
my lord. 
Bru. Farewell, good Strato. [Runs on his sword.] 
Cesar, now be still: 

I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. [ Dies, 
Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, 
Messala, Lucilius, and the Army. 

Oct. What man is that ? [master ? 
Mes. My master’s man. Strato, where is thy 
Stra. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala : 
The conquerors can but make a fire of him; 
For Brutus only overcame himself, 
And no man else hath honour by his death. 
Incil. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, 
Brutus, 
That thou hast proved Lucilius’ saying true. 
Oct. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. 
Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me? 
Stra. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. 
Oct. Do so, good Messala. 
Mes. How died my master, Strato ? 
Stra. I held the sword, and he did run on it. 
Mes. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, 
That did the latest service to my master. 
Ant. This was the noblest Roman of them all: 
All the conspirators save only he 
Did that they did in envy of great Cesar ; 
He only, in a general honest thought 
And common good to all, made one of them. 
His life was gentle, and the elements 
So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world ‘ This was a man!’ 
Oct. According to his virtue let us use him, 
With all respect and rites of burial. 
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie, 
Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. 
So call the field to rest; and let ’s away, 
To part the glories of this happy day. 


SCENE V. 


[ Hxeunt. 


pI 


i 


Boe 


ALLTEL ALOE LOL LODE LIOL DSL LO DIOR AL EI EEE. 


tne Me 


ana 


MACBETH. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 44. 


Duncan, King of Scotland. 

Malcolm, ¢ 

Donalbain, i his sons. 

eee \ generals of the king’s army. 

Macduff, 

Lennox, 

Ross, 

Menteith, 

Angus, 

Caithness, 

Fleance, son to Banquo. 

Siward, Earl of Northumberland, general of the 
English forces. 

Young Siward, his son. 

Seyton, an officer attending on Macbeth. 


noblemen of Scotland. 


Boy, son to Macduff, 
An English Doctor, 
A Seotch Doctor. 
A Soldier. 
A Porter. 
An Old Man. 
Lady Macbeth. 
Lady Macduff. 
Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. 
Hecate. 
Three Witches. 
Apparitions. 


Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, At- 
tendants, and Messengers. 


SCENE — Scotland: England. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page LXIII.] 


ane oid Rigi ie 


SCENE I.—A desert place. 


Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches. 


First Witch. When shall we three meet again 
In thunder, lightning, or in rain ? 

Sec. Witch. When the hurlyburly ’s done, 
When the battle ’s lost and won. 

Third Witch. That will be ere the set of sun. 

First Witch. Where the place ? 

Sec. Witch. Upon the heath. 

Third Witch. There to meet with Macbeth. 

First Witch. I come, Graymalkin ! 

Sec. Witch. Paddock calls. 

Third Witch. Anon. 

All. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: 


Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A camp near Forres. 


Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donal- 
bain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding 
Sergeant. 


Dun. What bloody man is that ? He can report, 
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt 
The newest state. 

Mal. This is the sergeant 
Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 
’Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! 
Say to the king the knowledge of the broil 
As thou didst leave it. 

Ser. Doubtful it stood : 
As two spent swimmers, that do cling together 
And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald — 
Worthy to be a rebel, for to that 
The multiplying villanies of nature 
Do swarm upon him —from the western isles 
Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied ; 
And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, 
Show’d like a rebel’s whore: but all’s too weak : 
For brave Macbeth — well he deserves that name — 
Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel, 


Which smoked with bloody execution, 
Like valour’s minion carved out his passage 
Till he faced the slave; 


| Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, 


Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps, 
And fix’d his head upon our battlements. 

Dun. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! 

Ser. As whence the sun ’gins his reflection 
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break, 
So from that spring whence comfort seem’d to come 
Discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark: 
No sooner justice had with valour arm’d 
Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, 
But the Norweyan lord surveying vantage, 
With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men 
Began a fresh assault. 

Un. Dismay’d not this 

Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo ? 

Ser. Yes; 
As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. 
If I say sooth, I must report they were 
As cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they 
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: 
Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, 
Or memorize another Golgotha, 
IT cannot tell. 
But Iam faint, my gashes cry for help. [wounds; 

Dun. So well thy words become thee as thy 
They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons. 

[Exit Sergeant, attended. 
9 
Who comes here : Enter Ross. 
Mal. The worthy thane of Ross. 
Len. What a haste looks through his eyes! So 
should he look 
That seems to speak things strange. ’ 
fioss. God save the king! 

Dun. Whence camest thou, worthy thane? | 

Ross. From Fife, great king’ 
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky 
And fan our people cold. Norway himself, 


647. 


ACT 1h 


MACBETH. 


SCENE III. 


With terrible numbers, 

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor 

The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict ; 
Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, 
Confronted him with self-comparisons, 

Point against point rebellious, arm ’gainst arm, 
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, 
The victory fell on us. 

Dun. Great happiness! 

Toss. That now 
Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition ; 
Nor would we deign him burial of his men 
Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s inch 
Ten thousand dollars to our general use. 

Dun. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive 
Our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death, 
And with his former title greet Macbeth. 

Ross. 17ll see it done. 

Dun. What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath 

won. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A heath near Forres. 


Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 


First Witch. Where hast thou been, sister ? 
Sec. Witch. Killing swine. 
Third Witch. Sister, where thou ? [lap, 
First Witch. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her 
And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d :— Give 
me,’ quoth I: 
‘Aroint thee, witch!’ the rump-fed ronyon cries. 
Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the Tiger: 
But in a sieve Ill thither sail, 
And, like a rat without a tail, 
Ill do, I ll do, and Ill do. 
Sec. Witch. 17ll give thee a wind. 
First Witch. Thou ’rt kind. 
Third Witch. And I another. 
First Witch. I myself have all the other, 
And the very ports they blow, 
All the quarters that they know 
I’ the shipman’s card. 
I will drain him dry as hay: 
Sleep shall neither night nor day 
Hang upon his pent-house lid; 
He shall live a man forbid : 
Weary se’nnights nine times nine 
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine: 
Though his bark cannot be lost, 
Yet it shall be tempest-tost. 
Look what I have. 
Sec. Witch. Show me, show me. 
First Witch. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, 
Wreck’d as homeward he did come. [Drum within. 
Third Witch. A drum, a drum! 
Macbeth doth come. 
All. The weird sisters, hand in hand, 
Posters of the sea and land, 
Thus do go about, about: 
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine 
And thrice again, to make up nine. 
Peace! the charm ’s wound up. 


Enter Macbeth and Banquo. 


Mach. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. 

Ban. How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are 
So wither’d and so wild in their attire, [these 
That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth, 
And yet are on’t? Live you? or are you aught 
That man may question? Youseem to understand 
By each at once her chappy finger laying [me, 
Upon her skinny lips: you should be women, 
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
That you are so. 

Mach. Speak, if you can: what are you? 

First Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane 

of Glamis! 
648 


Sec. Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane 
of Cawdor! 

Third Witch. All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be 
king hereafter! 

. Ban. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear 
Things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth, 
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed 
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner 
You greet with present grace and great prediction 
Of noble having and of royal hope, 

That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not. 
If you can look into the seeds of time, 
And say which grain will grow and which will not, 
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear 
Your favours nor your hate. 
First Witch. Hail! 
Sec. Witch. Hail! 
Third Witch. Hail! 
First Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. 
Sec. Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier. 
Third Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou 
So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! [be none: 
First Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! 
Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: 
By Sinel’s death I know I am thane of Glamis; 
But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives, 
A prosperous gentleman; and to be king 
Stands not within the prospect of belief, 
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence 
You owe this strange intelligence ? or why 
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way 
With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge 
you. [ Witches vanish. 
Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 
And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d ? 
Macb. Into the air; and what seem’d corporal 
melted 
As breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d! 
Ban. Were such things here as we do speak about ? 
Or have we eaten on the insane root 
That takes the reason prisoner ? 
Macb. Your children shall be kings. 
Ban. You shall be king. 
Mach. And thane of Cawdor too: went it not 
so ? [here ? 
Ban. To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s 


Enter Ross and Angus. 


Foss. The king hath happily received, Macbeth, 
The news of thy success; and when he reads 
Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, 
His wonders and his praises do contend 
Which should be thine or his: silenced with that, 


‘In viewing o’er the rest 0’ the selfsame day, 


He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, 
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, 
Strange images of death. As thick as hail 
Came post with post; and every one did bear 
Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, 
And pour’d them down before him. 

ng. We are sent 
To give thee from our royal master thanks; 
Only to herald thee into his sight, 
Not pay thee. 

Foss. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, 
He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor: 
In which addition, hail, most worthy thane! 

For it is thine. 

Ban. What, can the devil speak true ? 

Macb. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you 
In borrow’d robes ? [dress me 

Ang. Who was the thane lives yet; 
But under heavy judgment bears that life 
Which hedeservestolose. Whether he was combined 
With those of Norway, or did line the rebel 
With hidden help and vantage, or that with both 
He labour’d in his country’s wreck, I know not; 


S 


SS 
SSS 


‘tl eusDS Vl OY HLAAGOVAN 


————F— 
~ 


——S 


SS 


—— SSS = 


—————— 


SPU RYE ))1 
Mise 
NMS 

INC? 


Nh ‘ | ' 


{ 
f 
‘ie 
ri 
! 
0 
Hl 
fh 
4 
t, 


i 


oe 

iin a Wy) (i i 
Mid y i) | | 
HT 


: tii 
LMM hi | | 
AE aa 


ft i ANG iy LY Wy i yy f 
: i. i i | i Cs AN ‘ WW GN : Ba, | i al it | 
eg me A a 


a 


rere aw 


But treasons capital, confess’d and proved, 
Have overthrown him. 

Macb. [Aside] Glamis, and thane of Cawdor! 
The greatest is behind. [Zo Ross and Angus] 

Thanks for your pains. [kings, 
{To Ban.] Do you not hope your children shall be 
When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me 
Promised no less to them ? 
an. That trusted home 

Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, 
Besides the thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: 
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, 
‘The instruments of darkness tell us truths, 
Win us with honest trifles, to betray ’s 
In deepest consequence. 
Cousins, a word, I pray you. 

Macb. [Aside] Two truths are told, 
As happy prologues to the swelling act 
Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen. 
| Aside] This supernatural soliciting 
Cannot be ill, cannot be good: if ill, 
Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
Commencing in a truth? Iam thane of Cawdor: 
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair 
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
Against the use of nature? Present fears 
Are less than horrible imaginings: 
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, 
Shakes so my single state of man that function 
Is smother’d in surmise, and nothing is 


But what is not. 
Ban. Look, how our partner ’s rapt. 
Macb. [Aside] If chance will have me king, 
why, chance may crown me, 
Without my stir. 
Ban. New honours come upon him, 
Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould 


But with the aid Of WSC iy 
"Mach: [Aside] Come what come may, | 


| Time and the hour runs through the roughest, day,., 


“Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. 
Macb. Give me your favour: my dull brain was 
wrought 
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains 
Are register’d where every day I turn 
The leaf to read them. Let us toward the king. 
Think upon what hath chanced, and, at more time, 
The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak 
Our free hearts each to other. 
Very gladly. 


Ban. 
Macb. Tillthen,enough. Come,friends. [| Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Forres. The palace. 


Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, 
Lennox, and Attendants. 


Dun. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not 
Those in commission yet return’d ? 
Mal. My liege, 


They are not yet come back. But I have spoke 
With one that saw him die: who did report 
That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, 
Implored your highness’ pardon and set forth 
A deep repentance: nothing in his life 

Became him like the leaving it; he died 

As one that had been studied in his death 

To throw away the dearest thing he owed, 

As ’t were a careless trifle. 

Dun. There ’s no art 
To find the mind’s construction in the face: 
He was a gentleman on whom I built 
An absolute trust. 


Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. 


O worthiest cousin ! 
The sin of my ingratitude even now 


MACBETH. 


SCENE V. 


“oO 


Was heavy on me: thou art so far before 
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow 
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved, 
That the proportion both of thanks and payment 
Might have been mine! only I have left to say, 
More is thy due than more than all can pay. 
Macb. The service and the loyalty I owe, 
In doing it, pays itself. Your highness’ part 
Is to receive our duties; and our duties 
Are to your throne and state children and servants, 
Which do but what they should, by doing every thing 
Safe toward your love and honour. 
Dun. Welcome hither: 
I have begun to plant thee, and will labour 
To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo, 
That hast no less deserved, nor must be known 
No less to have done so, let me infold thee 
And hold thee to my heart. 


Ban. There if I grow, 
The harvest is your own. 
Dun. My plenteous joys, 


Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves 

In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, 
And you whose places are the nearest, know 
We will establish our estate upon 

Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter 
The Prince of Cumberland; which honour must 
Not unaccompanied invest him only, 

But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine 
On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, 
And bind us further to you. 

Macb. Therestis labour, which is not used for you: 
Ill be myself the harbinger and make joyful 
The hearing of my wife with your approach; 

So humbly take my leave. 
My worthy Cawdor! 


Dun. 
Mach. [Aside] The Prince of Cumberland! that 
is a step 
On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, 
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; 
Let not ight see my black and deep desires: 
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, 
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Hit. 
Dun. True, worthy Banquo; heis full so valiant, 
And in his commendations I am fed; 
It is a banquet to me. Let ’s after him, 
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: 
It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Haxeunt. 


SCENE V.—IJnverness. Macbeth’s castle. 


Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter. 


Lady M. ‘They met me in the day of success; and 
I have learned by the perfectest report, they have 
more in them than mortal knowledge. When I 
burned in desire to question them further, they made 
themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles 
I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from 
the king, who all-hailed me ‘‘ Thane of Cawdor; ”’ 
by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted 
me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 
‘* Hail, king that shalt be!’’? This have I thought 
good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of great- 
ness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoic- 
ing, by being ignorant of what greatness is prom- 
ised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.’ 
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 
What thou art promised: yet do I fear thy nature; 
It is too full 0’ the milk of human kindness 
To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; 
Art not without ambition, but without fhighly, 
The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst 
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, 
And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou’ldst have, 

great Glamis, ' 

That which cries ‘Thus thou must do, if thou have 
And that which rather thou dost fear to do [it ; 


649 


5 Gd ha) 9 


Than wishest should be undone.’ Hie thee hither, 
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; 

And chastise with the valour of my tongue 

All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 

To have thee crown’d withal. 


Enter a Messenger. 


What is your tidings ? 

Mess. The king comes here to-night. 

Lady M. Thou ’rt mad to say it: 
Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so, 
Would have inform’d for preparation. [coming : 

Mess. So please you, it is true: our thane is 
One of my fellows had the speed of him, 

Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more 
Than would make up his message. 

Lady M. Give him tending; 

He brings great news. [Exit Messenger. 
The raven himself is hoarse 

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 

Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 

Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood; 

Stop up the access and passage to remorse, 

That no compunctious visitings of nature 

‘ Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 

The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, 

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 

Wherever in your sightless substances 

You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, 

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 

To cry ‘ Hold, hold!’ 


Enter Macbeth. 


Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor! 

Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter ! 
Thy letters have transported me beyond 
This ignorant present, and I feel now 
The future in the instant. 

Macb. My dearest love, 
Duncan comes here to-night. 

Lady M. And when goes hence ? 

Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes. 

Lady M. 
Shall sun that morrow see! 
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men 
May read strange matters. To beguile the time, 
Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, 
Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent 

flower, 

But be the serpent under ’t. He that’s coming 
Must be provided for: and you shall put 
This night’s great business into my dispatch ; 
Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. 

Macb. We will speak further. : 

Lady M. Only look up clear ; 
To alter favour ever is to fear: 
Leave all the rest to me. 


O, never 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE VI1.— Before Macbeth’s castle. 


Hautboys and torches. Hnter Duncan, Malcolm, Don- 
albain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and 
Attendants. 


Dun. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air 
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
Unto our gentle senses. 

Ban. This guest of summer, 
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, 
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath 
Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, 
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird 

650 


MACBETH. 


SCENE VII. 


Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle: 
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, 
The air is delicate. 


Enter Lady Macbeth. 


_ Dun. See, see, our honour’d hostess! 
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, 
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you 
How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains, 

And thank us for your trouble. 

Lady M. All our service 
In every point twice done and then done double 
Were poor and single business to contend 
Against those honours deep and broad wherewith 
Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, 
And the late dignities heap’d up to them, 

We rest your hermits. 

Dun. Where’s the thane of Cawdor ? 
We coursed him at the heels, and had a purpose 
To be his purveyor: but he rides well; 

And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him 
To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, 
We are your guest to-night. 

Lady M. Your servants ever 
Have theirs, themselves and what is theirs, in compt, 
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure, 
Still to return your own. 

Dun. Give me your hand; 
Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, 
And shall continue our graces towards him. 

By your leave, hostess. [ Hveunt. 


SCENE VII.— Macbeth’s castle. 


Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer, and divers Ser- 
vants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. 
Then enter Macbeth. 


Macb. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’t were 
It were done quickly: if the assassination [well 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch 
With his surcease success; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
We’ld jump the life to come. But in these cases 
We still have judgment here; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice 
To our own lips. He’s here in double trust; 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 

So clear in his great office, that his virtues 

Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off; 

And pity, like a naked new-born babe, 

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself 

And falls on the other. 


Enter Lady Macbeth. 


How now! what news? 
Lady M. He has almost supp’d: why haye you 
left the chamber ? 

Macb. Hath he ask’d for me ? 

Lady M. Know you not he has? 

Mach. We will proceed no further in this business: 
He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought 
Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. 


Fal bi a Be Bs 


MACBETH. 


SCENE I, 


Lady M. Was the hope drunk 
Wherein you dress’d yourself ? hath it slept since ? 
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
At what it did so freely? From this time 
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valour 
As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that 
Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, 

And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
Letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would,’ 
Like the poor cat i’ the adage ? 

Macb. Prithee, peace: 

I dare do all that may become a man; 
Who dares do more is none. 

Lady M. What beast was ’t, then, 
That made you break this enterprise to me? 
When you durst do it, then you were a man; 
And, to be more than what you were, you would 
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: 
They have made themselves, and that their fitness 

now 

Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know 
How tender ’t is to love the babe that milks me: 
I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums, 
And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you 
Have done to this. 

Macb. If we should fail ? 


Lady M. We fail! 
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 

And well not fail. When Duncan is asleep — 
Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey 
Soundly invite him —his two chamberlains 
Will I with wine and wassail so convince 
That memory, the warder of the brain, 

Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason 

A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep 

Their drenched natures lie as in a death, 
What cannot you and I perform upon 

The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon 
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt 
Of our great quell ? 

Macb. Bring forth men-children only ; 
For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
Nothing but males. Will it not be received, 
ee we have mark’d with blood those sleepy 

wo 
Of his own chamber and used their very daggers, 
That they have done ’t ? 

Lady M. Who dares receive it other, 
As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar 
Upon his death ? 

Macb. I am settled, and bend up 
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 

Away, and mock the time with fairest show: 
False face must hide what the false heart doth 
know. [ Hxeunt. 


Ja OLA Mer Ba be 


SCENE I.— Court of Macbeth’s castle. 


Enter Banquo, and Fleance bearing a torch before 
him. 


Ban. How goes the night, boy ? 

Fle. The moon is down; I have not heard the 
clock. 

Ban. And she goes down at twelve. 

Fle. I take ’t, ’tis later, sir. 

Ban. Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry 

in heaven; 

Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. 

A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, 

And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers, 

Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature 

Gives way to in repose! 


Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch. 


Give me my sword. 

Who’s there ? 

Macb. A friend. 

Ban. What, sir, not yetatrest ? The king ’sa-bed: 
He hath been in unusual pleasure, and 
Sent forth great largess to your offices. 
This diamond he greets your wife withal, 
By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up 
In measureless content. 

Macb. Being unprepared, 
Our will became the servant to defect ; 
Which else should free have wrought. 

an. All’s well. 

I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: 
To you they have show’d some truth. 

Macb. I think not of them: 
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, 
We would spend it in some words upon that busi- 
If you would grant the time. [ness, 

Ban. At your kind’st leisure. 

Macb. If you shall cleave to my consent, when.’t is, 
It shall make honour for you. 

Ban. So I lose none 
in seeking to augment it, but still keep 


My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, 
I shall be counsell’d. 
Macb. Good repose the while! 
Ban. Thanks, sir: the like to you! 
[Hxeunt Banquo and Fleance. 
Macb. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, 
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. 
[Haxit Servant. 
Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
The meta toward my hand? Come, let me clutch 
ec. 


' T have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 


Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 

To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 

A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 

I see thee yet, in form as palpable 

As this which now I draw. 

Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going; 

And such an instrument I was to use. 

Mine eyes are made the fools 0’ the other senses, 

Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, 

And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, 

Which was not so before. There’s no such thing: 

It is the bloody business which informs 

Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one half-world 

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 

The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates 

Pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder, 

Alarum/’d by his sentinel, the wolf, 

W hose howl ’shis watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 

With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design 

Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, __ 

Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: 

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
[A bell rings. 

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven or to hell. 


601 


[ Exit. 


ACT Il. 


SCENE II.— The same. 


Enter Lady Macbeth. 


Lady M, That which hath made them drunk hath 

made me bold; 

What hath quench’d them hath given me fire. 
Hark! Peace! 

It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, 

Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is about 

The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms [it: 

Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d 
their possets, 

That death and nature do contend about them, 

Whether they live or die. 

Macb. [ Within] Who’s there? what, ho! 
Lady M. Alack, Il am afraid they have awaked, 
And ’tis not done. The attempt and not the deed 
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; 
He could not miss ’em. Had he not resembled 

My father as he slept, I had done ’t. 


Enter Macbeth. 
My husband! 
Macb. I have done the deed. Didst thou not 
hear a noise ? [ets cry. 
Lady M. I heard the owl scream and the crick- 
Did not you speak ? 
Macb. When? 
Lady M. 
Macb. 
Lady M. Ay. 
Macb. Hark! 
Who lies i’? the second chamber ? 
Lady M. Donalbain. 
Macb. This isasorry sight. [Looking on his hands. 
Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
Macb. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one 
cried ‘ Murder!’ [them : 
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard 
But they did say their prayers, and address’d them 
Again to sleep. 
‘Lady M. There are two lodged together. 
Macb. One cried ‘God bless us!’ and ‘ Amen’ 
the other ; 
As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. 
Listening their fear, I could not say ‘Amen,’ 
When they did say ‘God bless us!’ 
Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 
Mach. But wherefore could not I pronounce 
I had most need of blessing,and*‘Amen’ [‘Amen?’ ? 
Stuck in my throat. 
Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways; so, it will make us mad. 
Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no 
more! 
Macbeth does murder sleep,’ the innocent sleep, 
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, 
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, 
Chief nourisher in life’s feast,— 
Lady M. What do you mean ? 
Macb. Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the 
house: 
‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.’ 
Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, 
_worthy thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 
Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 
Muacb. I?ll go no more: 
I am afraid to think what I have done; 
Look on ’*t again I dare not. 
Lady M. 


Now. 
As I descended ? 


Infirm of purpose! 
652 


MACBETH. 


SCENE III. 


Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead 
Are but as pictures: ’tis the eye of childhood 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
I ’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal; 
For it must seem their guilt. 
[Heit. Knocking within. 

Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 
How is ’t with me, when every noise appals me ? 
What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes. 
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood 
Clean from my hand? No,thismy hand will rather 
The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
Making the green one red. 


Re-enter Lady Macbeth. 


Lady M. My hands are of your colour; but I 
shame 
To wear a heart so white. 
hear a knocking 
At the south entry: retire we to our chamber: 
A little water clears us of this deed: 
How easy is it, then! Your constancy 
Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark! 
more knocking. 
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 
And show us to be watchers. Be not lost 
So poorly in your thoughts. 
Macb. To know my deed, ’t were best not know 


[Knocking within.] I 


myself. [Knocking within. 
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou 
couldst ! [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Knocking within. Enter a Porter. 


Porter. Here’saknocking indeed! Ifaman were 
porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the 
key. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! 
Who’s there, i’ the name of Beelzebub? Here’s a 
farmer, that hanged himself on the expectation of 
plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about 
you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [knocking within.] 
Knock, knock! Who’s there, in the other devil’s 
name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could 
swear in both the scales against either scale; who 
committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could 


-not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. 


[Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s 
there? Faith, here ’san English tailor come hither, 
for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; 
here you may roast your goose. [Knocking eee 
Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you: 
But this place is too cold for hell. Ill devil-porter 
it no further: I had thought to have let in some of 
all professions that go the primrose way to the ever- 
lasting bonfire. [Jtnocking within.] Anon, anon! 
I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate. 


Enter Macduff and Lennox. 


Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, 
That you do lie so late ? 

Port. ’Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second 
cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three 
things. [provoke ? 

Macd. What three things does drink especially 

Port. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. 
Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it pro- 


| vokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: 


therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivo- 
cator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; 
it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades 
him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and 
not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a 
sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him. 

Macd. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. 

Port. That it did, sir, i’? the very throat on me: 
but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being 


NS Bs ad gi 


too strong for him, though he took up my legs some- 
time, yet I made a shift to cast him. 
Macd. Is thy master stirring ? 


Enter Macbeth. 


Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes. 
Len. Good morrow, noble sir. 
Macb. Good morrow, both. 
Macd. Is the king stirring, worthy thane ? 
Macb. Not yet. 
Macd. He did command me to call timely on him: 
I have almost slipp’d the hour. 
Macb. Ill bring you to him. 
Macd. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; 
But yet ’t is one. 
Macb. The labour we delight in physics pain. 
This is the door. 
Macd. I ’ll make so bold to call, 
For ’tis my limited service. [ Kacit. 
Len. Goes the king hence to-day ? 

Macb. He does: he did appoint so. 
Len. The night has been unruly: where we lay, 
Our chimneys were blown down; and, as they say, 
Lamentings heard i’ the air; strange screams of 
And prophesying with accents terrible [death, 

Of dire combustion and confused events 
New hatch’d to the woeful time: the obscure bird 
Clamour’d the livelong night: some say, the earth 
Was feverous and did shake. 
Macb. °T was a rough night. 
Len. My young remembrance cannot parallel 


A fellow to it. 
Se Re-enter Macduff. 


Macd. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor 
Cannot conceive nor name thee! [heart 
oe What’s the matter ? 
Macd. Confusion now hath made his master- 
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope __[piece! 
The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence 
The life o’ the building ! 
Macb. What is ’t you say ? the life? 
Len. Mean you his majesty ? [sight 
Macd. Approach the chamber, and destroy your 
With a new Gorgon: do not bid me speak ; 
See, and then speak yourselves. 
[Hxeunt Macbeth and Lennox. 
Awake, awake! 
Ring the alarum-bell. Murder and treason! 
Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! 
Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, 
And look on death itself! up, up, and see 
The great doom’s image! Malcolm! Banquo! 
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites, 
To countenance this horror! Ring the bell. 


[Bell rings. 
Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady M. Whats the business, 
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley 
The sleepers of the house? speak, speak ! 

Macd. O gentle lady, 
*T is not for you to hear what I can speak : 
The repetition, in a woman’s ear, 
Would murder as it fell. 


Enter Banquo. 


O Banquo, Banquo, 
Our royal master ’s murder’d ! 


Lady M. Woe, alas! 
What, in our house ? 
Ban. Too cruel any where. 


Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, 
And say it is not so. 
Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross. 


Mach. Had I but died an hour before this chance, 
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant, 


MACBETH. 


SCENE IV. 


There ’s nothing serious in mortality : 

All is but toys: renown and grace is dead ; 
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees 
Is left this vault to brag of. 


Enter Malcolm and Donalbain. 


Don. What is amiss ? ; 

Macb. You are, and do not know’t: 
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood 
Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d. 

Macd. Your royal father’s murder’d. 

Mal. O, by whom ? 

Len. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d,had done’t: 
Their hands and faces were all badged with blood; 
So were their daggers, which unwiped we found 
Upon their pillows: 

They stared, and were distracted; no man’s life 
Was to be trusted with them. 

Macb. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, 
That I did kill them. 

Macd. Wherefore did you so? 

Macb. Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and fu- 
Loyal and neutral,ina moment ? No man: [rious, 
The expedition of my violent love 
Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, 

His silver skin laced with his golden blood; 

And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature 
For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, 
Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers 
Unmannerly breech’d with gore: who could refrain, 
That had a heart to love, and in that heart 
Courage to make’s love known ? 

Lady M. Help me hence, ho! 

Macd. Look to the lady. 

Mal. [Aside to Don.| Why do we hold our tongues, 
That most may claim this argument for ours ? 

Don. [Aside to Mal.] What should be spoken here, 

where our fate, 
Hid in an auger-hole, may rush, and seize us? 
Let ’s away; 
Our tears are not yet brew’d. 

Mal. [Aside to Don.] Nor our strong sorrow 
Upon the foot of motion. 

Ban. Look to the lady: 

[Lady Macbeth is carried out. 
And when we have our naked frailties hid, 
That suffer in exposure, let us meet, 
And question this most bloody piece of work, 
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: 
In the great hand of God I stand; and thence 
Against the undivulged pretence I fight 
Of treasonous malice. 

Macb. And so do I. 

All. : So all. 

Macb. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, 
And meet i’ the hall together. 

All. Well contented. 


[Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain. 
Mal. What will youdo? Let’s not consort with 
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office [them : 
Which the false man does easy. Ill to England. 
Don. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune 
Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, 
There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, » 
The nearer bloody. 
Mal. This murderous shaft that ’s shot 
Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore, to horse; 
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, 
But shift away: there’s warrant in that theft 
Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV .— Outside Macbeth’s castle. 


Enter Ross and an old Man. 


Old M. Threescore and ten I can remember well: 
Within the volume of which time I have seen 


653 


MACBETH. 


SCENE I. 


AGC Dae 
Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore 
night 
Hath trifled former knowings. 
Ross Ah, good father, 


Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, 
Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock, ’tis day, 
And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp: 
Is ’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, 
That darkness does the face of earth entomb, 
When living light should kiss it ? 

Old M. -T is unnatural, 


Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, 
A falcon, towering in her pride of place, 
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d. 
Ross. And Duncan’s horses —a thing most strange 
and certain — 
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, 
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, 
Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make 
War with mankind. 
Old M. ’T is said they eat each other. 
Ross. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes 
That look’d upon ’t. Here comes the good Macduff. 


Enter Macduff. 


How goes the world, sir, now? 


Macd. Why, see you not? 


AO 


SCENE I.—Fforres. The palace. 


Enter Banquo. 
Ban. Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, 


au, 
As the weird women promised, and, I fear, 
Thou play’dst most foully for ’t: yet it was said 
It should not stand in thy posterity, 
But that myself should be the root and father 
Of many kings. If there come truth from them — 
As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine — 
Why, by the verities on thee made good, 
May they not be my oracles as well, 
And set me up in hope? But hush! no more. 


Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth, as king, Lady Mac- 
beth, as queen, Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and 
Attendants. 


Mach. Here’s our chief guest. 

Lady M. If he had been forgotten, 
It had been as a gap in our great feast, 
And all-thing unbecoming. 

Macb. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, 
And Ill request your presence. 

Ban. Let your highness 
Command upon me; to the which my duties 
Are with a most indissoluble tie 
For ever knit. 

Macb. Ride you this afternoon ? 

Ban. Ay, my good lord. 

Macb. We should have else desired your good 


advice, 
Which still hath been both grave and prosperous, 
In this day’s council; but we ’ll take to-morrow. 
Is’t far you ride? 
Ban. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 
*T wixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, 
1 must become a borrower of the night 
For a dark hour or twain. 
Macb. 
Ban. My lord, I will not. 
Mach. We hear, our bloody cousins are bestow’d 
In England and in Ireland, not confessing 
Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers 
654 


Fail not our feast. 


Ross. Is’*t known who did this more than bloody 
Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slain. [deed ? 


Ross. Alas, the day! 
What good could they pretend ? 

Macd. They were suborn’d: 
Malcolm and Donalbain, the king’s two sons, 
Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them 
Suspicion of the deed. 

Foss. *Gainst nature still! 
Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up 
Thine own life’s means! Then ’tis most like 
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 

Macd. He is already named, and gone to Scone 
To be invested. 

Ross. Where is Duncan’s body ? 

Macd. Carried to Colmekill, 
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, 
And guardian of their bones. 


Ross. Will you to Scone ? 
Macd. No, cousin, Ill to Fife. 
Ross. Well, I will thither. 


Macd. Well, may you see things well done there: 
Lest our old robes sit easier than ournew! [adieu! 
Ross. Farewell, father. 
Old M. God’s benison go with you; and with those 
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! 
[ Hxeunt. 


1B Da ip 


With strange invention: but of that to-morrow, 
When therewithal we shall have cause of state 
Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, 

Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you ? 
Ban. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon ’s. 
Macb. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; 

And so I do commend you to their backs. 

Farewell. [Hit Banquo. 

Let every man be master of his time 

Till seven at night: to make society 

The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself 

Till SDD ere alone: while then, God be with 

you: 
[ Hxeunt all but Macbeth, and an attendant. 

Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men 

Our pleasure ? 

Atten. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. 
Macb. Bring them before us. [Hit Attendant. 
To be thus is nothing; 

But to be safely thus.— Our fears in Banquo 

Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature 

en that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he 

ares ; 

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour 

To act in safety. There is none but he 

Whose being I do fear: and, under him, 

My Genius is rebuked ; as, it is said, 

Mark Antony’s was by Cesar. He chid the sisters 

When first they put the name of king upon me, 

And bade them speak to him: then prophet-like 

They hail’d him father to a line of kings: 

Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, 

And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, 

Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand, 

No son of mine succeeding. If ’t be so, 

For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind; 

For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; 

Put rancours in the vessel of my peace 

Only for them; and mine eternal jewel 

Given to the common enemy of man, 

To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! 

Rather than so, come fate into the list, 

And champion me to the utterance! Who’s there? 


ACT LEY . 


Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers. 


Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. 
[Hxit Attendant. 
Was it not yesterday we spoke together ? 

First Mur. It was, so please your highness. 

Macb. Well then, now 
Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know 
That it was he in the times past which held you 
So under fortune, which you thought had been 
Our innocent self: this I made good to you 
In our last conference, pass’d in probation with you, 
How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the in- 

struments, might 
Who wrought with them, and all things else that 
To half a soul and to a notion crazed 
Say ‘ Thus did Banquo.’ 

First Mur. You made it known to us. 

Macb. I did so, and went further, which is now 
Our point of second meeting. Do you find 
Your patience so predominant in your nature 
That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d 
To pray for this good man and for his issue, 
Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave 
And beggar’d yours for ever ? 

First Mur. We are men, my liege. 

Macb. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; 
Ashoundsand greyhounds,mongrels, spaniels, curs, 
Shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept 
All by the name of dogs: the valued file 
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, 

The housekeeper, the hunter, every one 
According to the gift which bounteous nature 
Hath in him closed; whereby he does receive 
Particular addition, from the bill 

That writes them all alike: and so of men. 
Now, if you have a station in the file, 

Not i’ the worst rank of manhood, say ’t; 
And I will put that business in your bosoms, 
Whose execution takes your enemy off, 
Grapples you to the heart and love of us, 
Who wear our health but sickly in his life, 
Which in his death were perfect. 

Sec. Mur. I am one, my liege, 
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world 
Have so incensed that I am reckless what 
I do to spite the world. 

First Mur. And I another 
So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, 
That I would set my life on any chance, 

To mend it, or be rid on’t. 


Macb. : Both of you 
Know Banquo was your enemy. 
Both Mur. True, my lord. 


Macb. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, 
That every minute of his being thrusts 
Against my near’st of life: and though I could 
With barefaced power sweep him from my sight 
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, 
For certain friends that are both his and mine, 
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall 
Who I myself struck down; and thence it is, 
That I to your assistance do make love, 
Masking the business from the common eye 
For sundry weighty reasons. 


Sec. Mur. We shall, my lord, 
Perform what you command us. 
First Mur. Though our lives — 


Macb. Your spirits shine through you. Within 
this hour at most 
I will advise you where to plant yourselves; 

. Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time, 
The moment on ’t; for ’t must be done to-night, 
And something from the palace; always thought 
That I require a clearness: and with him— 

To leave no rubs nor botches in the work — 
Fleance his son, that keeps him company, 


MACBETH. 


SCENE II. 


Whose absence is no less material to me 
Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate 
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart: 
Ill come to you anon. 
Both Mur. We are resolved, my lord. 
Macb. Ill call upon you straight: abide within. 
Rene Murderers. 
It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, 
If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. 


SCENH II.— The palace. 


Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant. 


Lady M. Is Banquo gone from court ? 
Serv. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. 
Lady M. Say to the king, I would attend his 


[ Exit. 


For a few words. [leisure 
Serv. Madam, I will. [ Hxvit. 
Lady M. Nought ’s had, all’s spent, 


Where our desire is got without content: 
’T is safer to be that which we destroy 
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. 


Enter Macbeth. 


How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, 
Of sorriest fancies your companions making, 
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died 
With them they think on? Things without all 
remedy 
Should be without regard: what ’s done is done. 
Macb. We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it: 
She ’1l close and be herself, whilst our poor malice 
Remains in danger of her former tooth. 
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the 
worlds suffer, 
Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep 
In the affliction of these terrible dreams 
That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, 
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, 
Than on the torture of the mind to lie 
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; 
After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well ; 
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, 
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, 
Can touch him further. 
Lady M. Come on; 
Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks; 
Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night. 
Macb. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: 
Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; 
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: 
Unsafe the while, that we 
Must lave our honours in these flattering streams, 
And make our faces vizards to our hearts, 
Disguising what they are. 
Lady M. You must leave this. 
Macb. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! 
Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. 
Lady M. But in them nature’s copy ’s not eterne. 
Mach. There’s comfort yet; they are assailable; 
Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown 
His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons 
The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums 
Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done 
A deed of dreadful note. 
Lady M. What ’s to be done? 
Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest 
chuck, 
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, 
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day ; 
And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond 
Which keeps me pale! Light thickens; and the 
Makes wing to the rooky wood: [crow 
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; 
Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. 
Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still: 


650 


AOL OTLEY 


Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. 
So, prithee, go with me. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A park near the palace. 


Enter three Murderers. 


First Mur. But who did bid thee join with us ? 
Third Mur. Macbeth. 
Sec. Mur. He needs not our mistrust, since he 
Our offices and what we have to do [delivers 
To the direction just. 
First Mur. Then stand with us. 
The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: 
Now spurs the lated traveller apace 
To gain the timely inn; and near approaches 
The subject of our watch. 
Third Mur. Hark! I hear horses. 
Ban. [Within] Give us a light there, ho! 
Sec. Mur. ° Then ’tis he: the rest 
That are within the note of expectation 
Already are i’ the court. 
First Mur. His horses go about. 
Third Mur. Almost a mile: but he does usually, 
So all men do, from hence to the palace gate 
Make it their walk. 


Sec. Mur. A light, a light! 
Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch. 
Third Mur. *T is he. 


First Mur. Stand to ’t. 
Ban. It will be rain to-night. 
First Mur. Let it come down. 
[They set upon Banquo. 
Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly 
O slave! [fly { 
[Dies. F'leance escapes. 

Third Mur. Who did strike out the light ? 
First Mur. Was ’t not the way ? 
Third Mur. There ’s but one down; theson is fled. 
Sec. Mur. We have lost 

Best half of our affair. 

First Mur. Well, let’s away, and say how much 
is done. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The same. 


A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Mac- 
beth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants. 


Macb. You know your own degrees; sit down: 
And last the hearty welcome. [at first 
Lords. Thanks to your majesty. 
Mach. Ourself will mingle with society, 
And play the humble host. 
Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time 
We will require her welcome. 
Lady M. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our 
For my heart speaks they are welcome. _[friends; 


Ban. O, treachery ! 
Thou mayst revenge. 


Hall in the palace. 


First Murderer appears at the door. 


ee ee they encounter thee with their hearts’ 
1anks. 
Both sides are even: here Ill sit i? the midst: 
Be large in mirth; anon we’ll drink a measure 
The table round. [Approaching the door.]| There's 
blood upon thy face. 
Mur. ’T is Banquo’s then. 
Mach. ’T is better thee without than he within. 
Is he dispatch’d ? 
Mur. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for 
him. [he’s good 
Macb. Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats: yet 
That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, 
Thou art the nonpareil. 
Mur. 
Fleance is ’scaped. [perfect, 
Mach. Then comes my fit again: I had else been 
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, 


606 


Most royal sir, 


MACBETH. 


SCENE IV. 


As broad and general as the casing air: 
But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confined, bound in 
To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe ? 

Mur. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, 
With twenty trenched gashes on his head ; 

The least a death to nature. 

Macb. Thanks for that: 
There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled 
Hath nature that in time will venom breed, 

No teeth for the present. Get thee gone: to-morrow 

We’ll hear, ourselves, again. [Hxit Murderer. 
Lady M. My royal lord, 

You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold 

That is not often vouch’d, while ’t is a-making, 

T is given with welcome: to feed were best at home ; 

From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; 

Meeting were bare without it. 

Mach. Sweet remembrancer ! 

Now, good digestion wait on appetite, 
And health on both! 
Len. May ’t please your highness sit. 
[The Ghost of Banquo enters, and sits in 
Macbeth’s place. 
Macb. nate had we now our country’s honour 
roof’d, 
Were the graced person of our Banquo present; 
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness 
Than pity for mischance! 

Ross. 

Lays blame upon his promise. 
To grace us with your royal company. 

Macb. The table ’s full. 

Len. Here is a place reserved, sir. 

Macb. Where? 

Len. Here, my good lord. What is ’t that moves 

your highness ? 

Mach. Which of you have done this ? 

Lords. What, my good lord ? 

Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake 
Thy gory locks at me. 

Foss. Gentlemen, rise: his highness is not well. 

Lady M. Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus, 
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; 
The fit is momentary; upon a thought 
He will again be well: if much you note him, 

You shall offend him and extend his passion: 
Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man? 

Macb. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
Which might appal the devil. 

Lady M. . O proper stuff ! 
This is the very painting of your fear: 

This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, 

Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts, 
Impostors to true fear, would well become 

A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, 

Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself! 

Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, 
You look but on a stool. [say you? 

Macb. Prithee, see there! behold! look! lo! how 
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. 
If charnel-houses and our graves must send 
Those that we bury back, our monuments 
Shall be the maws of kites. [ Ghost vanishes. 

Lady M. What, quite unmann’d in folly ? 

Mach. If I stand here, I saw him. 

Lady M. Fie, for shame! 

Macb. Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the olden 
Ere human statute purged the gentle weal; [time, 
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d 
Too terrible for the ear: the times have been, 
That, when the brains were out, the man would die, 
And there an end; but now they rise again, ‘ 
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, 
And push us from our stools: this is more strange 
Than such a murder is. 

Lady M. My worthy lord, 

Your noble friends do lack you. 


His absence, sir, 
Please ’t your highb- 
[ness 


ACT III. 


MACBETH. 


Macb. I do forget. 
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; 
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing — [all; 
To those that know me. Come, love and health to 
Then Ill sit down. Give me some wine; fill full. 
I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table, 
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss; 
Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, 
And all to all. 


Lords. Our duties, and the pledge. 


Re-enter Ghost. 


Mach. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth 
hide thee! 
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
Which thou dost glare with! 
Lady M. Think of this, good peers, 
But as a thing of custom: ’t is no other ; 
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. 
Macb. What man dare, I dare: 
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 
The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger ; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble: or be alive again, 
And dare me to the desert with thy sword; 
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me 
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! 
Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost vanishes. 
Why, so: being gone, 
Tamaman again. Pray you, sit still. 
Lady M. You have displaced the mirth, broke 
the good meeting, 
With most admired disorder. 
Macb. Can such things be, 
And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, 
Without our special wonder ? You make me strange 
Even to the disposition that I owe, 
When now I think you can behold such sights, 
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, 
When mine is blanch’d with fear. 
Ross. What sights, my lord ? 
Lady M. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse 
and worse; 
Question enrages him. At once, good night: 
Stand not upon the order of your going, 
But go at once. 
Len. Good night; and better health 


Attend his majesty! 
Lady M. - A kind good night to all! 
[EHxeunt all but Macbeth and Lady M. 
Macb. It will have blood; they say, blood will 
have blood: 
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak ; 
Augurs and understood relations have 
By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth 
The secret’st man of blood. What is the night ? 
Lady M. Almost at odds with morning, which 
is which. [person 
Macb. How say’st thou, that Macduff denies his 
At our great bidding ? 
Lady M. Did you send to him, sir ? 
Macb. I hear it by the way; but I will send: 
There ’s not a one of them but in his house 
I keep a servant fee’d. I will to-morrow, 
And betimes I will, to the weird sisters: 
More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, 
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, 
All causes shall give way: I am in blood 
Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, 
Returning were as tedious as go o’er: 
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; 
Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d. 
Lady M. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. 
Mach. Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self- 
Is the initiate fear that.wants hard use: [abuse 
We are yet but young in deed. [ Hxeunt. 


42, 


SCENE VI. 


SCENE V.— A Heath. 


Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate. 


first Witch. Why, how now, Hecate! you look 
angerly. 
Hec. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, 
Saucy and overbold ? How did you dare 
To trade and traffic with Macbeth 
In riddles and affairs of death ; 
And I, the mistress of your charms, 
The close contriver of all harms, 
Was never call’d to bear my part, 
Or show the glory of our art ? 
And, which is worse, all you have done 
Hath been but for a wayward son, 
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, 
Loves for his own ends, not for you. 
But make amends now: get you gone, 
And at the pit of Acheron 
Meet me i’ the morning: thither he 
Will come to know his destiny: 
Your vessels and your spells provide, © 
Your charms and everything beside. 
I am for the air; this night I *ll spend 
Unto a dismal and a fatal end: 
Great business must be wrought ere noon: 
Upon the corner of the moon 
There hangs a vaporous drop profound ; 
I ’ll catch it ere it come to ground: 
And that distill’d by magic sleights 
Shall raise such artificial sprites 
As by the strength of their illusion 
Shall draw him on to his confusion: 
He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear 
His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace and fear: 
And you all know, security 
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy. 
[Music and a song within: ‘Come away, 
come away,’ &c. 
Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see, 
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. [ Exit. 
First Witch. Come, let ’s make haste; she ’ll soon 
be back again. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE VI. — Forres. 


Enter Lennox and another Lord. 


Len. My former speeches have but hit your 
thoughts, 

Which can interpret further: only, I say, [Duncan 
Things have been strangely borne. The gracious 
Was pitied of Macbeth: marry, he was dead: 
And the right-valiant Banquo walk’d too late; 
Whom, you may say, if ’t please you, Fleance kill’d, 
For Fleance fled: men must not walk too late. 
Who cannot want the thought how monstrous 
It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain 
To kill their gracious father ? damned fact! 
How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight 
In pious rage the two delinquents tear, 
That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep ? 
Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; 
For ’t would have anger’d any heart alive 
To hear the men deny ’t. So that, I say, 
He has borne all things well: and I do think 
That had he Duncan’s sons under his key— [find 
As, an’t please heaven, he shall not —they should 
What ’t were to kill a father; so should Fleance. 
But, peace! for from broad words and. ’cause he 
His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear [fail’d 


The palace. 


| Macduff lives in disgrace: sir, can you tell 
| Where he bestows himself ? 


Lord. The son of Duncan, 
From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, 
Lives in the English court, and is received 
Of the most pious Edward with such grace 
That the malevolence of fortune nothing 


657 


ACT IV. 


Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff 
Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid 

To wake Northamberland and warlike Siward: 
That, by the help of these— with Him above 
To ratify the work — we may again 

Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, 
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, 
Do faithful homage and receive free honours: 
All which we pine for now: and this report 
Hath so exasperate the king that he 

Prepares for some attempt of war. 


MACBETH. 


SCENE I. 


Lord. He did: and with an absolute ‘Sir, not I; 
The cloudy messenger turns me his back, 

And hums, as who should say ‘ You’ll rue the time 
That clogs me with this answer.’ 

Len. And that well might 
Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance 
His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel 
Fly to the court of England and unfold 
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing 
May soon return to this our suffering country 
Under a hand accursed ! 


Len. Sent he to Macduff ? Lord. I ’ll send my prayers with him. 
[ Exeunt. 
aNd ©.5 bid UAV Ae 
SCENE I.—Acavern. In the middle, a boiling All, A deed without a name. 


cauldron. 


Thunder. Enter the three Witches. 


First Witch. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. | 


Sec. Witch. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined. 
Third Witch. Harpier cries ’Tis time, ’t is time. 
First Witch. Round about the cauldron go; 
In the poison’d entrails throw. 
Toad, that under cold stone 
Days and nights has thirty-one 
Swelter’d venom sleeping got, 
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot. 
All. Double, double toil and trouble; 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 
Sec. Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, 
In the cauldron boil and bake; 
Eye of newt and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, 
Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, 
For a charm of powerful trouble, 
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 
All. Double, double toil and trouble ; 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 
Third Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, 
Witches’ mummy , maw and gulf 
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, 
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark, 
Liver of blaspheming Jew, 
Gall of goat, and slips of yew 
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse, 
Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips, 
Finger of birth-strangled babe 
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, 
Make the gruel thick and slab: 
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, 
For the ingredients of our cauldron. 
All. Double, double toil and trouble ; 
Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 
Sec. Witch. Cool it with a baboon’s blood, 
Then the charm is firm and good. 


Enter Hecate to the other three Witches. 


Hee. O, well done! I commend your pains; 
And every one shall share i’ the gains: 
And now about the cauldron sing, 
Live elves and fairies in a ring, 
Enchanting all that you put in. 
| Music and a song: ‘ Black spirits,’ &e. 
| Hecate retires. 
Sec. Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs, 
Something wicked this way comes. 
Open, locks, 
Whoever knocks! 


Enter Macbeth. 


Macb. How now, you secret, black, and midnight 
What is ’t you do ? [hags! 
658 


Macb. I conjure you, by that which you profess, 
Howe’er you come to know it, answer me: 
Though you untie the winds and let them fight 
Against the churches; though the yesty waves 
Confound and swallow navigation up; [down; 
Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown 
Though castles topple on their warders’ heads ; 
Though palaces and pyramids do slope 
Their heads to their foundations; though the treas- 
Of nature’s germens tumble all together, [ure 
Even till destruction sicken ; answer me 
To what I ask you. 
First Witch. Speak. 
Sec. Witch. 
Third Witch. We’ll answer. 
First Witch. Say, if thou ’dst rather hear it from 
our mouths, 
Or from our masters ? 
Macb. Call ’em; let me see ’em. 
First Witch. Pour in sow’s blood, that hath 
Her nine farrow; grease that ’s sweaten [eaten 
From the murderer’s gibbet throw 
Into the flame. 
All. Come, high or low; 
Thyself and office deftly show! 


Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head. 
Macb. Tell me, thou unknown power,— 


Demand. 


First Witch. He knows thy thought: 
Hear his speech, but aa thou nought. » 
! Macbeth! Macbeth! be- 


First App. Macbeth 
ware Macduff; 

Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough. 

'  [Descends. 

Macb. Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, 

thanks ; [more,— 

Thou hast harp’d my fear aright: but one word 

First Witch. He will not be commanded: here ’s 


More potent than the first. [another, 
Thunder. Second Apparition: a bloody Child. 


Sec. App. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! 
Mach. Had I three ears, I’ld hear thee. [scorn 
Sec. App. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to 
The power of man. for none of woman born 
Shall harm Macbeth. [| Descends. 
Mach. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of 
But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, _ [thee ? 
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; 
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, 
And sleep in spite of thunder. 


Thunder. Third Apparition: a Child crowned, with a 


tree in his hand. 


What is this 
That rises like the issue of a king, 
And wears upon his baby-brow the round 
And top of sovereignty ? 


ACT IV. 


MACBETH. 


SCENE II. 


All. Listen, but speak not to ’t. 
Third App. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no 
care 
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are : 
Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him. [| Descends. 
Macb. That will never be: 
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree [good ! 
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements ! 
Rebellion’s head, rise never till the wood 
Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth 
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath 
To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart 
Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art 
Can tell so much: shall Banquo’s issue ever 
Reign in this kingdom ? 
ate Seek to know no more. 
Macb. I will be satisfied: deny me this, 
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. 
Why sinks that cauldron ? and what noise is this ? 


[| Hautboys. 
First Witch. Show! 
Sec. Witch. Show! 
Third Witch. Show! 
All. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; 
Come like shadows, so depart ! 


A show of Hight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand: 
Banquo’s Ghost following. 
Macb. Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; 
down! 
Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls. And thy hair, 
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. 
A third is like the former. Filthy hags! 
Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes! 
What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom! 
Another yet! A seventh! I7ll see no more: 
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass 
Which shows me many more; and some I see 
That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry : 
Horrible sight! Now, I see, ’tis true; 
For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, 
And points.at them for his. [Apparitions vanish.] 
What, is this so ? 
First Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so: but why 
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly ? 
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, 
And show the best of our delights: 
I’ll charm the air to give a sound, 
While you perform your antic round; 
That this great king may kindly say, 
Our duties did his welcome pay. 
[Music. The Witches dance, and then 
vanish, with Hecate. 
Macb. Where are they? Gone? Let this per- 
nicious hour 
Stand aye accursed in the calendar! 
Come in, without there! 


Enter Lennox. 


Len. What ’s your grace’s will ? 
re Saw you the weird sisters ? 
en. 

Macb. Came they not by you ? 

Len. No, indeed, my lord. 

Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride; 
And damn’d all those that trust them! I did hear 
The galloping of horse: who was ’t came by ? 

Len. "Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you 
Macduff is fled to England. [word 

Macb. - Fled to England! 

Len. Ay, my good lord. 

Macb. Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits! 
The flighty purpose never is o’ertook 
Unless the deed go with it: from this moment 
The very firstlings of my heart shall be 


No, my lord. 


The firstlings of my hand. And even now, 

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and 
The castle of Macduff I will surprise; [done: 
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o’ the sword 

His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; 
This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool. 

But no more sights ! — Where are these gentlemen ? 
Come, bring me where they are. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Fife. Macduff’s castle. 


Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. 


LL. Macd. What had he done, to make him fly 

the land ? 

Foss. You must have patience, madam. 

LL. Macd. He had none: 
His flight was madness: when our actions do not, 
Our fears do make us traitors. 

Ross. You know not 
Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. 

LL. Macd. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave 

his babes, 
His mansion and his titles in a place 
From whence himself does fly? He loves us not; 
He wants the natural touch: for the poor wren, 
The most diminutive of birds, will fight, 
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. 
All is the fear and nothing is the love; 
As little is the wisdom, where the flight 
So runs against all reason. 

Foss. My dearest coz, 

I pray you, school yourself: but for your husband, 
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows 

The fits o’ the season. I dare not speak much further; 
But cruel are the times, when we are traitors 

And do not know ourselves, when we hold rumour 
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, 
But float upon a wild and violent sea 

Each way and move. I take my leave of you: 
Shall not be long but I il be here again: 

Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward 
To what they were before. My pretty cousin, 
Blessing upon you! 

I. Macd. Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless. 

Foss. Lam so much a fool, should I stay longer, 
It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: 

I take my leave at once. [ Exit. 

L. Macd. Sirrah, your father ’s dead: 
And what will you do now? How will you live? 

Son. As birds do, mother. 

LL. Macd. What, with worms and flies ? 

Son. With what I get, 1 mean; and so do they. 

LL. Macd. Poor bird! thou’ldst never fear the net 
The pitfall nor the gin. {nor lime, 

Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they 

are not set for. 
My father is not dead, for all your saying. 
L. Macd. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for 
a father ? 

Son. Nay, how will you do for a husband ? 

L. Maced. Why, I can buy metwenty at any market. 

Son. Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again. 

L. Macd. Thou speak’st with all thy wit; and 

yet, i’ faith, 
With wit enough for thee. 

Son. Was my father a traitor, mother ? 

IL. Macd. Ay, that he was. 

Son. What is a traitor ? 

LL. Macd. Why, one that swears and lies. 

Son. And be all traitors thatdoso? 

LL. Macd. Every one that does so is a traitor, and 
must be hanged. [lie ? 

Son. And must they all be hanged that swear and 

IL. Macd. Every one. 

Son. Who must hang them ? 

I. Macd. Why, the honest men. 


6959 


ACT IV. 


Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for 
there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest 
men and hang up them. 

L. Macd. Now, God help thee, poor monkey ! 
But how wilt thou do for a father ? 

Son. If he were dead, you 71d weep for him: if you 
would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly 
have a new father. 

L. Macd. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st! 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Bless you, fairdame! lam not to youknown, 
Though in your state of honour I am perfect. 
I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: 
If you will take a homely man’s advice, 
Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. 
To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage ; 
To do worse to you were fell cruelty, 
Which istoo nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! 
I dare abide no longer. [ Hitt. 
LL. Macd. Whither should I fly ? 
I have done no harm. But I remember now 
I am in this earthly world; where to do harm 
Is often laudable, to do good sometime 
Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, 
Do I put up that womanly defence, 
To say I have done no harm ? 


Enter Murderers. 


What are these faces ? 
First Mur. Where is your husband ? 
I. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified 
Where such as thou mayst find him. 
First Mur. He’s a traitor. 
Son. Thou liest, thou shag-hair’d villain ! 
First Mur. What, you egg! 
[Stabbing him. 
Young fry of treachery ! 
Son. He has kill’d me, mother: 
Run away, I pray you! [ Dies. 
[Haxit Lady Macduff, erying ‘ Murder!’ 
EKxeunt Murderers, following her. 


SCENE III.— England. Before the King’s palace. 


Enter Malcolm and Macduff. 


Mal. Let usseek out some desolate shade, and there 
Weep our sad bosoms empty. 

Macd. Let us rather 
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men 
Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom: each new morn 
New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows 
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds 
As if it felt with Scotland and yell’d out 
Like syllable of dolour. 

Mal. What I believe I ll wail, 
What know believe, and what I can redress, 
As I shall find the time to friend, I will. 
What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. 
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, 
Was once thought honest: you have loved him well: 
He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but 

something . 

You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom 
To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb 
To appease an angry god. 

Macd. I am not treacherous. 

Mal. But Macbeth is. 
A good and virtuous nature may recoil [don ; 
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your par- 
That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose: 
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: 
Though all things foul would wear the brows of 
Yet grace must still look so. [grace, 

Maced. I have lost my hopes. 

Mal. Perchance even there where I did find my 

doubts. 


660 


MACBETH. 


SCENE III. 


Why in that rawness left you wife and child, 
Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, 
Without leave-taking ? I pray you, 

Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, 

But mine own safeties. You may be rightly. just, 
Whatever I shall think. 

Maced. Bleed, bleed, poor country? 
Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure, [wrongs: 
For goodness dare not check thee: wear thou thy 
The title is affeer’d! Fare thee well, lord: 

I would not be the villain that thou think’st 
For the whole space that ’s in the tyrant’s grasp, 
And the rich East to boot. 

Mal. Be not offended: 
I speak not as in absolute fear of you. 

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; 
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash 
Is added to her wounds: | think withal 
There would be hands uplifted in my right; 
And here from gracious England have I offer 
Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, 

When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, 
Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country 
Shall have more vices than it had before, 
More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, 
By him that shall succeed. 

Macd. What should he be? 

Mal. It is myself I mean: in whom I know 
All the particulars of vice so grafted 
That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth 
Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state 
Esteem him as a lamb, being compared 
With my confineless harms. 


Macd. Not in the legions 
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d 
In evils to top Macbeth. 

Mal. I grant him bloody, 


Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, 
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin 
That has a name: but there’s no bottom, none, 
In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, 
Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up 
The cistern of my lust, and my desire 
All continent impediments would o’erbear 
That did oppose my will: better Macbeth 
Than such an one to reign. 
Macd. Boundless intemperance 
In nature isa tyranny; it hath been 
The untimely emptying of the happy throne 
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet 
To take upon you what is yours: you may 
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, 
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. 
We have willing dames enough; there cannot be 
That vulture in you, to devour so many 
As will to greatness dedicate themselves, 
Finding it so inclined. 


Mal. With this there grows 


In my most ill-composed affection such 


A stanchless avarice that, were I king, 

I should cut off the nobles for their lands, 
Desire his jewels and this other’s house: 

And my more-having would be as a sauce 

To make me hunger more; that I should forge 
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, 
Destroying them for wealth. 

Macd. This avarice 
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root 
Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been 
The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; 
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, 

Of your mere own: all these are portable, 
With other graces weigh’d. 

Mal. But Lhave none: the king-becoming graces, 
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, 


| Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, 


PIS EOI See - 


ACT AV. 


MACBETH. 


SCENE III. 


I have no relish of them, but abound 
In the division of each several crime, 
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should 
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, 
Uproar the universal peace, confound 
All unity on earth. 
Macd. O Scotland, Scotland! 
Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak : 
IT am as I have spoken. 
Macd. Fit to govern! 
No, not to live. O nation miserable, 
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, 
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, 
Since that the truest issue of thy throne 
By his own interdiction stands accursed, 
And does blaspheme his breed ? Thy royal father 
Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee, 
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, 
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! 
These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself 
Have banish’d me from Scotland. O my breast, 
Thy hope ends here! 
Mal. Macduff, this noble passion, 
Child of integrity, hath from my soul 
Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts 
To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth 
By many of these trains hath sought to win me 
Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me 
From over-credulous haste: but God above 
Deal between thee and me! for even now 
I put myself to thy direction, and 
Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure 
The taints and blames I laid upon myself, 
For strangers to my nature. I am yet 
Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, 
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, 
At no time broke my faith, would not betray 
The devil to his fellow and delight 
No less in truth than life: my first false speaking 
Was this upon myself: what I am truly, 
Is thine and my poor country’s to command: 
Whither indeed, before thy here-approach, 
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, 
Already at a point, was setting forth. 
Now we’ll together; and the chance of goodness 
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent ? 
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at 
*T is hard to reconcile. once 


Enter a Doctor. 


Mal. Well; more anon.— Comes the king forth, 
I pray you? 
Doct. Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls 
That stay his cure: their malady convinces 
The great assay of art ; but at his touch — 
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand — 
They presently amend. 


Mal. I thank you, doctor. [Hit Doctor. 
Macd. What’s the disease he means ? 
Mal. *T is call’d the evil: 


A most miraculous work in this good king; 
Which often, since my here-remain in England, 

J have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, 
Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, 
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, 

The mere despair of surgery, he cures, 

Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, 

Put on with holy prayers: and ’t is spoken, 

To the succeeding royalty he leaves 

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, 
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, 

And sundry blessings hang about his throne, 
That speak him full of grace. 


Enter Ross. 


Macd. See, who comes here ? 
Mal. My countryman: but yet I know him not. 


Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. 
Mal. I know him now. Good God, betimes re- 
The means that makes us strangers! [move 
Ross. Sir, amen. 
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ? 
Ross. Alas, poor country ! 
Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot 
Be call’d our mother, but our grave; where nothing, 
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air 
Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems 
A modern ecstasy: the dead man’s knell 
Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives 
Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
Dying or ere they sicken. 


Macd. _ O, relation 
Too nice, and yet too true! 
Mal. What ’s the newest grief ? 


Foss. That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker ; 
Each minute teems a new one. 


Macd. How does my wife ? 
toss. Why, well. 

Maced. And all my children ? 

Ross. Well too. 


Macd. Thetyrant has not batter’d at their peace ? 
Ross. No; they were well at peace when I did 
leave ’em. [goes ’t ? 

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how 
Foss. When I came hither to transport the tidings, 

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour 

Of many worthy fellows that were out; 

Which was to my belief witness’d the rather, 

For that I saw the tyrant’s power a-foot: 

Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland 


| Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 


To doff their dire distresses. 

Mal. Be ’t their comfort 
We are ae thither : gracious England hath 
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; 

An older and a better soldier none 
That Christendom gives out. 

Ross. Would I could answer 
This comfort with the like! But I have words 
That would be howl’d out in the desert air, 

Where hearing should not latch them. 

Macd. What concern they ? 
The general cause ? or is it a fee-grief 
Due to some single breast ? 

Ross. No mind that’s honest 
But in it shares some woe; though the main part 
Pertains to you alone. 

Macd. If it be mine, 

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 

Ross. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, 
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound 
That ever yet they heard. 


Macd. Hum! I guess at it. 
Ross. Your castle is surprised; your wife and 
babes 


Savagely slaughter’d: to relate the manner, 
Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, 
To add the death of you. 

Mal. Merciful heaven! 
What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows; 
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak 
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break. 

Macd. My children too ? 

Toss. Wife, children, servants, all 
That could be found. 


Macd. 
My wife kill’d too? 
Foss. I have said. 
Mal. Be comforted : 
Let ’s make us medicines of our great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief. 
Macd. He has no children. All my pretty ones ? 
Did you say all? Ohell-kite! All? 
661 


And I must be from thence! 


AOSV S 


What, all my pretty chickens and their dam 
At one fell swoop ? 
Mal. Dispute it like a man. 
Maced. I shall do so; 
But I must also feel it as a man: 
I eannot but remember such things were, [on. 
That were most precious tome. Did heaven look 
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, 
They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, 
Not for their own demerits, but for mine, [now! 
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them 
Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief 
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 


MACBETH. 


SCENE ia 


Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes 
And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, 
Cut short all intermission; front to front 
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
Within my sword’s length set him; if he ‘seape, 
Heaven forgive him too! 

Mal. This tune goes manly. 
Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; 

Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth 

Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you 
may : 

The night is long that never finds the day. [Hxeunt. 


EGET Ne 


SCENE I.—Dunsinane. <Ante-room in the castle. 


Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentle- 
woman. 


Doct. I have two nights watched with you, but 
can perceive no truth in your report. When was it 
she last walked ? 

Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have 
seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown 
upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold 
it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and 
again return to bed; yet all this while in a most 
fast sleep. 

Doct. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at 
once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watch- 
ing! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walk- 
ing and other actual performances, what, at any 
time, have you heard her say ? 

Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. 

Doct. You may to me: and ’tis most meet you 
should. 

Gent. Neither to you nor any one; having no wit- 
ness to confirm my speech. 


Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. 


Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; 
ann upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand 
close. 

Doct. How came she by that light ? 

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her 
continually; ’tis her command. 

Doct. You see, her eyes are open. 

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut. 

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she 
rubs her hands. 

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to 
seem thus washing her hands: I have known her 
continue in this a quarter of an hour. 

Lady M. Yet here’s a spot. 

Doct. Hark! she speaks: I will set down what 
comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the 
more strongly. 

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: 
two: why, then ’tis time to do ’t.— Hell is murky! 
— Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What 
need we fear who knows it, when none can call our 
power to account ?— Yet who would have thought 
the old man to have had so much blood in him. 

Doct. Do you mark that ? 

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is 
she now ?— What, will these hands ne’er be clean ? 
—No more 0’ that, my lord, no more 0’ that: you 
mar all with this starting. 

Doct. Go to, go to; you have known what you 
should not. 

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am 
sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. 

Lady M. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the 


662 


| hand. 


perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little 
Oh, oh, oh! [charged. 

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely 

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bésom 
for the dignity of the whole body. 

Doct. Well, well, well,— 

Gent. Pray God it be, sir. 

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I 
have known those which have walked in their sleep 
who have died holily in their beds. 

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night- 
gown; look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Ban- 
quo ’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave. 

Doct. Even so ? 

Lady M. To bed, to bed! there ’s knocking at the 
gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand. 
What ’s done cannot be undone.— To bed, to bed, to 


bed! { Exit. 
Doct. Will she go now to bed ? 
Gent. Directly. [deeds 


Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural 
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets: 
More needs she the divine than the physician. 
God, God forgive us all! Look after her; 
Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: 
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. 
I think, but dare not speak. 

Gent. Good night, good doctor. 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENH II.— The country near Dunsinane. 


Drum and colours. Enter Menteith, Caithness, 
Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers. 


Ment. The English power is near, led on by Mal- 
His uncle Siward and the good Macduff: [colm, 
Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes 
Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm 
Excite the mortified man. 

Ang. Near Birnam wood 
Shall we well meet them ; that way are they coming. 

Caith. Who knows if Donalbain be with his 

brother ? 

Len. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file 
Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son, 

And many unrough youths that even now 
Protest their first of manhood. 

Ment. What does the tyrant ? 

Caith. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: 
Some say he ’s mad; others that lesser hate him 
Do eall it valiant fury: but, for certain, 

He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause 
Within the belt of rule. 

Ang. Now does he feel 
His secret murders sticking on his hands: 

Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach ; 


AGT -V> 3 


MACBETH. 


SCENE V. 


Those he commands move only in command, 
Nothing in love: now does he feel his title 
Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe 
Upon a dwartish thief. 

Ment. Who then shall blame 
His pester’d senses to recoil and start, 
When all that is within him does condemn 
Ttself for being there ? 

Caith. Well, march we on, 
To give obedience where ’t is truly owed: 
Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, 
And with him pour we in our country’s purge 
Each drop of us. 

Len. Or so much as it needs, 
To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. 
Make we our march towards Birnam. 

[Exeunt, marching. 


SCENE III.—Dunsinane. A room in the castle. 


Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. 


Macb. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: 
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, | 
I cannot taint with fear. What ’s the boy Malcolm ? 
Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus: 
‘Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman 
Shall e’er have power upon thee.’ Then fly, false 
And mingle with the English epicures: [thanes, 
The mind I sway by and the heart I bear 
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. 


Enter a Servant. 


The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! 
Where got’st thou that goose look ? 
Serv. There is ten thousand — 
Macb. Geese, villain ? 
Serv. h Soldiers, sir. 
‘Macb. Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, 
Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch ? 
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine 
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ? 
Serv. The English force, so please you. 
Macb. Take thy face hence. [Haxit Servant. 
. Seyton!— I am sick at heart, 
When I behold —Seyton, I say! — This push 
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. 
I have lived long enough: my way of life 
Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf; 
And that which should accompany old age, 
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
I must not look to have; but, in their stead, 
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, 
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare 
Seyton ! [not. 
Enter Seyton. 
Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ? 
Macb. What news more? 
Sey. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was re- 
ported. [hack’d. 
Macb. Ill fight till from my bones my flesh be 
Give me my armour. 


Sey. 

Macb. 1’ put it on. 
Send out more horses; skirr the country round ; 
Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour. 
How does your patient, doctor ? 

Doct. Not so sick, my lord, 
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
That keep her from her rest. 

Macb. Cure her of that. 
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 

Raze out the written troubles of the brain 
And with some sweet oblivious antidote 
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff 


*T is not needed yet. 


| Profit again should hardly draw me here. 


Which weighs upon the heart ? 


Doct. Therein the patient 
Must minister to himself. 

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs; Ill none of it. 
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff. 
Seyton, send out. Doctor, the thanes fly from me. 
Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast 
The water of my land, find her disease, 

And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 

I would applaud thee to the very echo, 

That should applaud again.— Pull ’t off, I say.— 

What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug, 

Me Eso these English hence ? Hear’st thou of 
yem ? 

Doct. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation 
Makes us hear something. 

Macb. Bring it after me. 

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. 

Doct. [Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and 

(clear, 
| Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV. — Country near Birnam wood. 


Drum and colours. Enter Malcolm, old Siward and his 
Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Len- 
nox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching. 


Mal. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand 
That chambers will be safe. 

Ment. We doubt it nothing. 

Siw. What wood is this before us ? 

Ment. The wood of Birnam. 

Mal. Let every soldier hew him down a bough 
And bear ’t before him: thereby shall we shadow 
The numbers of our host and make discovery 
Err in report of us. 

Soldiers. It shall be done. 

Siw. We learn no other but the confident tyrant 
Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure 
Our setting down before ’t. 

Mal. *T is his main hope: 
For where there is advantage to be given, 
Both more and less have given him the revolt, 
And none serve with him but constrained things 
Whose hearts are absent too. 

Macd. Let our just censures 
Attend the true event, and put we on 
Industrious soldiership. 

Siw. The time approaches 
That will with due decision make us know 
What we shall say we have and what we owe. 
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, 
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: 
Towards which advance the war. 

[ Hxeunt, marching. 


SCENE V.— Dunsinane. Within the castle. 


Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum 
and colours. 


Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; 
The cry is still ‘ They come:’ our castle’s strength 
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie 
Till famine and the ague eat them up: fours, 
Were they not forced with those that should be 
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, 
And beat them backward home. 

[A ery of women within. 
What is that noise ? 

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [zxit. 

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: 
The time has been, my senses would have cool’d 
To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair 
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir 
As life were in ’t; I have supp’d full with horrors; 
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, 
Cannot once start me. 


663 


ACT V. 


MACBETH. 


SCENE VIII. 


Re-enter Seyton. 


Oe ea that cry? 
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead. 

res: She should have died hereafter ; 

There would have been a time for such a word. 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day 

To the last syllable of recorded time, 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 
Life ’s but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage 
And then is heard no more: it is a tale 

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. 
Mess. Gracious my lord, 
I should report that which I say I saw, 
But know not how to do it. 
Macb. Well, say, sir. 
Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
The wood began to move. 
Macb. Liar and slave! 
Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if ’t be not so: 
Within this three mile may you see it coming; 
I say, a moving grove. 
Macb. If thou speak’st false, 
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, 
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, 
I care not if thou dost for me as much. 
I pull in resolution, and begin 
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend 
That lies like truth: ‘ Fear not, till Birnam wood 
Do come to Dunsinane:’ and now a wood 
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out! 
If this which he avouches does appear, 
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. 
I gin to be aweary of the sun, 
And wish the estate 0’ the world were now undone. 
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! 
At least we’ ll die with harness on our back. [Hxewnt. 


SCENE VI.— Dunsinane. Before the castle. 


Drum and colours. Enter Maicolm, old Siward, 
Macduff, and their Army, with boughs. 
Mal. Now near enough: your leafy screens throw 
down, 
And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, 
Shall, with my cousin, your right-noble son, 
Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we 
Shall take upon ’s what else remains to do, 
According to our order. 
Siw. Fare you well. 
Do we but find the tyrant’s power to-night, 
Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. [all breath, 
Macd. Make all our trumpets speak; give them 
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. 
| Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII.— Another part of the field. 


Alarums. Enter Macbeth. 

Macb. They have tied me to astake; I cannot fly, 
But, bear-like, I must fight the course. What ’s he 
That was not born of woman? Such a one 
Aim I to fear, or none. 


Enter young Siward. 
Yo. Siw. What is thy name ? 
Macb. Thou ‘It be afraid to hear it. 
Yo. Siw. No: though thou call’st thyself a hotter 
Than any is in hell. [name 
664 


Macb. My name’s Macbeth. 

Yo. Siw. The devil himself could not pronounce 
More hateful to mine ear. [a title 
Macb. No, nor more fearful. 

Yo. Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant: with my 
Ill prove the lie thou speak’st. [sword 
[They fight and young Siward is slain. 
Macb. Thou wast born of woman. 
But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, 
Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. [ Hit. 
Alaruns. Enter Macduff. 
Macd. ee way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy 
face ! 
If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, 


My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. 
I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms 


Are hired to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth, 


Or else my Sword with an unbatter’d edge 

I sheathe again undeeded. There thoushouldst be; 
By this great clatter, one of greatest note 

Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! 

And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums. 


Enter Malcolm and old Siward. 
Siw. This way, my lord; the castle’s gently 
render’d: 
The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight ; 
The noble thanes do bravely in the war; 
The day almost itself professes yours, 
And little is to do. 


Mal. We have met with foes 
That strike beside us. 
Siw. Enter, sir, the castle. 


[Exeunt. Alarums. 


SCENE VIII.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Macbeth. 


Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die 
On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes 
Do better upon them. 


Enter Macduff, 


Macd. Turn, hell-hound, turn! 

Macb. Of all men else I have avoided thee: 

But get thee back; my soul is too much charged 
With blood of thine already. 

Macd. -I have no words: 
My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain 
Than terms can give thee out! [They fight. 

Macb. Thou losest labour: 
As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air 
With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed: 
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests ; 

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
To one of woman born. 

Macd. Despair thy charm; 

And let the angel whom thou still hast served 
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb 
Untimely ripp’d. 

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 
For it hath cow’d my better part of man! 

And be these juggling fiends no more believed, 
That palter with us in a double sense; 

That keep the word of promise to our ear, 

And break it to our hope. Ill not fight with thee. 

Macd. Then yield thee, coward, 

And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time: 
We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, 
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 

‘Here may you see the tyrant.’ 

Mucb. I will not yield, 
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, 
And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. 

Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
And thou opposed, being of no woman born, 


a on 


ALA RN 


Yet I will try the last. Before my body 

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, 

And damn’d be him that first cries ‘Hold, enough!’ 
[Exeunt, fighting. Alarums. 


Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Mal- 
colm, old Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Sol- 
diers. 


Mal. I would the friends we miss were safe 
arrived. 
Siw. Some must go off: and yet, by these I see, 
So great a day as this is cheaply bought. 
Mal. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. 
Ross. Your son, my lord, has paid asoldier’s debt : 
He only lived but till he was a man; 
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d 
In the unshrinking station where he fought, 
But like a man he died. 
Siw. Then he is dead ? 
Ross. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause 
of sorrow 
Must not be measured by his worth, for then 
It hath no end. 
Siw. Had he his hurts before ? 
Ross. Ay, on the front. 
Siw. Why then, God’s soldier be he! 
Had I as many sons as I have hairs, 
I would not wish them to a fairer death: 
And so, his knell is knoll’d. 
Mal. He’s worth more sorrow, 
And that I ’ll spend for him. 


~ 


Macduff.—Hail, king! for so 


{see thee compass’d with thy 


MACBETH. 


SCENE VIII. 


Siw. \, He’s worth no more: 
They say he parted well, and paid his score: 
And so, God be with him! Here comes newer 
comfort. 


Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth’s head. 


Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where 
stands 
The usurper’s cursed head: the time is free: 
I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl, 
That speak my salutation in their minds; 
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine: 
Hail, King of Scotland! 
All. Hail, King of Scotland! [Flourish. 
Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of time 
Before we reckon with your several loves, [men, 
And make us even with you. My thanes and kins- 
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland 
In such an honour named. Whats more to do, 
Which would be planted newly with the time, 
As calling home our exiled friends abroad 
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny ; 
Producing forth the cruel ministers 
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, 
Who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands 
Took off her life; this, and what needful else 
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, 
We will perform in measure, time and place: 
So, thanks to all at once and to each one, 
Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone. 
[Flourish. Exeunt, 


ll 
SS, 
BSG 


Oe 


te 

y Sy Wy 
NY “ily 

A Niles 
Wt 


a 
Ea: 
2 


thou art: behold, where stands 
The usurper’s cursed head: the time is free: 


kingdom’s pearl, 


That speak my salutation in their minds; 
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine; 


Hail, King of Scotland !—ActT 


V., Scene viii, 


HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Claudius, King of Denmark. 

Hamlet, son to the late, and nephew to the present 
king. 

Polonius, lord chamberlain. 

Horatio, friend to Hamlet. 

Laertes, son to Polonius. 

Voltimand, 

Cornelius, 

Rosencrantz, 

Guildenstern, 

Osric, 

A Gentleman, 

A Priest. 

Marcellus, 

Bernardo, 


courtiers. 


officers. 


Francisco, a soldier. 

Reynaldo, servant to Polonius. 

Players. 

Two Clowns, grave-diggers. 

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway. 

A Captain. 

English Ambassadors. 

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and mother to Hamlet, 
Ophelia, daughter to Polonius. 


Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, 
and other Attendants, 


Ghost of Hamlet’s Father. 
SCENE — Denmark. 


[ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page LxIv.] 


Aa 


SCENE I.— Eisinore. A platform before the 
castle. 


Francisco at his post. Hnter to him Bernardo. 


Ber. Who’s there ? (self. 
Fran. Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold your- 
Ber. Long live the king! 
Fran. Bernardo ? 
Ber. He. 
Fran. You come most carefully upon your hour. 
Ber. *Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, 
Francisco. [eold, 
Fran. For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter 
And I am sick at heart. 
Ber. Have you had quiet guard ? 
Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 
Ber. Well, good night. 
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. 
Fran. I aes I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s 
there : 


Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 


Hor. Friends to this ground. 


Mar. + And liegemen to the Dane. 
Fran. Give you good night. 


Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier: 
Who hath relieved you ? 
_ Fran. Bernardo has my place. 
Give you good night. | Exit. 

Mar. Holla! Bernardo! 

Ber. Say, 
What, is Horatio there ? 


Hor. A piece of him. 
Ber. Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Mar- 
cellus. [night ? 
Mar. What, has this thing appear’d again to- 
Ber. I have seen nothing. 
Mar. Horatio says ’t is but our fantasy, 
And will not let belief take hold of him 
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: 
Therefore I have entreated him along 


666 


With us to watch the minutes of this night; 
That if again this apparition come, 
He may approve our eyes and speak to it. 

Hor. Tush, tush, ’t will not appear. 

Ber. Sit down awhile ; 
And let us once again assail your ears, 
That are so fortified against our story 
What we have two nights seen. 

or. Well, sit we down. 

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 

Ber. Last night of all, 
When yond same star that ’s westward from the pole 
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven 
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, 
The bell then beating one,— 


Enter Ghost. 


Mar. Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes 
again ! 
Ber. In the same figure, like the king that ’s dead. 
Mav. ‘Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. 
Ber. Looks it not like the king? mark it, Ho- 
ratio. [wonder. 
Hor. Most like: it harrows me with fear and 
Ber. It would be spoke to. 
Mayr. Question it, Horatio. 
Hor. What art thou that usurp’st this time of 
Together with that fair and warlike form  {[night, 
In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee 
Mar. It is offended. [speak f 
Ber. See, it stalks away! 
Hor. Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak! 
[Exit Ghost. 
Mar. ’Tis gone, and will not answer. [pale : 
Ber. How now, Horatio! you tremble and look 
Is not this something more than fantasy ? 
What think you on ’t ? 
Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe 
Without the sensible and true avouch 


Of mine own eyes. 
Mar. Is it not like the king? 


ACT I. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


Hor. As thou art to thyself: 
Such was the very armour he had on 
When he the ambitious Norway combated ; 
So frown’d he once, when, in an angry parle, 
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 
‘T is strange. [hour, 
Mar. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead 
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 
Hor. In what particular thought to work I know 
But in the gross and scope of my opinion, [not ; 
This bodes some strange eruption to our state. 
Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that 
knows, 
Why this same strict and most observant watch 
So nightly toils the subject of the land, 
And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, 
And foreign mart for implements of war; 
Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task 
Does not divide the Sunday from the week ; 
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste 
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day : 
Who is ’t that can inform me? 
Hor. That can I; 
At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, 
Whose image even but now appear’d to us, 
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, 
Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, 


Dared to the combat ; in which our valiant Hamlet— | 


Speak to me: 
If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, 
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, 
O, speak ! 
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 
For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, 
Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcellus. 
Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan ? 
Hor. Do, if it will not stand. 
Ber. 
Hor. 
Mar. ’T is gone! 
We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the show of violence; 
For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 
And our vain blows malicious mockery. 
Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew... 
“Hor-And then it started like a’euilty thing 
/Upon a fearful summons. I have heard. 
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, 


[Cock crows. 


’T is here! 
’T is here! 
[Hait Ghost. 


' Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
| Awake the god of day; and, at his warning, 


Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 

The extravagant and erring spirit hies 

To his confine: and of the truth herein 
This present object made probation. 

Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 


For so this side of our known world esteem’d him— | Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes 


Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal’d compact, 
Well ratified by law and heraldry, 
Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands 
Which he stood seized of, to the conqueror : 
Against the which, a moiety competent 
Was gaged by our king; which had return’d 
To the inheritance of Fortinbras, 
Had he been vanquisher; as, by the same covenant, 
And carriage of the article design’d, 
His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, 
Of unimproved mettle hot and full, 
Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there 
Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, 
For food and diet, to some enterprise 
That hath a stomach in ’t; which is no other — 
As it doth well appear unto our state — 
But to recover of us, by strong hand 
And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands . 
So by his father lost: and this, I take it, 
Is the main motive of our preparations, 
The source of this our watch and the chief head 
Of this post-haste and romage in the land. 

Ber. I think it be no other but e’en so: 
Well may it sort that this portentous figure 
Comes armed through our watch; so like the king 
That was and is the question of these wars. 

Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. 
In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead 
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: 
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star 
Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands 
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: 
And even the like precurse of fierce events, 
As harbingers preceding still the fates 
And prologue to the omen coming on, 
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated 
Unto our climatures and countrymen.— 
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again! 


Re-enter Ghost. 


Ill cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! 
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 

Speak to me: 

If there be any good thing to be done, 

That may to thee do ease and grace to me, 


| Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, 


The bird of dawning singeth all night long: 

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
‘So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. 

Hor. So have I heard and do in part believe it. 

‘But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 

Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill: 
Break we our watch up; and by my advice, 

‘Let us impart what we have seen to-night 

Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, 

This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. 

Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, 

As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ? 

_ Mar. Let’s do’t, I pray; and I this morning know 
Where we shall find him most conveniently. [ Hveunt. 
‘Re: 


SCENE II.— A room of state in the castle. 


Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, 
Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants. 


King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s 
The memory be green, and that it us befitted [death 
To bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom 
To be contracted in one brow of woe, 

Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature 
That we with wisest sorrow think on him, 
Together with remembrance of ourselves. 
Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, 
The imperial jointress to this warlike state, 
Have we, as ’t were with a defeated joy,— 
With an auspicious and a dropping eye, 
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, 
In equal scale weighing delight and dole,— 
Taken to wife: nor have we herein barr’d 
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone 
With this affair along. For all, our thanks. 
Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras, 
Holding a weak supposal of our worth, 
Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death 
Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 
Colleagued with the dream of his advantage, 
He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, 
Importing the surrender of those lands 
Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, 
To our most valiant brother. So much for him. 
(Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: 
667 


ACT UT, 


Thus much the business is: we have here writ 

To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,— 

Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears 

Of this his nephew’s purpose,— to suppress 

His further gait herein; in that the levies, 

The lists and full proportions, are all made 

Out of his subject: and we here dispatch 

You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, 

For bearers of this greeting to old Norway ; 

Giving to you no further personal power 

To business with the king, more than the scope 

Of these delated articles allow. 

Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty. 
ee 7 | In that and all things will we show our duty. 
King. We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell. 

[Hxeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 

And now, Laertes, what ’s the news with you? 

You told us of some suit; what is ’t, Laertes ? 

You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, 

And lose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes, 

That shall not be my offer, not thy asking ? 

The head is not more native to the heart, 

The hand more instrumental to the mouth, 

Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. 

What wouldst thou have, Laertes ? 

Laer. My dread lord, 

Your leave and favour to return to France; 

From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, 

To show my duty in your coronation, 

Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, 

My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France 

. And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. 
King. Have you your father’s leave? What says 

Polonius ? [leave 
Pol. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow 

By laboursome petition, and at last 

Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent: 

I do beseech you, give him leave to go. 

King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, 

And thy best graces spend it at thy will! 

But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,— 

Ham. [Aside)~A little more than kin, and less) 
than kind® 
King. How isit that the clouds still hang on you ? 
Ham. Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun. 
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, 

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. 

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids 

Seek for thy noble father in the dust: 

Thou know’st tis common; /all that lives must die, 

Passing through nature to eternity) 

Ham. Ay, madam, itis common? 
Queen. If it be, 

Why seems it so particular with thee? —_[‘ seems.’ 
Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not 

*T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 

Nor customary suits of solemn black, 

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, 

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 

Nor the dejected ’haviour of the visage, 

Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, 

That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, 

Jor they are actions that a man might play: 

But I have that within which passeth show? 

These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 


King. ’Tis sweet and commendable in your na- | 


ture, Hamlet, 
To give these mourning duties to your father: 
But, you must know, your father lost a father: 
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound 
In filial obligation for some term 
To do obsequious sorrow: but to persever 
In obstinate condolement is a course 
Of impious stubbornness; ’t is unmanly grief ; 
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, 
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, 


668 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


An understanding simple and unschool’d: 

For what we know must be and is as common 
As any the most vulgar thing to sense, 

Why should we in our peevish opposition 
Take it to heart? Fie! ’tis a fault to heaven, 
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, 

To reason most absurd; whose common theme 
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, 
From the first corse till he that died to-day, 
‘This must be so.’ We pray you, throw to earth 
This unprevailing woe, and think of us 

As of a father: for let the world take note, 
You are the most immediate to our throne; 
And with no less nobility of love 

Than that which dearest father bears his son, 
Do I impart toward you. For your intent 

In going back to school in Wittenberg, 

It is most retrograde to our desire: 

And we beseech you, bend you to remain 
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 


Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. 

Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, 
Hamlet: 

I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg. 
Ham. J shall in all my best obey you, madam. 
king. Why, ’t is a loving and a fair reply: 

Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; 

This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet 

Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof, 

No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 

But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, 

And the king’s rouse the heavens shall bruit again, 

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. 

[Hxeunt all but Hamlet. 
Ham. O,that this too too solid flesh would melt, 

Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! 

Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d 
is canon ’gainst self-slaughter!..O God! God 
ow Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, . 

Seem to me all the uses of this world! Nx 

Fie on ’t! ah fie! tis an titiweeded arden, ~~ 
That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature) 
Possess it merely,’ That it should Come to-thist——~ 
But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: 
So excellent a king; that was, to this, 
Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother 

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! 

Must I remember ? why, she would hang on him, 

As if increase of appetite had grown 

By what it fed on: and yet, within a month — 

Let me ae think on ’t—/Frailty, thy name is wo- 

man ! — 

A little month, or ere those shoes were old 

With which she follow’d my poor father’s body, 

Like Niobe, all tears: — why she, even she — 

O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 

Would have mourn’d longer—married with my 

uncle, 

My father’s brother, but no more like my father 

Than I to Hercules: within a month: 

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 

Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 

She married. O, most wicked speed, to post 

With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! 

It is not nor it cannot come to good: 

But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue. 


* 


Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo. 


Hor. Hail to your lordship! 

Ham. I am glad to see you well: 
Horatio,—or I do forget myself. [ever. 

Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant 

Ham. Sir, my good friend; Ill change that 

name with you: ne 

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ? 
Marcellus ? 


ACT I. 


Mar. My good lord — 
Ham. Il am very glad tosee you. Good even, sir. 
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg ? 
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. 
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so, 
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
To make it truster of your own report 
Against yourself: I know you are no truant. 
But what is your affair in Elsinore ? 
We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. 
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. 
_ Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student ; 
I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. 
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon. 
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked 
meats 
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
W ould I had met my dearest foe in heaven 
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! 
My father !— methinks I see my father. 
Hor. Where, my lord ? 
Ham. In my mind’s eye, Horatio. 
Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly king. 
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 
Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 
Ham. Saw? who ? 
Hor. My lord, the king your father. 
Ham. The king my father! 
Hor. Season your admiration for a while 
With an attent ear, till I may deliver, 
Upon the witness of these gentlemen, 
This marvel to you. 
Ham. For God’s love, let me hear. 
Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, 
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, 
In the dead vast and middle of the night, 
Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, 
Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, 
Appears before them, and with solemn march 
Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d 
By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, 
Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, dis- 
Almost to jelly with the act of fear, [tilled 
Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me 
In dreadful secrecy impart they did; 
And I with them the third night kept the watch: 
Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, 
Form of the thing, each word made true and good, 
The apparition comes: I knew your father; 
These hands are not more like. 
Ham. But where was this ? 
Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we 
Ham. Did you not speak to it ? [watch’d. 
Flor. My lord, I did; 
But answer made it none: yet once methought 
It lifted up its head and did address 
Itself to motion, like as it would speak ; 
But even then the morning cock crew loud, 
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, 
And vanish’d from our sight. 
Ham. T is very strange. 
Hor. As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’t is true; 
And we did think it writ down in our duty 
To let you know of it. 
Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. 
Hold you the watch to-night ? 
Mar. 
Ber. 
Ham. Arm/’d, say you? 
ae Arm/’d, my lord. 
Ham. From top to toe ? 
eens My lord, from head to foot. 
Ham. Then saw you not his face ? 
Hor. O yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up. 


We do, my lord. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE IilI. 


Ham. What, look’d he frowningly ? 
Hor. A. countenance more in sorrow than in anger. 
Ham. Pale or red ? j 
Hor. Nay, very pale. 
am. And fix’d his eyes upon you ? 
Hor. Most constantly. . 
Ham. I would I had been there. 
Hor. It would have much amazed you. 
Ham. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long ? 
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell 
a hundred. 
a Longer, longer. 
Hor. Not when I saw ’t. 
Ham. His beard was grizzled,— no ? 
Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silver’d. 
am. I will watch to-night; 
Perchance ’t will walk again. 
Hor. I warrant it will. 
Ham. If it assume my noble father’s person, 
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape 
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, 
If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, 
Let it be tenable in your silence still; 
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 
Give it an understanding, but no tongue: 
I will requite your loves. So, fare you well: 
Upon the platform, ’twixt eleven and twelve, 
[’ll visit you. 
All. Our duty to your honour. 
Ham. Your loves, as mine to you: farewell. 
[| Hxeunt all but Hamlet. 
My father’s spirit in arms! all is not well; 
I doubt some foul play: would the night were come: 
Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, 
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s 
eyes. [ Hott. 


SCENE III.— A room in Polonius’ house. 


Enter Laertes and Ophelia. 


Laer. My necessaries are embark’d: farewell : 
And, sister, as the winds give benefit 
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, 
But let me hear from you. 
Do you doubt that ? 


jis For Hamlet and the trifling of his favour, 

Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood, 

A violet in the youth of primy nature, 

Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, 

The perfume and suppliance of a minute; 

No more, 
Oph. . 
Laer. Think it no more: 

For nature, crescent, does not grow alone 

In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes, 

The inward service of the mind and soul 

Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, 

And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch 

The virtue of his will: but you must fear, 

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; 

For he himself is subject to his birth: 

He may not, as unvalued persons do, 

Carve for himself; for on his choice depends 

The safety and health of this whole state ; 

And therefore must his choice be circumscribed 

Unto the voice and yielding of that body 

Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves 

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it [you, 

As he in his particular act and place 

May give his saying deed; which is no further 

Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. 

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain, 

If with too credent ear you list his songs, 

Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open 

To his unmaster’d importunity. 


669 


No more but so ? 


ACT. I. 


Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, 
And keep you in the rear of your affection, 
Out of the shot and danger of desire. 
The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 
If she unmask her beauty to the moon: 
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes: 
The canker galls the infants of the spring, 
Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, 
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth 
Contagious blastments are most imminent. 
Be wary then; best safety lies in fear: 
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. 

Oph. I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, 
As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, 
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; 
Whiles, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, 
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 
And recks not his own rede. 

Laer. O, fear me not. 
I stay too long: but here my father comes. 


Enter Polonius. 


“A double blessing is a double grace; 
. Occasion smiles upon a second leave. 
Pol. Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! 
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, 
And you are stay’d for. There; my blessing with 
And these few precepts in thy memory [thee! 
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, 
Bear ’t that the opposed may beware of thee. 
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; 
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy; 
“For the apparel oft proclaims the man, 
And they in France of the best rank and station 
Are of a most select and generous chief in that. 
Neither a borrower nora lender be: 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 
_And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
'This above all to thine own setfbe true, 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou canst not then be false to any man. __.... 
' Farewell: my blessing season this in thee! 
Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. 
Pol. Thetime invites you; go; yourservants tend. 
Laer. Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well 
What I have said to you. 
Oph. °T is in my memory lock’d, 
And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 
Laer. Farewell. [| Exit. 
Pol. What is ’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you ? 
Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord 
Pol. Marry, well bethought: Hamlet. 
*T is told me, he hath very oft of late 
Given private time to you; and you yourself 
Have of your audience been most free and boun- 
If it be so, as so *t is put on me, [teous: 
And that in way of caution, I must tell you, 
You do not understand yourself so clearly 
As it behoves my daughter and your honour. 
What is between you? give me up the truth. 
Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders 
Of his affection to me. 
Pol. Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl, 
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. 
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ? 
Oph. 1do not know, my lord, what I should think. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE IVY. 


> os 


That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, 
Which are not sterling. ‘Tender yourself more 
dearly ; 
Or — not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, 
Running it thus— you ’Il tender me a fool. 
Oph. My lord, he hath importuned me with love 
In honourable fashion. 
Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to. 
Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, 
my lord, 
With almost all the holy vows of heaven. 
Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. 
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul 
Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, 
Giving more light than heat, extinet in both, 
Even in their promise, as it is a-making, 
You must not take for fire. From this time 
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence; 


[know, 
I do 


Set your entreatments at a higher rate 

Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, 
_ Believe so much in him, that he is young, 

_ And with a larger tether may he walk 


Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia, 

Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, 

Not of that dye which their investments show, | 

But mere implorators of unholy suits, 

Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, 

The better to beguile. This is for all: 

I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, 

Have you so slander any moment leisure, 

As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. 

Look to ’t, I charge you: come your ways. 
Oph. I shall obey, my lord. 


SCENE IV. — The platform. 


Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus. 


Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. 
Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air. 
Ham. What hour now ? 
‘ I think it lacks of twelve. 
Ham. No, it is struck. [the season 
Hor. Indeed? I heard it not; then it draws near 
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. 

[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance 
shot off, within. 
What does this mean, my lord ? [rouse, 

Ham. The king doth wake to-night and takes his 
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels ; 
And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, 
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out 
The triumph of his pledge. 

Hor. 

Ham. Ay, marry, is ’t: 
But to my mind, though I am native here 
And to the manner born, it is a custom 
More honour’d in the breach than the observance. 
This heavy-headed revel east and west 
Makes us traduced and tax’d of other nations: 
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase 
Soil our addition; and indeed it takes 
From our achievements, though perform’d at height. 
The pith and marrow of our attribute. 

So, oft it chances in particular men, 

That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 
As, in their birth — wherein they are not guilty, 
Since nature cannot choose his origin — 

By the o’ergrowth of some complexion, 

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, 
Or by some habit that too much o’er-leavens 
The form of plausive manners, that these men, 
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, 

Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star,— 

Their virtues else — be they as pure as grace, 
As infinite as man may undergo — 

Shall in the general censure take corruption 


[ Hxeunt. 


Is it a custom ? 


Pol. Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby; | From that particular fault: the dram of eale 


670 


ACT I. 


Doth all the noble substance of a doubt 
To his own scandal. 


Hor. Look, my lord, it comes! 


Enter Ghost. 


Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! 
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, 

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, 

Be thy intents wicked or charitable, 

Thou comest in such a questionable shape 

That I will speak to thee: I’ call thee Hamlet, 

King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! 

Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell 

Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, 

Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, 

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, ~ 

Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws, 

To cast thee up again. What may this mean, 

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 

Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, 

Making night hideous; and we fools of nature 

So horridly to shake our disposition 

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ? 

Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do ? 

[Ghost beckons Hamlet. 

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, 

As if it some impartment did desire 

To you alone. 

Mar. Look, with what courteous action 
It waves you to a more removed ground: 

But do not go with it. 

For. No, by no means. 

Ham. It will not speak; then I will follow it. 

Hor. Do not, my lord. 

Ham. Why, what should be the fear ? 
I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; 

And for my soul, what can it do to that, 
Being a thing immortal as itself ? 
It waves me forth again: Ill follow it. 

Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my 
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff [lord, 
That beetles o’er his base into the sea, 

And there assume some other horrible form, 
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason 
And draw you into madness? think of it: 

The very place puts toys of desperation, 

Without more motive, into every brain 

That looks so many fathoms to the sea 

And hears it roar beneath. 

Ham. 

Go on; Ill follow thee. 

Mar. You shall not go, my lord. 

Ham. Hold off your hands. 

Hor. Be ruled; you shall not go. 

Ham. My fate cries out, 
And makes each petty artery in this body 
As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. 

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen. 
By heaven, Ill make a ghost of him that lets me! 
I say, away! Goon; I’ll follow thee. 

[Hxeunt Ghost and Hamlet. 

Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination. 

Mar. Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him. 

Hor. Have after. To what issue will this come ? 

Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Den- 

Hor. Heaven will direct it. [mark. 

Mar. Nay, let’s follow him. [weunt. 


SCENE V.—Another part of the platform. 


Enter Ghost and Hamlet. 


Ham. Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I7ll go 
Ghost. Mark me. ne: [no further. 
will. 


Ham. ; 
My hour is almost come, 


It waves me still. 


Ghost. 
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
Must render up myself. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE V. 


Ham. Alas, poor ghost! — 
Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing 
To what I shall unfold. 
Ham. Speak; I am bound to hear 
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt 
Ham. What ? [hear. 
Ghost. I am thy father’s spirit, j 
Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, 
And for the day confined to fast in fires, 
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature 
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid 


| To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 


I could a tale unfold whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their 
Thy knotted and combined locks to part [spheres, 
And each particular hair to stand an end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine: 
But this eternal blazon must not be 
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! 
If thou didst ever thy dear father love— 
Ham. O God! 
Ghost. are his foul and most unnatural 
Ham. Murder! [murder. 
Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is; 


| But this most foul, strange and unnatural. 


Ham. Haste me to know ’t, that I, with wings as 
As meditation or the thoughts of love, [swift 
May sweep to my revenge. 

Ghost. I find thee apt; 

And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed 

That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 

Wouldst thou not stirinthis. Now, Hamlet, hear: 

’T is given out that, sleeping in my orchard, 

A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark 

Is by a forged process of my death 

Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth, 

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life 

Now wears his crown. 
Ham. 

My uncle! 

Ghost. Ay,that incestuous, that adulterate beast, 
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— 
O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power 
So to seduce !—won to his shameful lust 
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen: 

O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there! 
From me, whose love was of that dignity 
That it went hand in hand even with the vow 
I made to her in marriage, and to decline 
Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor 
To those of mine! 
But virtue, as it never will be moved, 
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, 
So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, 
Will sate itself in a celestial bed, 
And prey on garbage. 
But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air; 
Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, 
My custom always of the afternoon, 
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, 
And in the porches of my ears did pour 
The leperous distilment ; whose effect 
Holds such an enmity with blood of man 
That swift as quicksilver it courses through 
The natural gates and alleys of the body, 
And with a sudden vigour it doth posset 
And curd, like eager droppings into milk, | 
The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine; 
And a most instant tetter bark’d about, 
Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, 
All my smooth body. 
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand 
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch’d : 
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d, 

i 


— 
or | 


O my prophetic soul! 


ACT 


1T; 


No reckoning made, but sent to my account 

With all my imperfections on my head: 

O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! 

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; 

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 

A couch for luxury and damned incest. 

But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, 

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 

Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven 

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 

To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! 

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 

And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire : 

Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. [ Katt. 
Ham. Oallyou host of heaven! Oearth! what else? 

And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my 

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, [heart ; 

But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee! 

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 

In this distracted globe. Remember thee! 

Yea, from the table of my memory 

Ill wipe away all trivial fond records, 

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, 

That youth and observation copied there; 

And thy commandment all alone shall live 

Within the book and volume of my brain, 

Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven! 

O most pernicious woman ! 

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain ! 

My tables,— meet it is I set it down, 

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; 

At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark: [ Writing. 

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; 

It is ‘ Adieu, adieu! remember me.’ 

I have sworn ’t. 


sae [ Within] My lord, my lord,— 
Mar. [ Within] Lord Hamlet,— 
Hor. | Within] Heaven secure him! 


Ham. So be it! 

Hor. [| Within] Hillo, ho, ho, my lord! 
Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come. 
_ Enter Horatio and Marcellus. 

Mar. How is’t, my noble lord ? 


Hor. What news, my lord ? 
Ham. O, wonderful! 
Hor. Good my lord, tell it. 


Ham. No; you’ll reveal it. 
Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven. 
Mar. Nor I, my lord. 
Ham. Howsay you, then; would heart of man once 
But you ’ll be secret ? [think it ? 
aa Ay, by heaven, my lord. 
Ham. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Den- 
But he’s an arrant knave. [mark 
Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from 
To tell us this. [the grave 
Ham. Why, right; you are i’ the right; 
And so, without more circumstance at all, 
I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: 
You, as your business and desire shall point you; 
For every man has business and desire, 
Such as it is; and for mine own poor part, 
Look you, I ’ll go pray. [lord. 
Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, my 


HAMLET. 


SCENE I, 


Ham. I’m sorry they offend you, heartily ; 

Yes, ’faith, heartily. 
lor. There ’s no offence, my lord. 

Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, 
And much offence too. Touching this vision here, 
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you: 
For your desire to know what is between us, 
O’ermaster ’t as youmay. And now, good friend 
As you are friends, scholars and soldiers, 
Give me one poor request. 

Hor. What is ’t, my lord? we will. [night. 

Ham. Never make known what you have seen to- 


ee My lord, we will not. 


Ham. Nay, but swear ’t. 

Hor. In faith, 
My lord, not I. . 

Mar. Nor I, my lord, in faith. 


Ham. Upon my sword. 
Mar. We have sworn, my lord, already. 
Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. 
Ghost. [Beneath] Swear. [truepenny ? 
Ham. Ah, ha, boy! say’st thou so ? art thou there, 
Come on — you hear this fellow in the cellarage — 
Consent to swear. 
Hor. Propose the oath, my lord. 
Ham. Never to speak of this that you have seen, 
Swear by my sword. 
Ghost. | Beneath] Swear. 
Ham. Hie et ubique ? then we ’ll shift our ground. 
Come hither, gentlemen, 
And lay your hands again upon my sword: 
Never to speak of this that you have heard, 
Swear by my sword. 
Ghost. [Beneath] Swear. [so fast ? 
Ham. Wellsaid, old mole! canst work i’ the earth 
A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends. 
Hor, Oday and night, but this is wondrous strange! 
Ham. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. 
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 
But come; 
Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, 
How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself, 
As I perchance hereafter shall think meet 
To put an antic disposition on, 
That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, 
With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake, 
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, 
As* Well, well, we know,’ or ‘ We could, an if we’ 
Ww : [might,’ 
Or ‘If we list to speak,’ or ‘There be, an if they 
Or such ambiguous giving out, to note 
That you know aught of me: this not to do, 
So grace and mercy at your most need help you, 
Swear. 
Ghost. [Beneath] Swear. 
Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! [They swear.} 
So, gentlemen, 
With all my love I do commend me to you: 
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is 
May do, to express his love and friending to you, 
God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, 
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. 
The time is out of joint: O cursed Spite, 
That ever I was born to set it right 


Nay, come, let ’s go-together. [ Hxeunt 


A CARL Te 


SCENE I.— A room in Polonius’ house. 


Enter Polonius and Reynaldo. 


Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Rey- 
Rey. I will, my lord. [naldo. 


672 


Pol. You shall do marvellous wisely, good Rey- 


Before you visit him, to make inquire (naldo, 
Of his behaviour. : 
Rey. My lord, I did intend it. _ [sir, 


Pol. Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, 


AGTH ELD. 


Inquire me first what DansKers are in Paris; 

And Siahae and who, what means, and where they 

eep, 

What company, at what expense; and finding 

By this encompassment and drift ‘of question. 

That they do know my son, come you more nearer 

Than your particular demands will touch it: 

Take you, as ’t were, some distant knowledge of him; 

As thus, ‘T know his father and his friends, 

And in part him:’ do you mark this, Reynaldo | ? 
Ftey. Ay, very well, my lord. [well: 
Pol. ‘ And in part ‘him; but’ you may say ‘ not 

But, if t be he I mean, he Ms very wild; 

Addicted so and so:? and there put on him 

What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank 

As may dishonour him; take heed of that; 

But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips 

As are companions noted and most known 

To youth and liberty. 

Rey. As gaming, my lord. ([ling, 

Bolt Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrel- 
Drabbing: you may go so far. 

Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him. 

Pol. ’Faith, no: as you may season it in the charge. 
You must not put another scandal on him, 

That he is open to incontinency ; 

That ’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so 

quaintly 

That they may seem the taints of liberty, 

The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, 

A savageness in unreclaimed blood, 

Of general assault. 

Rey But, my good lord,— 
Pol Wherefore should you do this ? 


Fey. Ay, my lord, 
I By know that. 
Pol. Marry, sir, here ’s my drift; 


And, I believe, it is a fetch of wit: 
You laying these slight sullies on my son, 

As ’t were a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, 
Mark you, 

Your party in converse, him you would sound, 
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes 
The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured 
He closes w ‘ith you in this consequence ; 

‘Good sir,’ or so, or ‘friend,’ or “sentleman, ; 
According to the phrase or the addition 

Of man and country. 

Rey. Very good, my lord. 

Pol. And then, sir, does he this—he does— what 
was I about tosay? By the mass, I was about to 
say something : where did I leave? 

Fey. At ‘closes in the consequence,’ at ‘friend or 
so,’ and ° gentleman.’ 

Pol. At ‘closes in the consequence,’ ay, marry ; 
He closes thus: ‘ I know the gentleman ; 

I saw him yesterday, or t’ other day, [say, 
Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you 
There was a’ gaming; there o’ertook in ’s rouse; 
There falling out at tennis: ’ or perchance, 
‘T saw him enter such a house of sale,’ 
Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth. 
See you now ; 
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth: 
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, 
With windlasses and with assays of bias, 
By indirections find directions out: 
So by my former lecture and advice, 
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? 
mo My lord, I have. 

God be wi’ you; fare you well. 

Rex . Good my lord! 

Hey Observe his inclination in yourself. 

Rey. I shall, my lord. 

Pol. And let him ply his music. 

Rey. 

Pol. Farewell! 


43 


Well, my lord. 
[Hxit Reynaldo. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


Enter Ophelia. 


How now, Ophelia! what ’s the matter ? 
Oph. O, my lord, my lord, I have been so af- 
frig hted ! 
Pol. With what, 1’ the name of God ? 
Ovh. My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, 
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced ; 
No hat upon his head; his stockings foul’d, 
Ungarter’d, and down- gyved to his ancle; 
Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; 
And with a look so piteous in purport 
As if he had been loosed out of hell 
To speak of horrors,—he comes before me. 
Pol. Mad for thy love ? 
Oph. My lord, I do not know; 
But truly, I do fear it. 
rou What said he? 
Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me hard; 
Then goes he to the length of all his arm; 
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow, 
He falls to such perusal of my face 
As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so; 
At last, a little shaking of mine arm 
And thrice his head thus waving up and down, 
He raised a sigh so piteous and profound 
That it did seem to shatter all his bulk 
And end his being: that done, he lets me go: 
And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d, 
He seem ’d to find his way without his eyes; 
For out 0’ doors he went without their help, 
And, to the last, bended their light on me. 
Pol. Come, 20 with me: I will go seek the king. 
This is the very ecstasy of love, 
Whose violent property fordoes itself 
And leads the will to desperate undertakings 
As oft as any passion under heaven 
That does afflict our natures. I am sorry. 
What, have you given him any hard words of late? 
Oph. No, my good lord, but, as you did command, 
I did repel his letters and denied 
His access to me. 
Pol. That hath made him mad. 
IT am sorry that with better heed and judgment 
I had not quoted him: I fear’d he did but trifle, 
And meant to wreck thee; but, beshrew my Jeal- 
By heaven, it is as proper to our age fousy ! 
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions 
As it is common for the younger sort 
To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king: 
This must be known; which, being kept close, 
might move 
More grief to hide than hate to utter love. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.—A room in the castle. 


Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guilden- 
stern, and Attendants. 


King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guilden- 
Moreover that we much did long to see you, [stern! 
The need we have to use you did provoke 
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard 
Of Hamlet’s transformation ; so call it, 

Sith nor the exterior nor the inward man 
Resembles that it was. What it should be, 

More than his father’s death, that thus hath put 
So much from the understanding of himself, [him 
I cannot dream of: I entreat you both, 

That, being of so young days brought up with him, 
And sith so neighbour’d to his youth and haviour, 
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court 
Some little time: so by your companies 


| To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather, 


So much as from occasion you may glean, 

Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus, 

That, open’d, lies within our remedy. you; 
Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of 


673 


ACT Il. 


And sure I am two men there are not living 

To whom he more adheres. If it will please you 

To show us so much gentry and good will 

As to expend your time with us awhile, 

For the supply and profit of our hope, 

Your visitation shall receive such thanks 

As fits a king’s remembrance. 

Ros. Both your majesties 

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, 

Put your dread pleasures more into command 

Than to entreaty. 

Guil. But we both obey, 

And here give up ourselves, in the full bent 

To lay our service freely at your feet, 

To be commanded. [stern. 
King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guilden- 
Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosen- 

And I beseech you instantly to visit [crantz: 

My too much changed son. Go, some of you, 

And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. 

Guil. Heavens make our presence and our practices 

Pleasant and helpful to him! 


Queen. Ay, amen! 
| Hxeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some 
Attendants. 


Enter Polonius. 


Pol. 'The ambassadors from Norway, my good 
Are joyfully return’d. [lord, | 
King. Thou still hast been the father of good | 
news. 
Pol. Have I, my lord? I assure my good liege, 
I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, 
Both to my God and to my gracious king: 
And I do think, or else this brain of mine 
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure 
As it hath used to do, that I have found 
The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy. 
king. O, speak of that; that do I long to hear. 
Pol. Give first admittance to the ambassadors ; 
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. 
King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them 
in. | Exit Polonius. 
He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found 
The head and source of all your son’s distemper. 
Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main; 
His father’s death, and our o’erhasty marriage. 
King. Well, we shall sift him. 


Tte-enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cor- 
nelius. 


Welcome, my good friends! 

Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway ? 

Volt. Most fair return of greetings and desires. 
Upon our first, he sent out to suppress 
His nephew’s levies; which to him appear’d 
To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; 
But, better look’d into, he truly found 
It was against your highness: whereat grieved, 
That so his sickness, age and impotence 
Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests 
On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys; 
Receives rebuke from Norway, and in fine 
Makes vow before his uncle never more 
To give the assay of arms against your majesty. 
Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, 
Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, 
And his commission to employ those soldiers, 
So levied as before, against the Polack : 
With an entreaty, herein further shown, 


HAMLET. 


inet [Giving a paper. 

That it might please you to give quiet pass 
Through your dominions for this enterprise, 
On such regards of safety and allowance 
As therein are set down. 

King. It likes us well; 
And at our more consider’d time we ’ll read, 
Answer, and think upon this business. 


674 


SCENE II. 


Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour: 
Go to your rest; at night we ’ll feast together: 
Most welcome home! 
[Hxeunt Voltimand and Cornelius. 

Pol. This business is well ended. 
My liege, and madam, to expostulate 
What majesty should be, what duty is, 
Why day is day, night night, and time is time, 
Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. 
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, 
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, 
I will be brief: your noble son is mad: 
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness, 
What is ’t but to be nothing else but mad ? 
But let that go. 

Queen. More matter, with less art. 

Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at all. . 
That he is mad, ’t is true: ’t is true ’tis pity; 
And pity ’tis ’tis true: a foolish figure; 
But farewell it, for I will use no art. 
Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains 
That we find out the cause of this effect, 
Or rather say, the cause of this defect, 
For this effect defective comes by cause: 
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. 


| Perpend. 


I have a daughter — have while she is mine — 
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark, 
Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise. 
[ Reads. 
‘'To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beau- 
tified Ophelia,’— 
That ’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘ beautified’ is 
a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus: [feads. 
‘In her excellent white bosom, these, &ce.’ 
Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her ? 
Pol. Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. 
[ Jteads. 
‘Doubt thou the stars are fire; 
Doubt that the sun doth move; 
Doubt truth to be a liar; 
But never doubt I love. 

‘O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I 
have not art to reckon my groans: but that I love 
thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. 

‘Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this 
machine is to him, HAMLET.’ 
This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me, 
And more above, hath his solicitings, 
As they fell out by time, by means and place, 
All given to mine ear. 


King. But how hath she. 
Received his love ? 
Pol What do you think of me? 


King. As of a man faithful and honourable. 
Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you 
think, 

When I had seen this hot love on the wing — 
As I perceived it, I must tell you that, 
Before my daughter told me — what might you, 
Or my dear majesty your queen here, think, 
If I had play’d the desk or table-book, 
Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, 
Or look’d upon this love with idle sight ; 
What might you think ? No, I went round to work, 
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: 
‘ Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star; 
This must not be:’ and then I precepts gave her, 
That she should lock herself from his resort, 
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice; 
And he, repulsed —a short tale to make — 
Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, 
Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, 
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, 
Into the madness wherein now he raves, 
And all we mourn for. 


ACT II. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


xing. Do you think ’tis this? 
Queen. It may be, very likely. {that — 
Pol. Hath there been such a time—I17’d fain know 
That I have positively said ‘ Tis so,’ 
When it proved otherwise ? 
King. Not that I know. 
Pol. [Pointing to his head and shoulder] 'Take this 
from this, if this be otherwise: 
If circumstances lead me, I will find | 
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed 
Within the centre. 
Iking. How may we try it further ? 
Pol. You know, sometimes he walks four hours 
Here in the lobby. [together 
ween. So he does indeed. 
ol. At such a time [71] loose my daughter to him: 
Be you and I behind an arras then ; 
Mark the encounter: if he love her not 
And be not from his reason fall’n thereon, 
Let me be no assistant for a state, 
But keep a farm and carters. 
We will try it. 


ing. 
Coa But, look, where sadly the poor wretch 
comes reading. 
Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away: 
Ill board him presently. 
[Hxeunt King, Queen, and Attendants. 


Enter Hamlet, reading. 


O, give me leave: 
How does my good Lord Hamlet ? 

Ham. Well, God-a-mercy. 

Pol. Do you know me, my lord ? 

Ham. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger. 

Pol. Not I, my lord. 

Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man. 

Pol. Honest, my lord! 

Ham. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, 
s to be one man picked out of ten thousand. 

Pol. That ’s very true, my lord. 

Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead 
dog, being a god kissing carrion,— Have you a 
daughter ? 

Pol. I have, my lord. 

Ham. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is 
a blessing: but not as your daughter may conceive. 
Friend, look to ’t. 

Pol. [Aside] How say you by that? Still harping 
on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he 
said I was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: 
and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity 
for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again. 
What do you read, my lord ? 

Ham. Words, words, words. 

Pol. What is the matter, my lord ? 

Ham. Between who ? 

Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord. 

Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says 
here that old men have grey beards, that their faces 
are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and 
plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack 
of wit, together with most weak hams: all whicn, 
sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, 
yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, 
for yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab 
you could go backward. 

Pol. [Aside] Though this be madness, yet there 
is method in ’t. Will you walk out of the air, my 

Ham. Into my grave. [lord ? 

Pol. Indeed, that is out 0’ theair. [Aside] How 
pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness 
that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity 
could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will 
leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of 
meeting between him and my daughter.— My hon- 
ourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of 
you. 


Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me any thing 
that I will more willingly part withal: except my 
life, except my life, except my life. 

Pol. Fare you well, my lord. 

Ham. These tedious old fools! 


Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 


Pol. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he 
fos. [To Polonius] God save you, sir! is. 
[Hxit Polonius. 

Guilt. My honoured lord! 

Ros. My most dear lord! 

Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, 
Guildenstern ? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how 
do ye both ? 

fos. As the indifferent children of the earth. 

Guil. Happy, in that we are not over-happy ; 

On fortune’s cap we are not the very button. 

Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe ? 

Ros. Neither, my lord. 

Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in the 
middle of her favours ? 

Guil. ’Faith, her privates we. 

Ham. In the secret parts of fortune? O, most 
true; she isa strumpet. What ’s the news ? 

tos. None, my lord, but that the world’s grown 
honest. 

Ham. Then is doomsday near: but your news is 
not true. Let me question more in particular: 
what have you, my good friends, deserved at the 
hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison 
hither ? 

Guil. Prison, my lord! 

Ham. Denmark’s a prison. 

Ros. Then is the world one. 

Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many 
confines, wards and dungeons, Denmark being one 
o’ the worst. 

Ros. We think not so, my lord. 

Ham. Why, then, ’tis none to you; for there is 
nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it 
so: to me it is a prison. 

ftos. Why then, your ambition makes it one; 
’Lis too narrow for your mind. 

Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nut-shell 
and count myself a king of infinite space, were it 
not that I have bad dreams. 

Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the 
very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow 
of a dream. 

Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow. 

Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and 
light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. 

Ham. Then are our beggars bodies, and our mon- 
archs and outstretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. 
Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot 


he We 1] wait upon you. 

Ham. No such matter: I will not sort you with 
the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an 
honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. Bui, 
in the beaten way of friendship, what make you ai 
Elsinore ? 

Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. 

Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in 
thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, 
my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not 
sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free 
visitation? Come, deal justly with me: come, 
come; nay, speak. 

Guil. What should we say, my lord ? 

Ham. Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You 
were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in 
your looks which your modesties have not eraft 
enough to colour: I know the good king and queen 
have sent for you. 


675 


ROL Ls 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


~ 


Ros. To what end, my lord ? 

Ham. That you must teach me. But let me con- 
jure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the 
consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our 


ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better: 


proposer could charg re you Withal, be even and direct 
with me, whether you were sent ‘for, or no? 

Ros. [Aside to Guil.] What say you! ? 

Ham. [Aside] Nay, then, I have an eye of you.— 
If you love me, hold not off. 

Guil. My lord, we were sent for. 

Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my ee ee 
tion prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the 
king and queen moult no feather. I have of late — 
but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, for- 
gone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so 
heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, 
the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this 
most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave 
o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted 
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to 
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of 

vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how 
noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form 
and moving how express and admirable! in action 
how like an 1angel! in apprehension how like a god! 
the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! 
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? 
man delights not me: no, nor woman neither, 
though by your smiling you seem to say so. 

ios. My lord, there was no such stuff in my 
thoughts. 

Ham. Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘man 
delights not me’? 

Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, 
what lenten entertainment the players shall receive 
from you: we coted them on the way; and hither 
are they coming, to effer you service. 

Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome; 
his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adven- 


turous knight shall use his foil and targ ét the lover | 


shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end 


his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh | 
whose lungs are tickled o’ the sere; and the lady : 
shall say her mind freely, or the sens verse shall | 


halt for ’t. What players are they ? 

Fos. Even those you were wont to take delight 
in, the tragedians of the city. 

Ham. How chances it they travel? their resi- 
dence, both in reputation and profit, was better 
both ways. 

Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the means 
of the late innovation. 

Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did 
when I was in the city ? are they so followed ? 

Ttos. No, indeed, are they not. 

Ham. How comes it ? do they grow rusty ? 

Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted 
pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little 
eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are 
most tyrannically clapped for ’t: these are now the 
fashion, and so berattle the common stages —so they 


call them — that many wearing rapiers are afraid of | 


goose-quills and dare scarce come thither. 

Ham. What, are they children? who maintains 
’em ? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the 
quality no longer than they can sing? will they not 
say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to 
common players —as it is most like, if their means 
are no better—their writers do them wrong, to 
make them exclaim against their own succession ? 

Ros. ’Faith, there has been much to do on both 
sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them 
to controversy: there was, for a while, no money 
bid for argument, unless the poet and the player 
went to cuffs in the question. 

Ham. Is’t possible ? 

676 


Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of 

Ham. Do the boys carry it away ? [brains. 

Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and 
his load too. 

Ham. It is not very strange; for mine uncle is 
king of Denmark, and those that would make mows 
at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, 
fifty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in 
little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than 
natural, if philosophy could find it out. 

[Flourish of trumpets within. 

Guil. There are the players. 

Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. 
Your hands, come then: the appurtenance of wel- 
come is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with 
you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which, 
I tell you, must show fairly outward, should more 
appear like entertainment than yours. You are 
welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother 
are deceived. 

Guil. In what, my dear lord ? 

Ham. I am but mad north-north-west: when the 
wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. 


Enter Polonius. 


Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen! 

Ham. Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at 
each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is 
not yet out of his swaddling-clouts. 

Ros. Happily he’s the second time come to them; 
for they say an old man is twice a child. 

Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the 
players; mark it. You say right, sir: 0’ Monday 
morning; ’t was so indeed. 

Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you. 

Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When 
Roscius was an actor in Rome,— 

Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord. 

Ham. Buz, buz! 

Pol. Upon mine honour,— 

Ham. Then came each actor on his ass,— 

Pol. The best actors in the world, either for trag- 
edy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, 
historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-com- 
ical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem 


| unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus 


too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these 
are the only men. 

Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treas- 
ure hadst thou! 

Pol. What a treasure had he, my lord ? 

Ham. Why, 

‘One fair daughter, and no more, 
The which he loved passing well.’ 

Pol. [Aside] Still on my daughter. 

Ham. Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah ? 

Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a 
daughter that I love passing well. 

Ham. Nay, that follows not. 

Pol. What follows, then, my lord ? 

Ham. Why, 

‘ As by lot, God wot,’ 
and then, you know, 
‘Tt came to pass, as most like it was,’— 

the first row of the pious chanson will show you 
more; for look, where my abridgment comes. 


Enter four or fwe Players. 


You are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am 
glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, 
my old friend! thy face is valanced since I saw 
thee last: comest thou to beard me in Denmark ? 
What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, 
your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw 
you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, 
your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not 
cracked within the ring. Masters, you are ‘all wel: 


LOT AT. 


come. Well e’en to’t like French falconers, fly 
at any thing we see: we’ll have a speech straight: 
come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a pas- 
Sionate speech. 

First Play. What speech, my lord ? 

Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but 
it was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; 
for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; 
’t was caviare to the general: but it was—as I re- 
ceived it, and others, whose judgments in such 
matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent 
play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as 
much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said 
there were no sallets in the lines to make the mat- 
ter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might 
indict the author of affectation; but called it an 
honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very 
much more handsome than fine. One speech in it 
I chiefly loved: ’t was /Mneas’ tale to Dido; and 
thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of 
Priam’s slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin 
at this line: let me see, let me see — 

‘The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,’— 
it is not so: — it begins with Pyrrhus : — 

‘The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, 
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble 
When he lay couched in the ominous horse, 
Hath nowthis dread and black complexion smear’d 
With heraldry more dismal; head to foot 
Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d 
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, 
Baked and impasted with the parching streets, 
That lend a tyrannous and damned light 
To their lord’s murder: roasted in wrath and fire, 
And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore, 

With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus 

Old grandsire Priam seeks.’ 

So, proceed you. 

Pol. ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good 
accent and good discretion. 

First Play. ‘ Anon he finds him 
. Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword, 

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, 

Repugnant to command: unequal match’d, 

Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide; 

But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword 

The unnerved father falls. Then senseless I]i- 

Seeming tofeelthis blow, withflamingtop [um, 

Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash 

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: for, lo! his sword, 

Which was declining on the milky head 

Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick: 

So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, 

And like a neutral to his will and matter, 

Did nothing. 

But, as we often see, against some storm, 

A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, 

The bold winds speechless and the orb below 

As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder 

Doth rend the region, so, after Pyrrhus’ pause, 

Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work ; 

And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall 

On Mars’s armour forged for proof eterne 

With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword 

Now falls on Priam. 

Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods, 

In general synod, take away her power; 

Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, 

And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, 

As low as to the fiends! ’ 

Pol. This is too long. 

Ham. It shall to the barber’s, with your beard. 
Prithee, say on: he’s for a jig or atale of bawdry, 
or he sleeps: say on: come to Hecuba. 

First Play. ‘But who, O, who had seen the mo- 
bled queen —’ 

Ham. ‘ The mobled queen ?’ 


HAMLET. 


Pol. That ’s good; ‘ mobled queen’ is good. 


SCENE Il. 


First Play.‘ Run barefoot up and down, threaten- 

ing the flames 

With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head 

Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, 

About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins, 

A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up; 

Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, 

*Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pro- 

nounced: 

But if the gods themselves did see her then 

When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport 

In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, 

The instant burst of clamour that she made, 

Unless things mortal move them not at all, 

Would have made milch the burning eyes of 

And passion in the gods.’ [heaven, 

Pol. Look, whether he has not turned his colour 
and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more. 

Ham. ’Tis well; Ill have thee speak out the 
rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the players 
well bestowed ? Do you hear, let them be well used ; 
for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the 
time: after your death you were better have a bad 
epitaph than their ill report while you live. 

Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their 
desert. 

Ham. God’s bodykins, man, much better: use 
every man after his desert, and who should ’scape - 
whipping ? Use them after your own honour and 
dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in 
your bounty. Take them in. 

Pol. Come, sirs. 

Ham. Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to- 
morrow. [EHzxit Polonius with all the players but the 
First.| Dost thou hear me, old friend ; can you play 
the Murder of Gonzago ? 

First Play. Ay, my lord. 

Ham. We'll ha *t to-morrow night. You could, 
for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen 
lines, which I would set down and insert in ’t, could 
you not ? 

First Play. Ay, my lord. 

Ham. Verywell. Follow that lord; and look you 
mock him not. [Eait First Player.| My good 
friends, Ill leave you till night; you are welcome 
to Elsinore. 

Ros. Good my lord! 

Ham. Ay,so, God be wi’ ye; [Hxeunt Rosencrantz 
and Guildenstern.| Now I am alone. 

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 
Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit 
That from her working all his visage wann’d, 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in ’s aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit ? and all for nothing! 
For Hecuba! 
What ’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 
That he should weep for her? What would he do, 
Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears 
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, 
Make mad the guilty and appal the free, 
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed 
The very faculties of eyes and ears. 
Yet I, 
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, 
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, 
And can say nothing ; no, not for a king, 
Upon whose property and most dear life 
A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward ? 
Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ? 
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face ? 
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the 

throat, 

677 


AOE ee 


AS deep as to the lungs ? who does me this ? 

Hal 

’*Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be 

But I am pigeon-liver’d and lack gall 

To make oppression bitter, or ere this 

I should have fatted all the region kites 

With this slave’s offal: bloody, bawdy villain ! 
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless vil- 
O, vengeance ! {lain ! 
Why, what anassamI! This is most brave, 
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, 
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, 

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, 
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, 

A scullion! 

Fie upon ’t! foh! About, my brain! I have heard 
That guilty creatures sitting at a play 


HAMLET. 


SCENE I. 


| Have by the very cunning of the scene 

Been struck so to the soul that presently 

They have proclaim’d their malefdctions ; 

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 

With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these 
players 

Play something like the murder of my father 

Before mine uncle: I ’ll observe his looks; 

Ill tent him to the quick: if he but blench, 

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen 

May be the devil: and the devil hath power 

To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps 

Out of my weakness and my melancholy, 

As he is very potent with such spirits, 

Abuses me to damn me: [’ll have grounds 

More relative than this: the play’s the thing © 


Wherein Ill catch the conscience of the king. | Exit. 


WOO ah LT. 


SCENE I.—A room in the castle. 


Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosen- 
crantz, and Guildenstern. 


King. And can you, by no drift of circumstance, 
Get from him why he puts on this confusion, 
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet 
With turbulent and dangerous lunacy ? 

Fos. He does confess he feels himself distracted ; 
But from what cause he will by no means speak. 

Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, 
But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof, 

When we would bring him on to some confession 
Of his true state. 

Queen. Did he receive you well? 

Fos. Most like a gentleman. 

Guil. But with much forcing of his disposition. 

fos. Niggard of question; but, of our demands, 
Most free in his reply. 

Queen. 

To any pastime ? 

Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players 
We o’er-raught on the way: of these we told him; 
And there did seem in him a kind of joy 
To hear of it: they are about the court, 

And, as I think, they have already order 
ta ee to play before him. 
0 


Did you assay him 


Pol. *T is most true: 
And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties 
To hear and see the matter. . 
Iting. With all my heart; and it doth much con- 
tent me 
To hear him so inclined. 
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, 
And drive his purpose on to these delights. 
Ros. We shall, my lord. 


King. 
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, 
That he, as ’t were by accident, may here 
Affront Ophelia : 
Her father and myself, lawful espials, 
Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing, unseen, 
We may of their encounter frankly judge, 
And gather by him, as he is behaved, 
If ’t be the affliction of his love or no 
That thus he suffers for. 
Queen. I shall obey you. 
And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish 
That your good beauties be the happy cause 
Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues 
Will bring him to his wonted way again, 
To both your honours. 
Op Madam, I wish it may. [Hit Queen. 


678 


| Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; 


Pol. Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please 


you 
We will bestow ourselves. [To Ophelia] Read on 
this book; 
That show of such an exercise may colour 
Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this,— 
’T is too much proved —that with devotion’s visage 
And pious action we do sugar o’er 
The devil himself. 

King. [Aside] O, ’tis too true! [science! 
How smart a lash that speech doth give my con. 
The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, 
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it 
Than is my deed to my most painted word: 

O heavy burthen! 
Pol. I hear him coming: let ’s withdraw, my lord. 
[| Hxeunt King and Polonius. 


Enter Hamlet. 


t~ Ham. To be, or not to be: that is the question: 
~| Whether ’t is nobler in the mind to suffer 


The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by opposing end them? ‘To die: to sleep; 
No more; and by a sleep to say we end 

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, ’t is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish’d. ‘To die, to sleep; 

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there ’s the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause: there ’s the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
The oppressor’s wrong. the proud man’s contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, 

The insolence of office and the spurns ape 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, 

The undiscover’d country from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, puzzles the will 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
Than fly to others that we know not of ? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied 0’er with the pale cast of thought, 
And enterprises of great pith and moment 

With this regard their currents turn awry,.——— 
And lose the name of action.g—-Soft you now! 
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons 

Be all my sins remember’d. 


poh West BN 3 GS 


Oph. Good my lord, 
How does your honour for this many a day ? 

Ham. I humbly thank you; well, well, well. 

Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours, 
That I have longed long to re-deliver ; 

I. pray you, now receive them. 

Ham. No, not I; 

I never gave you aught. [did ; 

Oph. My honour’d lord, you know right well you 
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed 
. As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, 
Take these again; for to the noble mind 
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. 

\, There, my lord. 

Ham. Ha, ha! are you honest ? 

Oph. My lord ? 

Ham. Ayre you fair? 

Oph. What means your lordship ? 

Ham. That if you be honest and fair, your hon- 
esty should admit no discourse to your beauty. 

Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better com- 
merce than with honesty ? 

Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will 
sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd 
than the force of honesty can translate beauty into 
his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now 
the time gives it proof. I did love you once. 

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 

Ham. You should not have believed me; for 
virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we 
shall relish of it: I loved you not. 

Oph. I was the more deceived. 

Ham. Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou 
be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent 
honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things 
that it were better my mother had not borne me: I 
am. very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more 
offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put 
them in, imagination to give them shape, or time 
to act them in. What should such fellows as I do 
crawling between earth andheaven ? We arearrant 
knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways toa 
nunnery. Where’s your father ? 

Oph. At home, my lord. 

am. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he 
may play the fool no where but in’s own house. 
Farewell. 

Oph. O, help him, you sweet heavens! 

Ham. If thou dost marry, Ill give thee this plague 
for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as 
snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to 
a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs 
marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well 
enough what monsters you make of them. To a 
nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell. 

Oph. O heavenly powers, restore him! 

Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, well 
enough; God has given you one face, and you make 
yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you 
lisp, and nick-name God’s creatures, and make your 
wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more 
on ’t; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have 
no more marriages: those that are married already, 
all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they 
are. Toanunnery, go. [ Hatt. 

Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! 
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, 
The expectancy and rose of the fair state, [sword; 
The glass of fashion and the mould of form, 

The observed of all observers, quite, quite down! 
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 

That suck’d the honey of his music vows, 

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; 
That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth 
Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me, 

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see! 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


Re-enter King and Polonius. 


King. Love! his affections do not that way tend; 
Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, 
Was not like madness. There’s something in his 
O’er which his melancholy sits on brood; [soul, 


_ And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose 


Will be some danger: which for to prevent, 
I have in quick determination 
Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England, 
For the demand of our neglected tribute: 
Haply the seas and countries different 
With variable objects shall expel 
This something-settled matter in his heart, 
Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus 
From fashion of himself. What think you on’t ? 

Pol. It shall do well: but yet do I believe 
The origin and commencement of his grief 
Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia! 
You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said ; 
We heard it all. My lord, do as you please ; 
But, if you hold it fit, after the play 
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him 
To show his grief: let her be round with him; 
And I ’ll be placed, so please you, in the ear 
Of all their conference. If she find him not, 
To England send him, or confine him where 
Your wisdom best shall think. 

Iving. It shall be so: 
Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go. 

[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE II.—A hall in the castle. 


Enter Hamlet and Players. 

Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pro- 
nounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but 
if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had 
as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not 
saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but 
use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, 
as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must 
acquire and beget a temperance that may give it 
smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear 
a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to 
tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the ground- 
lings, who for the most part are capable of nothing 
but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise: I would 
have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Terma- 
gant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. 

First Play. I warrant your honour. 

Ham. Be not too tame neither, but let your own 
discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the 
word, the word to the action; with this special ob- 
servance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of na- 
ture: for anything so overdone is from the purpose 
of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was 
and is, to hold, as ’t were, the mirror up to nature; 
to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own im- 
age, and the very age and body of the time his 
form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come 
tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, can- 
not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of 
the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a 
whole theatre of others. O, there be players that 
I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that 
highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither 
having the accent of Christians nor the gait of 
Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and 
bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s 
journeymen had made men and not made them 
well, they imitated humanity so abominably. _. 

First Play. I hope we have reformed that indif- 
ferently with us, sir, 

Ham. O, reform it altogether. And let those 
that play your clowns speak no more than is set 
down for them; for there be of them that will them- 
selves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spec- 


679 


AOTITIE. 


tators to laugh too; though, in the meantime, some 
necessary question of the play be then to be con- 
sidered: that’s villanous, and shows a most pitiful 
ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you 
ready. | Hxeunt Players. 


Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guilden- 
stern. 


How now, my lord! will the king hear this piece of 
work ? 
Pol. And the queen too, and that presently. 
Ham. Bid the players make haste. [Hait Po- 
lonius.| Will you two help to hasten them ? 


fos. We will, my lord. 


Guil. 
[Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
Ham. What ho! Horatio! 


Enter Horatio. 


Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service. 

Ham. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man 
As e’er my conversation coped withal. 

Hor. O, my dear lord,— 

Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter ; 
For what advancement may I hope from thee 
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, 

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be 
flatter’d ? 

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, 

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee 

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? 

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice 

And could of men distinguish, her election 

Hath seal’d thee for herself; for thou hast been 

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, 

A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards 

Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and blest are those 

Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, 

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger 

To sound what stop she please. Give me that man 

That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him 

In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, 

As I do thee.—Something too much of this.— 

There is a play to-night before the king; 

One scene of it comes near the circumstance 

Which I have told thee of my father’s death: 

I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, 

Even with the very comment of thy soul 

Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt 

Do not itself unkennel in one speech, 

It is a damned ghost that we have seen, 

And my imaginations are as foul 

As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note; 

For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, 

And after we will both our judgments join 

In censure of his seeming. 

Hor. Well, my lord: 

If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, 
And ’seape detecting, I will pay the theft. 

Ham. They are coming to the play; I must be 

Get you a place. [idle : 


A flourish. 
Ophelia, Rosencrantz, 


Danish march. 
nius, 
others. 
King. How fares our cousin Hamlet ? 

Ham. Excellent, i’? faith; of the chameleon’s 
dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot 
feed capons so. 

King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet ; 
these words are not mine. 

Ham. No,normine now. [To Polonius] My lord, 
you played once i’ the university, you say ? 

Pol. That did I, my lord; and was accounted a 

Ham. What did you enact ? [good actor. 

Pol. I did enact Julius Cesar: I was killed i’ the 
Capitol: Brutus killed me. 


680 
_ * 
“a 


Enter King, Queen, Polo- 
Guildenstern, and 


HAMLET. 


SCENE il. 


Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital 
a calf there. Be the players ready ? 
Ros. Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience. 
eerie Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me. 
um. No, good mother, here ’s metal more at- 
tractive. 
Pol. [To the King.] O, ho! do you mark that ? 
Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? 
riaee ying down at Ophelia’s feet. 
Oph. No, my lord. 
Ham. I mean, my head upon your lap-? 
Oph. Ay, my lord. 
Ham. Do you think I meant country matters ? 
Oph. I think nothing, my lord. 
am._That.’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ 
Oph. What is, my lord ? 1 Alege, 
Ham. Nothing. 
Oph. You are merry, my lord. 
Ham. Who, I? 
Oph. Ay, my lord. 
Ham. O God, your only jig-maker. What should 
a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheer- 
fully my mother looks, and my father died within 
these two hours. 
Oph. Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. 
Ham. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear 
black, for Ill have a suit of sables. O heavens! 
die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then 
there ’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his 
life half a year: but, by ’r lady, he must build 
churches, then; or else shall he suffer not thinking 
on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘ For, O, 
for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.’ 


Hautboys play. The dumb-show enters. 

Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly ; the Queen em- 
bracing him, and he her. She kneels, and makes show of 
protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his 
head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of 
jlowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes 
in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, and pours poison 
im the King’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns; jinds 
the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poi- 
soner, with some two or three Mutes, comes in again, 
seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried 
away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts: she 
seems loath and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts 
his love. [ Hxeunt. 


Oph. What means this, my lord ? 

Ham. Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means 
mischief. 

Oph. Belike this show imports the argument of 
the play. 

Enter Prologue. 

Ham. We shall know by this fellow: the players 
cannot keep counsel; they ’1l tell all. 

Oph. Will he tell us what this show meant ? 

Ham. Ay, or any show that you ’ll show him: be 
not you ashamed to show, he ’ll not shame to tell 
you what it means. 

Oph. You are naught, you are naught: I’ mark 
the play. ; 

Pro. For us, and for our tragedy, 

Here stooping to your clemency, 
We beg your hearing patiently. [ Hxit. 
Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring ? 
Oph. ’T is brief, my lord. 
am. AS woman’s love. 


Enter two Players, King and Queen. 


P. King. Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart 
gone round 
Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, 
And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen 
About the world have times twelve thirties been 
Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands 
Unite commutual in most sacred bands. [moon 
P. Queen. So many journeys may the sun and 


ACT III. 


Make us again count o’er ere love be done! 

But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, 

So far from cheer and from your former state, 

That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, 

Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: 

For women’s fear and love holds quantity ; 

In neither aught, or in extremity. 

Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; 

And as my love is sized, my fear is so: 

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; 

Where little fears grow great, great love grows 
there. [shortly too ; 

P. King. ’Faith, I must leave thee, love, and 
My operant powers their functions leave to do: 
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, 
Honour’d, beloved; and haply one as kind 
For husband shalt thou— 

P. Queen. O, confound the rest ! 
Such love must needs be treason in my breast : 
In second husband let me be accurst ! 

None wed the second but who kill’d the first. 
Ham. [Aside] Wormwood, wormwood. [move 

P. Queen. The instances that second marriage 

Are base respects of thrift, but none of love: 
A. second time I kill my husband dead, 
When second husband kisses mein bed. [Speak ; 

P. King. I do believe you think what now you 
But what we do determine oft we break. 
Purpose is but the slave to memory, 

Of violent birth, but poor validity: 

Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; 

But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be. 

Most necessary ’tis that we forget 

To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt : 

What to ourselves in passion we propose, 

The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. 

The vioience of either grief or joy 

Their own enactures with themselves destroy: 

Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament ; 

Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. 

This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange 

That even our loves should with our fortunes 
change ; 

For ’t is a question left us yet to prove, 

Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. 

The great man down, you mark his favourite flies ; 

The poor advanced makes friends of enemies. 

And hitherto doth love on fortune tend ; 

For who not needs shall never lack a friend, 

And who in want a hollow friend doth try, 

Directly seasons him his enemy. 

But, orderly to end where I begun, 

Our wills and fates do so contrary run 

That our devices still are overthrown ; [own : 

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our 

So think thou wilt no second husband wed; 

But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. 

4 Sh nines Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven 

ight ! 
Sport and repose lock from me day and night! 
To desperation turn my trust and hope! 
An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope! 
Each opposite that blanks the face of joy 
Meet what I would have well and it destroy! 
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, 
If, once a widow, ever I be wife! 
Ham. If she should break it now! 
P. King. "Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me 
here awhile ; 
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile 
The tedious day with sleep. [ Sleeps. 

P., Queen. Sleep rock thy brain; 

And never come mischance between us twain! 

Exit. 
Ham. Madam, how like you this play ? 
Queen. The lady protests too much, methinks. 
Ham. O, but shell keep her word. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II, 


King. Have you heard the argument? Is there 
no offence in ’t ? 

Ham. No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest ; no 
offence i’ the world. 

king. What do you call the play ? 

Ham. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropi- 
cally. This play is the image of a murder done in 
Vienna: Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, 
Baptista: you shaH see anon; ’tis a knavish piece 
of work: but what o’ that ? your majesty and we 
that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled 
jade wince, our withers are unwrung. 


Enter Lucianus. 


This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. 
Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my lord. 
Ham. 1 could interpret between you and your 
love, if I could see the puppets daliying. 
Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. 
Ham. It would cost you a groaning to take off 


my edge. 

Oph. Still better, and worse. 

Ham. So you must take your husbands. Begin, 
murderer ; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. 
Come: ‘ the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’ 

Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and 
time agreeing ; 

Confederate season, else no creature seeing ; 

Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, 

With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, 

Thy natural magic and dire property, 

On wholesome life usurp immediately. 

[Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears. 

Ham. He poisons him i’ the garden for ’s estate. 
His name ’s Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ 
in choice Italian: you shall see anon how the mur- 
derer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife. 

Oph. The king rises. 

Ham. What, frighted with false fire ! 

Queen. How fares my lord ? 

Pol. Give o’er the play. 

King. Give me some light: away! 

All. Lights, lights, lights! 

| Hxeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. 
Han. Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 
The hart ungalled play ; 
Forsome must watch, while some must sleep: 
So runs the world way. 
Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers—if the 
rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me—with two 
Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellow- 
ship in a cry of players, sir ? 

Hor. Half a share. 

Ham. A whole one, I. 

For thou dost know, O Damon dear, 
This realm dismantled was 

Of Jove himself; and now reigns here 
A very, very — pajock. 

Hor. You might have rhymed. 

Ham. O good Horatio, Ill take the ghost’s word 
for a thousand pound. Didst perceive ? 

Hor. Very well, my lord. 

Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning ? 

Hor. I did very well note him. 

Ham. Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the 
recorders ! 

For if the king like not the comedy, 
Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy. 
Come, some music! 


Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 


Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with 
Ham. Sir, a whole history. [you. 
Guil. The king, sir,— 
Ham. Ay, sir, what of him ? 
Guil. Is in his retirement marvellous distempered. 
Ham. With drink, sir? 

681 


ACT ALTE, 


Guil. No, my lord, rather with choler. 

Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more 
richer to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to 
put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him 
into far more choler. 

Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some 
frame and start not so wildly from my affair. 

Ham. Iam tame, sir: pronounce. 

Guil. The queen, your mother; in most great 
affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. 

Ham. You are welcome. 

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of 
the right breed. If it shall please you to make me 
a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s com- 
mandment: if not, your pardon and my return 
shall be the end of my business. 

Ham. Sir, I cannot. 

Guil. What, my lord ? 

Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s 
diseased: but, sir, such answer as I can make, you 
shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: 
therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, 
you say,— 

fios. Then thus she says; your behaviour hath 
struck her into amazement and admiration. 

Ham. O wonderful son, that can so astonish a 
mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this 
mother’s admiration ? 

fos. She desires to speak with you in her closet, 
ere you go to bed. 

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our 
mother. Have you any further trade with us? 

fios. My lord, you once did love me. 

Ham. So I do still, by these pickers and stealers. 

Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of dis- 
temper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own 
liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. 

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. 

ftos. How can that be, when you have the voice 
of the king himself for your succession in Denmark ? 

Ham. Ay, sir, but ‘ While the grass grows,’ —the 
proverb is something musty. 


Re-enter Players with recorders. 


O, the recorders! let me see one. To withdraw 
with you:—why do you go about to recover the 
wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil? 

Guil. O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love 
is too unmannerly. 

Ham. Ido not well understand that. Will you 
play upon this pipe ? 

Guil. My lord, I cannot. 

Ham. I pray you. 

Guil. Believe me, I cannot. 

Ham. I do beseech you. 

Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Ham. ’T is as easy as lying: govern these ventages 
with your finger and thumb, give it breath with 
your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent 
music. Look you, these are the stops. 

Guil. But these cannot I command to any utter- 
ance of harmony; I have not the skill. 

Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing 
you make of me! You would play upon me; you 
would seem to know my stops; you would pluck 
out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me 
from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and 
there is much music, excellent voice, in this little 
organ; yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do 
you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe ? 
Call me what instrument you will, though you can 
fret me, yet you cannot play upon me. 


Enter Polonius. 


God bless you, sir! 
Pol. My lord, the queen would speak with you, 
and presently. 


682 


HAMLET. 


SCENE Irl, 


— 


Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in 
shape of a camel ? 

Pol. By the mass, and ’t is like a camel, indeed. 

Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. 

Pol. It is backed like a weasel. 

Ham. Or like a whale ? 

Pol. Very like a whale. 

Ham. Then I will come to my mother by and by. 
They fool me to the top of my bent. I will come 
by and by. 

Pol. I will say so. 

Ham. By and by is easily said. [wit Polonius.} 
Leave me, friends. [Hxeunt all but Hamlet. 
’T is now the very witching time of night, 

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out 
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot 
And do such bitter business as the day [blood, 
Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother. 
O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever 
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: 
Let me be cruel, not unnatural: 

I will speak daggers to her, but use none; 
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites; 
How in my words soever she be shent, 

To give them seals never, my soul, consent! 


SCENE III.— A room in the castle. 


Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern. 


King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us 
To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; 
I your commission will forthwith dispatch, 

And he to England shall along with you: 
The terms of our estate may not endure 
Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow 
Out of his lunacies. 

Guil. We will ourselves provide: 
Most holy and religious fear it is 
To keep those many many bodies safe 
That live and feed upon your majesty. 

fos. The single and peculiar life is bound, 
With all the strength and armour of the mind, 
To keep itself from noyance; but much more 
That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest 
The lives of many. The cease of majesty 
Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw 
What ’s near it with it: it is a massy wheel, 
Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, 

To whose huge spokes ten tltousand lesser things 
Are mortised and adjoin’d; which, when it falls, 
Each small annexment, petty consequence, 
Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone 

Did the king sigh, but with a general groan. 

King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; 
For we will fetters put upon this fear, 

Which now goes too free-footed. 


Guil. 


[ Heit. 


We will haste us. 
[Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 


Enter Polonius. 


Pol. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet: 
Behind the arras I 711 convey myself, 
To hear the process; Ill warrant shell tax him 
And, as you said, and wisely was it said, [home: 
"T is meet that some more audience than a mother, 
Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear 
The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: 
Ill call upon you ere you go to bed, 
And tell you what I know. 
ring. Thanks, dear my lord. 
[ Hxit Polonius. 
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; 
It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t, 
A brother’s murder. Pray can I not, 
Though inclination be as sharp as will: 
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; 


RESET ET; 


And, like a man to double business bound, 

I stand in pause where I shall first begin, 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 

To wash it white assnow? Whereto serves mercy 

But to confront the visage of offence ? 

And what ’s in prayer but this two-fold force, 

To be forestalled ere we come to fall, 

Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up; 

My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer 

Can serve my turn? ‘ Forgive me my foul murder’ ? 

That cannot be: since I am still possess’d 

Of those effects for which I did the murder, 

My crown, mine own ambition and my queen. 

May one be pardon’d and retain the offence ? 

In the corrupted currents of this world 

Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, 

And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the law: but ’t is not so above; 

There is no shuffling, there the action lies 

In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d, 

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then? what rests? 

Try what repentance can: what can it not? 

Yet what can it when one can not repent ? 

O wretched state! O bosom black as death! 

O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, 

Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! 

Bow, eee knees; and, heart with strings of 
stee 

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 

All may be well. [ Retires and kneels. 


Enter Hamlet. 


Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; 
And now I’ll do ’t. And so he goes to heaven; 
And so am I revenged. That would be scann’d : 
A villain kills my father; and for that, 

I, his sole son, do this same villain send 

To heaven. 

O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 

He took my father grossly, full of bread; 

With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; 
And how his audit stands who knows save heaven ? 
But in our circumstance and course of thought, 
*T is heavy with him: and am I then revenged, 

To take him in the purging of his soul, 

Missi he is fit and season’d for his passage ? 

No! 

Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: 
When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, 

Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; 

At gaming, swearing, or about some act 

That has no relish of salvation in ’t; 

Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, 
And that his soul may be as damn’d and black 

As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: 

This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [ Heit. 

King. [Rising] My words fly up, my thoughts re- 

main below: 
Words without thoughts never to heaven go. 


[ Hait. 
SCENE IV.—The Queen’s closet. 


Enter Queen and Polonius. 


Pol. He will come straight. Look you lay home 
to him: 
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, 
And that your grace hath screen’d and stood be- 
tween 
Much heat and him. I’ll sconce me even here. 
Pray you, be round with him. 
Ham. [Within] Mother, mother, mother! 
Queen. Jl] warrant you, 
Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming. 
[Polonius hides behind the arras. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE IV. 


Enter Hamlet. 


Ham. Now, mother, what ’s the matter ? 

Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much of- 

fended. [fended. 

Ham. Mother, you have my father’ much of- 

Queen. Come, come, you answer with an idle 

tongue. 

Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. 

Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet! 

Ham. What ’s the matter now ? 

Queen. Have you forgot me ? 

Ham. ; No, by the rood, not so: 
You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife; 
And — would it were not so! —you are my mother. 

Queen. Nay, then, Ill set those to you that can 

speak. ‘ [not budge; 

Ham. Come, come, and sit you down; you shall 
You go not till I set you up a glass 
Where you may see the inmost part of you. 

Queen. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder 
Help, help, ho! [me ? 

Pol. [Behind] What, ho! help, help, help! 

Ham. [Drawing] How now! arat? Dead, for a 

ducat,dead! [Makes a pass through the arras. 

Pol. [Behind] O, I am slain! [Falls and dies. 

Queen. O me, what hast thou done? 

Ham. Nay, I know not: 
Is it the king ? 

Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! 

Ham. A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, 
As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 

Queen. As killa king! 

Ham. Ay, lady, ’t was my word. 
[Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius. 
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! 

I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune; 
Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger. 
Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit youdown, 
And let me wring your heart; for so I shall, 
If it be made of penetrable stuff, 
If damned custom have not brass’d it so 
That it is proof and bulwark against sense. 
Queen. What have I done, that thou darest wag 
thy tongue 
In noise so rude against me ? 

Ham. Such an act 

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, 
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love 
And sets a blister there, makes marriage-vows 
As false as dicers’ oaths: O, such a deed 

As from the body of contraction plucks 
The very soul, and sweet religion makes 
A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow; 
Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 
With tristful visage, as against the doom, 
Is thought-sick at the act. 

Queen. Ay me, what act, 
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index ? 

Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on this, 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 

See, what a grace was seated on this brow; 
Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; 

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; 

A station like the herald Mercury 

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; 

A combination and a form indeed, 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man: 

This was your husband. Look you now, what fol- 
Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear, [lows: 
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? 
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, 
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? 
You cannot call it love; for at your age 

The hey-day in the blood is tame, it ’s humble, 


683 


AOT Tit. 


HAMLET. 


SCENE IVY. 


And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment 
Would step from this to this ? Sense, sure, you have, 
Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense 
Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err, 

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thrall’d 

But it reserved some quantity of choice, 

To serve in such a difference. What devil was ’t 


That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind ? 
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, 
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, 
Or but a sickly part of one true sense 

Could not so mope. 

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, 
If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, 

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, 

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame 
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, 
Since frost itself as actively doth burn 

And reason panders will. 

Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more: 
Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul; 

And there I see such black and grained spots 
As will not leave their tinct. 

Ham. Nay, but to live 
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, 

Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love 
Over the nasty sty,— 

Queen. O, speak to me no more; 
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears; 
No more, sweet Hamlet ! 

am. A murderer and a villain; 

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe 
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; 
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, 
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 
And put it in his pocket! 

Queen. No more! 

Ham. A king of shreds and patches,— 


Enter Ghost. 


Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings, 

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious 
Queen. Alas, he’s mad! [figure ? 
Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, 

That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by 

The important acting of your dread command ? 


O, say!’ 
Ghost. Do not forget: this visitaticn 

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. 

But, look, amazement on thy mother sits: 

QO, step between her and her fighting soul: 

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works: 

Speak to her, Hamlet. 
Ham. How is it with you, lady ? 
Queen. Alas, how is ’t with you, 

That you do bend your eye on vacancy 

And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? 

forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep ; 

And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, 

Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, 

Starts up, and stands an end. O gentle son, 

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 

Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? 
Ham. On him, on him! Look you, how pale he 

glares! 

His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, 

Would make them capable. Do not look upon me; 

Lest with this piteous action you convert 

My stern effects: then what I have to do 

Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood. 
Queen. To whom do you speak this ? 

Tam. Do you see nothing there ? 
Queen. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. 
Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ? 

Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. | 
Ham. Why, look you there! look, how it steals | 
away ! 


684 


My father, in his habit as he lived! 
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal! 
[Hxit Ghost. 
Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain: 
This bodiless creation ecstasy 
Is very cunning in. 
Ham. Eestasy ! ; 
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness 
That I have utter’d: bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word; which madness 
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks: 
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, 
Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 
Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; 
Repent what ’s past; avoid what is to come; 
And do not spread the compost on the weeds, 
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; 
For in the fatness of these pursy times 
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, 
Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. 
Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in 
twain. 
Ham. O, throw away the worser part of it, 
And live the purer with the other half. 
Good night: but go not to mine uncle’s bed; 
Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat, 


/Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, 


That to the use of actions fair and good 
He likewise gives a frock or livery, 
That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night, 
And that shall lend a kind of easiness 
To the next abstinence: the next more easy; 
For use almost can change the stamp of nature, 
And either... . the devil, or throw him out 
With wondrous potency. Once more, good night: 
And when you are desirous to be bless’d, 
Ill blessing beg of you. For this same lord, 
[Pointing to Polonius. 
I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so, 
To punish me with this and this with me, 
That I must be their scourge and minister. 
I will bestow him, and will answer well 
The death I gave him. So, again, good night. 
I must be cruel, only to be kind: 
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. 
One word more, good lady. 
Queen. What shall I do ? 
Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: 
Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed; 
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; 
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, 
Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, 
Make you to ravel all this matter out, 
That I essentially am not in madness, ' 
But mad in craft. *T were good you let him know; 
For who, that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, 
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, 
Such dear concernings hide? who would do so? 
No, in despite of sense and secrecy, 
Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, 


| Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape, 


To try conclusions, in the basket creep, 
And break your own neck down. [breath, 
Queen. Be thou assured, if words be made of 
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe 
What thou hast said to me. 
Ham. I must to England; you know that? 
Queen. Alack, 
I had forgot: ’tis so concluded on. 
Ham. There’s letters seal’d: and my two school- 
fellows, 
Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d, 
They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way, 


A Tie Vi 


HAMLET. 


SCENE III. 


And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; 

For ’t is the sport to have the enginer 

Hoist with his own petar: and ’t shall go hard 
But I will delve one yard below their mines, 
And blow them at the moon: O, ’tis most sweet, 
When in one line two crafts directly meet. 

This man shall set me packing: 


I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. 
Mother, good night. Indeed this counsellor 
Is now most still, most secret and most grave, 
Who was in life a foolish prating knave. 
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. 
Good night, mother. 
[Exeunt severally; Hamlet dragging in Polonius. 


ENB Cre LIN: 


SCENE I.— A room in the ate 


Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, and Guilden- 
stern. 


King. There’s matter in these sighs, these pro- 
- found heaves: 
You must translate: ’tis fit we understand them. 
Where is your son? 
Queen. Bestow this place on us a little while. 
[| Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night ! 
King. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet ? 
Queen. Mad as the sea and wind, when both con- 
Which is the mightier: in his lawless fit, [tend 
Behind the arras hearing something stir, 
Whips out his rapier, cries, ‘ A rat, a rat!’ 
And, in this brainish apprehension, kills 
The unseen good old man. 
King. O heavy deed ! 
It had been so with us, had we been there: 
His liberty is full of threats to all; 
To you yourself, to us, to every one. 
Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answered ? 
It will be laid to us, whose providence 
Should have kept short, restrain’d and out of haunt, 
This mad young man: but so much was our love, 
We would not understand what was most fit; 
But, like the owner of a foul disease, 
To keep it from divulging, let it feed 
Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? 
Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d: 
O’er whom his very madness, like some ore 
Among a mineral of metals base, 
Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done. 
King. O Gertrude, come away! 
The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch, 
But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed 
We must, with all our majesty and skill, 
Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern! 


Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 


Friends both, go join you with some further aid: 

Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, 

And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him : 

Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body 

Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this. 
[Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

Come, Gertrude, well call up our wisest friends; 

And let them know, both what we mean to do, | 

And what’s untimely done.......... 

Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, 

AS level as the cannon to his blank, 

Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name, 

And hit the woundless air. O, come away! 

My soul is full of discord and dismay. [ Hxeeunt. 


SCENE II.—Another room in the castle. 


Enter Hamlet. 


Ham. Safely stowed. 
ee [ Within] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! 
Ham. What noise? who calls on Hamlet ? 


O, 
here they come. 


Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 


tos. What have you done, my lord, with the dead 
HOG Vi? 7.57 [kin. 

Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis 

fios. Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it 
And bear it to the chapel. [thence 

Ham. Do not believe it. 

Tos.~Believe what ? 

Ham. That I can keep your counsel and not 
mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! 
what replication should be made by the son of a 

fos. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? [king ? 

Ham. Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s counte- 
nance, his rewards, his authorities. But such offi- 
cers do the king best service in the end: he keeps 
them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first 
mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs 
what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, 
sponge, you shall be dry again. 

Ros. I understand you not, my lord. 

Ham. 1 am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps 
in a foolish ear. 

Ttos. My lord, you must tell us where the body 
is, and go with us to the king. 

Ham. The body is with the king, but the king 
is not with the body. The king is a thing — 

Guil. A thing, my lord! 

Ham. Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, 
and all after. [ Exewnt. 


SCENE III.— Another room in the castle. 


Enter King, attended. 


POMEL F have sent to seek him, and to find the 
ody. 
How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! 
Yet must not we put the strong law on him: 
He ’s loved of the distracted multitude, 
Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; 
And where ’t is so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d, 
But never the offence. To bear all smooth and 
This sudden sending him away must seem __[even, 
Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown 
By desperate appliance are relieved, 
Or not at all. 
Enter Rosencrantz. 
How now! what hath befall’n ? 
Ros. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, 
We cannot get from him. 
King. But where is he ? 
Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your 
King. Bring him before us. [pleasure. 
Ros. Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord. 


Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern. 


King. Now, Hamlet, where ’s Polonius ? 

Ham. At supper. 

King. At supper! where ? : 

Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: 
a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at 
him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: 
we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat our- 
selves for maggots: your fat king and your lean 


685 


AG Tol vs 


beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to 
one table: that’s the end. ' 

King. Alas, alas! 

Ham. A man may fish with the worm that hath 
eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of 
that worm. 

King. What dost thou mean by this ? 

Ham. Nothing but to show you how a king may 
go a progress through the guts of a beggar. 

King. Where is Polonius ? 

Ham. In heaven; send thither to see: if your mes- 
senger find him not there, seek him i’ the other 
place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not 
within this month, you shall nose him as you go up 
the stairs into the lobby. 

King. Go seek him there. [To some Attendants. 

Ham. He will stay till ye come. 

[Hxeunt Attendants. 

King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safe- 
Which we do tender, as we ’ dearly grieve [ty,— 
For eee which thou hast done,— must send thee 

ence 
With fiery quickness; therefore prepare thyself ; 
The bark is ready, and the wind at help, 
The associates tend, and everything is bent 


For England. 
; For England! 
Ay, Hamlet. 
Good. 

King. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes. 

Ham. I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; 
for England! Farewell, dear mother. 

King. Thy loving father, Hamlet. 

Ham. My mother: father and mother is man and 
wife; man and wife is one flesh ; and so, my mother. 
Come, for England ! [ Hxit. 

Ki ing. Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed 

aboard ; 

Delay it not; Ill have him hence to-night : 

Away! for everything i is seal’d and done 

That else leans on the affair: pray you, make haste. 
[Hxeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 

And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught — 

AS my ereat power thereof may give thee sense, 

Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red 

After the Danish sword, and thy free awe 

Pays homage to us—thou mayst not coldly set 

Our sovereign process ; which imports at full, 

By letters congruing to that effect, 

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; 

For like the hectic in my blood he rages, 

And thou must cure me: till I know ’t is done, 

Tlowe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun. LE 

vit. 
SCENE IV. — A plain in Denmark. 


Enter Fortinbras, a Captain, and Soldiers, 
marching. 


For. Go, captain, from me greet the Danish king: 
Tell him that, by his license, “Fortinbras 
Craves the conveyance of a promised march 
Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. 
If that his majesty would aught with us, 
We shall express our duty in his eye; 
And let him know so. 
Cap. 
For. Go softly on. 
[EHxeunt Fortinbras and Soldiers. 


Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and 
others. 


ITam. Good sir, whose powers are these ? 

Cap. They are of Norway, sir. 

Ham. How purposed, sir, I pray you? 

Cap. Against some part of Poland. 

Ham. Who commands them, sir ? 

Cap. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. 


686 


I will do’t, my lord. 


HAMLET. 


Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, 
Or for some frontier ? ei) 
. Truly to speak, and with no additigna 


Cap 
We ss to gain a little patch of ground 4 : 
That hath in it no profit but the name. 46 


To pay five ducats, five, 1 would not farm i a 
Nor will it yield to N or way or the Pole 
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee. = 

Ham. Why, ‘then the Polack never will defen 

Cap. Yes, it is already garrison’d. 

Ham. Two thousand ‘souls and twenty tes 
Will not debate the question of this straw: 
This is the imposthume of much wealth and : D 
That inward breaks, and shows no cause with 
Why the man dies. eT humbly thank you, sir. 

Aes God be wi’ you, sir. 


ea? ae 


How all occasions do inform against me, : _ 
What isaman, — 
If his chief good and market of his time ey ie 


Sure, he that made us with such large discourse. 
Looking before and after, gave us not . 
That capability and god-like reason : 
To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be 
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple eet 
Of thinking too precisely on the event, [dom 
A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part 1 S- 
And ever three parts coward, I do not know — 4 
Why yet I live to say ‘ This thing ’s to do; 
Sith I have cause and will and strength ane me » 
To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort ag : 
Witness this army of such mass and charge — “ 
Led by a delicate and tender prince, 
Whose spirit with divine ambition puff’d e 
Makes mouths at the invisible event, 
Exposing what is mortal and unsure be 
To all that fortune, death and danger dare, — 
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to ‘be erent 
Is not to stir without great argument, . 
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 
When honour’s at the stake. How stand I 
That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, 
Excitements of wh reason and my blood, — 
And let all sleep ? while, to my shame, i see 
The imminent death of twenty thousand me 
That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, 
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot 
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, 
Which is not tomb enough and continent ee 
To hide the slain? O, from this time forte 

My thoughts be ploody, or be nothing worth! ! 


SCENE V.— Elsinore. 


Enter Queen, Horatio, and a Gentlema 


peal I will not speak with her. B 
ent. She is importunate, indeed distramee : a 
Her mood will needs be pitied. ‘ 
ell What would she 1a 
ent. She speaks much of her father ; sa 5 
hears [her 1 
There ’s tricks i’ the world; and hems, and 
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things: in d 
That carry but half sense: “her speech is not 
Yet the unshaped use of it doth moye 
The hearers to collection ; they aim at it, 
And botch the words up fit to their own th 
Which, as her winks, and nods, and gest 


A room in the ed 


hem, 
Indeed would make one think there 
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily 
Hor. ’T were good she were spoken with 
may strew 
Daneerork conjectures in ill-breeding minds 


.s Pe Rene Fee 
2 SiS RS 
Se (See 


apie 


Bear GEA 


Tac tnay SS en 


ae? 
Pe cs 


RD imal ome 


- 2 BO cage og 
pe PA ee Po cena pT 


ee 


ad ae 3 , ; “ ¥ Bs e 7. a ay 
er wigpo~ A aa : . 2 S : ; PSs — x I. witg ote Fey 
a Sg AI sl AES oye C - NG elledlcamie! . ni td z 2 ni m . . ~~. es = 
a mae age omen. ~ a 
ee Th 
: z ‘ & . 
ae ma 
ee eee he oes T we ~ ~~ 
PAN os erm gk, Gea gh a are eet ~ = , 
‘ he tie: opty =o « — ae > hon 
beet art ng 5 dog me SAS See a, * ° . 
7g peptone eicegeens em fe en ° . 
Srenpited ~ ~ ms ~ 
< ~ _~ % 
Su I ey we 
§ ¢ vin eee 
rm aan Bevan Se 3 . 
at Es gh en a ¢ . 
pat AP ai ag & PR Pim ng le sate 4 > > 
~ ’ om ~ ae oe S ‘ 
™ “a * < “ - 
~~ e “ 


ee gener SY MR at DEK 
Te ral hails tte BE > ean 
BS al ovale 


whoa med > 
PNT oy 


\) 4 
wale ft Be BRS 
ne haa oe 


ACT IV. 


Queen. Let her come in. [Exit Horatio. 
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, 
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: 
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, 
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. 


Re-enter Horatio, with Ophelia. 


Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark ? 
oe ae How now, Ophelia! 
yh. [Sings] How should I your true love know 
From another one ? 
By his cockle hat and staff, 
And his sandal shoon 
sae ie Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song ? 
yh. Say you? nay, pray you, mark. 
[Sings] He is dead and gone, lady, 
He is dead and gone; 
At his head a grass-green turf, 
At his heels a stone. 
ueen. Nay, but, Ophelia,— 
ph. Pray you, mark. 
[Sings] White his shroud as the mountain snow,— 


Enter King. 


ie Alas, look here, my lord. 
yh. [Sings] Larded with sweet fiowers; 
Which bewept to the grave did go 

With true-love showers. 

King. How do you, pretty lady ? 

Oph. Well, God ’ild you! They say the owl was 
a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, 
but know not what we may be. God be at your 
table! 

King. Conceit upon her father. 

Oph. Pray you, let ’s have no words of this; but 
when they ask you what it means, say you this: 

[ Sings.| To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day, 

All in the morning betime, 

And I a maid at your window, 
To be your Valentine. 

Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes, 
And dupp’d the chamber-door ; 

Let in the maid, that out a maid 
Never departed more. 

King. Pretty Ophelia! [end on ’t: 

Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an 
[Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, 

Alack, and fie for shame! 
Young men will do ’t, if they come to ’t; 
By cock, they are to blame. 
Quoth she, before you tumbled me, 
You promised me to wed. 
So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, 
An thou hadst not come to my bed. 

King. How long hath she been thus? 

Oph. I hope all willbe well. We must be patient: 
but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should 
lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall 
know of it: and so I thank you for your good coun- 
sel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good 
night, sweet ladies; good night, good night. [Hvzit. 

King. Follow her close; give her good watch, 

I pray you. [ Hxit Horatio. 
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs 
Allfrom her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, 
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, 
But in battalions. First, her father slain: 
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author 
Of his own just remove: the people muddied, 
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whis- 
pers, fereenly, 
For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but 
In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia 
Divided from herself and her fair judgment, 
Without the which weare pictures, or mere beasts: 
Last, and as much containing as all these, 


_ Her brother is in secret come from France ; 


ae 


HAMLET. 


SCENE V. 


Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds. 

And wants not buzzers to infect his ear 

With pestilent speeches of his father’s death; 
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, 

Will nothing stick our person to arraign 

In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, 

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places 

Gives me superfluous death. [A noise within. 


Queen. Alack, what noise is this ? 
Ising. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard 
the door. 


Enter another Gentleman. 


What is the matter ? 

Gent. Save yourself, my lord: 
The ocean, overpeering of his list, 
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste 
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 
O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord; 
And, as the world were now but to begin, 
Antiquity forgot, custom not known, 
The ratifiers and props of every word, 
They cry ‘Choose we: Laertes shall be king:’ 
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds: 
‘ Laertes shall be king, Laertes king! ’ 

Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! 
O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! 

King. The doors are broke. [ Noise within. 


Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following. 


Laer. Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all 
Danes. No, let ’s come in. [without. 
Laer. I pray you, give me leave. 
Danes. We will, we will. 
[ They retire without the door. 
Laer. I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile 
Give me my father! [king, 
Sec Calmly, good Laertes. 
aer. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims 
me bastard, 
Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot 
Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow 
Of my true mother. 
King. What is the cause, Laertes, 
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ? 
Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: 
There ’s such divinity doth hedge a king, 
That treason can but peep to what it would, 
Acts little of his will. ‘T'ell me, Laertes, 
Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude. 
Speak, man. 
Laer. Where is my father ? 
King. Dead. 
Queen. But not by him. 
Icing. Let him demand his fill. [with : 
Laer. How came he dead? Ill not be juggled 
To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devi ! 
Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! 
IT dare damnation. To this point I stand, 
That both the worlds I give to negligence, 
Let come what comes; only I ll be revenged 
Most throughly for my father. 
King. Who shall stay you? 
Laer. My will, not all the world: 
And for my means, Ill husband them so well, 
They shall go far with little. 
King. Good Laertes, 
If you desire to know the certainty 
Of your dear father’s death, is ’t writ in your revenge, 
That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe, 
Winner and loser? | 
Laer. None but his enemies. 
King. Will you know them then ? 
Laer. To his good friends thus wide Ill ope my 
And like the kind life-rendering pelican, [arms }; 
Repast them with my blood. 
King. Why, now you speak 
687 


AAP Dy 


Like a good child and a true gentleman. 
That I am guiltless of your father’s death, 
And am most sensible in grief for it, 
It shall as level to your judgment pierce 
As day does to your eye. 
Danes. [ Within] Let her come in. 
Laer. How now! what noise is that ? 


Re-enter Ophelia. 


O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt, 
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! 
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, 
Till our seale turn the beam. O rose of May! 
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! 
O heavens! is ’t possible, a young maid’s wits 
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? 
Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, 
It sends some precious instance of itself 
After the thing it loves. 
Oph. [Sings] 

They bore him barefaced on the bier; 

Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny ; 

And in his grave rain’d many a tear: — 
Fare you well, my dove! [revenge, 

Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade 
It could not move thus. 

Oph. [Sings] You must sing a-down a-down, 

An you call him a-down-a. 
O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false stew- 
ard, that stole his master’s daughter. 

Laer. This nothing ’s more than matter. 

Oph. There ’s rosemary, that ’s for remembrance; 
pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s 
for thoughts. 

Laer. A document in madness, thoughts and 
remembrance fitted. 

Oph. There’s fennel for you, and columbines: 
there ’s rue for you; and here’s some for me: we 
may call it herb-grace 0’ Sundays: O, you must 
wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy: 
I would give you some violets, but they withered 
all when my father died: they say he made a good 
end,— 

[Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. 

Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, 
She turns to fayour and to prettiness. 


Oph. [Sings] And will he not come again ? 
And will he not come again ? 
No, no, he is dead: 
Go to thy death-bed: 
He never will come again. 


His beard was as white as snow, 
All flaxen was his poll: 

He is gone, he is gone, 

And we cast away moan: 
God ha’ mercy on his soul! 


God be 
[ Hxit. 


And of all Christian souls, I pray God. 
wi’ ye. 

Laer. Do you see this, O God ? 
_ King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, 
Or you deny me right. Go but apart, 
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, 
And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me: 
If by direct or by collateral hand 
They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, 
Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, 
To you in satisfaction; but if not, 
Be you content to lend your patience to us, 
And we shall jointly labour with your soul 
To give it due content. 

Laer. Let this be so; 
His means of death, his obscure funeral — 
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, 
No noble rite nor formal ostentation — 


688 


HAMLET. 


SCENE Vite 


Cry to be heard, as ’t were from heaven to earth, 
That I must call ’t in question. 

King. So you shall; 
And where the offence is let the great axe fall. 
I pray you, go with me. [| Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI. — Another room in the castle. 


Enter Horatio and a Servant. 


Hor. What are they that would speak with me? 
Serv. Sailors, sir: they say they have letters for 


you. 
Hor. Let them come in. [Exit Servant. 
I do not know from what part of the world 
I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. 


Enter Sailors. 


First Sail. God bless you, sir. 

Hor. Let him bless thee too. 

First Sail. Heshall, sir,an’t pleasehim. There’s 
a letter for you, sir: it comes from the ambassador 
that was bound for England; if your name be 
Horatio, as I am let to know it is. | 

Hor. |Reads| ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have 
overlooked this, give these fellows some means to 
the king: they have letters for him. Ere we were 
two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike ap- 
pointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too 
slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the 
grapple I boarded them: on the instant they got 
clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. 
They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy: but 
they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn 
for them. Let the king have the letters I have 
sent; and repair thou to me with as much speed 
as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak 
in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they 
much too light for the bore of the matter. These 
good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosen- 
crantz and Guildenstern hold their course for Eng- 
land: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. 

‘He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.’ 

Come, I will make you way for these your letters ; 
And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me 
To him from whom you brought them.  [Ezewnt. 


SCENE VII.-— Another room in the castle. 


Enter King and Laertes. 


King. aie must your conscience my acquittance 
seal, 
And you must put me in your heart for friend, 
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, 
That he which hath your noble father slain 
Pursued my life. 

Laer. It well appears; but tell me 
Why you proceeded not against these feats, 

So crimeful and so capital in nature, 
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, 
You mainly were stirr’d up. 

King. O, for two special reasons; 
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, 
But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother 
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself — 
My virtue or my plague, be it either which — 
She ’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, 
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, 
I could not but by her. The other motive, 
Why toa public count I might not go. 
Is the great love the general gender bear him ; 
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, 
Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, 
Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, 
Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, 
Would have reverted to my bow again, 
And not where I had aim’d them. 

Laer. And so have I a noble father lost; 


aOR Aa 


A sister driven into desperate terms, 

Whose worth, if praises may go back again, 

Stood challenger on mount of all the age 

For her perfections: but my revenge will come. 
king. Break not your sleeps for that: you must 

not think 

That we are made of stuff so flat and dull 

That we can let our beard be shook with danger 

And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more: 

I loved your father, and we love ourself ; 

And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine — 


Enter a Messenger. 


How now! what news ? 

Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: 
This to your majesty ; this to the queen. 

King. From Hamlet! who brought them ? 

Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not: 
They were given me by Claudio: he received them 
Of him that brought them. 

King. Laertes, you shall hear them. 
Leave us. [Hxit Messenger. 

[ Reads] ‘High and mighty, You shall know I am 
set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg 
leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first 
asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion | 
of my sudden and more strange return. 

*‘ HAMLET.’ 
What should this mean ? Are all the rest come back ? | 
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing ? 

Laer. Know you the hand ? 

King. ’T is Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked! ’ 
And in a postscript here, he says ‘ alone.’ 

Can you advise me? 

Laer. I’m lost in it,my lord. But let him come; 
It warms the very sickness in my heart, 

That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 
‘Thus didest thou.’ 


HAMLET. 


ing. If it be so, Laertes— 
As how should it be so ? how otherwise ?— 
Will you be ruled by me? 

Laer. Ay, my lord; 
So you will not o’errule me to a peace. 

King. To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, 
As checking at his voyage, and that he means 
No more to undertake it, I will work him 
To an exploit, now ripe in my device, 
Under the which he shall not choose but fall: 
And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe, 
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice 
And call it accident. 

Laer. My lord, I will be ruled ; 
The rather, if you could devise it so 
That I might be the organ. 


ing. It falls right. 
You have been talk’d of since your travel much, 
And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality 
Wherein, they say, you shine: your sum of parts 
Did not together pluck such envy from him 
As did that one, and that, in my regard, 
Of the unworthiest siege. 
Laer. What part is that, my lord ? 
King. A very riband in the cap of youth, 
Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes 
The light and careless livery that it wears 
Than settled age his sables and his weeds, __[since, 
Importing health and graveness. Two months 
Here was a gentleman of Normandy :— 
I ’ve seen myself, and served against, the French, 
And they can well on horseback: but this gallant 
Had witchcraft in ’t; he grew unto his seat; 
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, 
As he had been incorpsed and demi-natured 
With the brave beast: so far he topp’d my thought, 
That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks, 
Come short of what he did. 
Laer. 


44 


A Norman was ’t ? 


SULNE VIE, 


A Norman. 


King. 

Laer. Upon my life, Lamond. 

King. The very sanie 
Laer. 1 know him well: he is the brooch indeed 


And gem of all the nation. 
kxing. He made confession of you, 
And gave you such a masterly report 
For art and exercise in your defence 
And for your rapier most especially, 
That he cried out, ’t would be a sight indeed, 
If one could match you: thescrimers of their nation, 
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, 


| If you opposed them. Sir, this report of his 


Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy 
That he could nothing do but wish and beg 
Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him. 
Now, out of this,— 
Laer. What out of this, my lord ? 
King. Laertes, was your father dear to you? 
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, 
A face without a heart ? 
Laer. Why ask you this ? 
King. Not that I think you did not love your 
But that I know love is begun by time; ___[father; 
And that I see, in passages of proof, 
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. 


_ There lives within the very flame of love 


A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it ; 
And nothing is at a like goodness still; 


| For goodness, growing to a plurisy, 


Dies in his own. too much: that we would do, 
We should do when we would; for this ‘ would ’ 
And hath abatements and delays as many [changes 
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; 
And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, 
That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o’ the 
ulcer : — 
Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake, 
To show yourself your father’s son in deed 
More than in words ? 
Laer. To cut his throat i’ the church. 
Kking. No place, indeed, should murder sanc- 
tuarize ; [tes, 
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laer- 
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. 
Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: 
We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence 
And set a double varnish on the fame 
The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together 
And wager on your heads: he, being remiss, 
Most generous and free from all contriving, 
Will not peruse the foils; so that, with ease, 
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose 
A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice 
Requite him for your father. 
Laer. I will do ’t: 
And, for that purpose, I Il anoint my sword. 
I bought an unction of a mountebank, 
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, 
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, 
JoNected from all simples that have virtue 
Under the moon, can save the thing from death 
That is but scratch’d withal: I 7ll touch my point 
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, 
It may be death. 

King. Let ’s further think of this; 
Weigh what convenience both of time and means 
May fit us to our shape: if this should fail, [ance, 
And that our drift look through our bad perform. 
°T were better not assay’d: therefore this project 
Should have a back or second, that might hold, 

If this should blast in proof. Soft! let me see: 
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings: 
Tha’t: 

When in your motion you are hot and dry — 

As make your bouts more violent to that end— _ 
And that he calls for drink, I ll have prepared him 


689 


ACT V. 


A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping, 
If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, 
Our purpose may hold there. 


Enter Queen. 


How now, sweet queen! 

Queen. One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, 
So fast they follow: your sister ’s drown’d, Laertes. 

Laer. Drown’d! O, where? 

Queen. There isa willow grows aslant a brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; 
There with fantastic garlands did she come 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 

But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them: 
There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ; 
When down her weedy trophies and herself 

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide ; 
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: 


HAMLET. 


SCENE f. 


Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; 
As one incapable of her own distress, 
Or like a creature native and indued 
Unto that element: but long it could not Hak 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay’ 
To muddy death 
Laer. Alas, then, she is drown’d? 
Fave Drown’d, drown’d. 
aer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, 
And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet 
It is our trick; nature her custom holds, 
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, 
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord: 
IT have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, 
But that this folly douts it. [ Exit. 
King. Let’s folowy Gertrude : 
How much I had to do to calm his rage! 
Now fear I this will give it start again ; 


Therefore let ’s follow. { Haxeunt. 


LAG GV | 


SCENE I.—A churchyard. 


Enter two Clowns, with spades, &c. 


First Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian burial 
that wilfully seeks her own salvation ? 


Sec. Clo. I tell thee she is; and therefore make | 


her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, 
and finds it Christian burial. 

First Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned 
herself in her own defence ? 

Sec. Clo. Why, ’tis found so. 

First Clo. It must be ‘se offendendo;’ it cannot 
be else. For here lies the point: If I drown my- 
self wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath 
three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: 
argal, she drowned herself wittingly. 

Sec. Clo. N ay, but hear you, goodman delver,— 

First Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water; 
good: here stands the man; good: if the man go to 
this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, 
he goes,— mark you that; but if the water come 
to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: 
argal, he that is not guilty of his own death short- 
ens not his own life. | 

Sec. Clo. But is this law ? 

First Clo. Ay, marry, is’t; crowner’s quest law. 

Sec. Clo. Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this 
had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been 
buried out o’ Christian burial. 

First Clo. Why, there thou say’st: and the more 
pity that great folk should have countenance in 
this world to drown or hang themselves, more than 
their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is 
no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and 
grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession. 

Sec. Clo. Was he a gentleman ? 

First Clo. He was the first that ever bore 

Sec. Clo. Why, he had none. 

First Clo. What, art a heathen? How dost thou 
understand the Scripture? The Scripture says 
‘Adam digged:’ could he dig without arms? Ill 
put another question to thee: if thou answerest me 
not to the BOR confess thyself — 

Sec. Clo. Go to. 

First Clo. What is he that builds stronger than 
either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter ? 

Sec. Clo. The eallows-maker ; for that frame out- 
lives a thousand tenants. 

First Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith: the 
gallows does well; but how does it well? it does 
well to those that do ill: now thou dost ill to say 

690 


arms. 


| say 


the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, 
the gallows may do well to thee. Tot again, come. 

Sec. Clo. ‘Who builds ine than a mason, a 
shipwright, or a carpenter ? 

First Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 

Sec. Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 

First Clo. To’t. 

Sec. Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 


Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.” 


First Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, 
for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beat- 
ing; and, when you are asked this question next, 
‘a erave-maker : > the houses that he makes 
last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan: 
fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit Sec. Clo. 

[He digs, and sings. 

In vouth, when I did love, did love, 

Methought it was very sweet, 
To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove, 
O, methought, there was nothing meet. 

Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, 
that he sings at grave-making ? [easiness, 

Hor. Custom, hath made it in him a property of 

Ham. ’Tis e’en so: the hand of little employ- 
ment hath the daintier sense. 

First Clo. [Sings] 

But age, with his stealing steps, 
Hath claw’d me in his clutch, 
And hath shipped me intil the land, 
As if I had never been such. 
[Throws up a skull. 

Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could 
sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, 
as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first mur- 
der! It might be the pate of a politician, which 
this ass now o’er-reaches; one that would circum- 
vent God, might it not ? 

Hor. It might, my lord. 

Ham. Or ot a courtier; which could say ‘Good 
morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord ?’ 
This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my 
lord such-a-one’s horse, when he meant to beg it; 
might it not ? 

Hor. Ay, my lord. 

Ham. Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s ; 
chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a 
sexton’s spade: here’s fine revolution, an we had 
the trick to see ’t. Did these bones cost no more 
the breeding, but to play at loggats with ’em? 


| mine ache to think on ’t. 


‘I 9Us0S “A 19DV—"LAINVH 


| 


——— 


Hh 


| i 


i 
i 


i ile 


. 


h 


ANA 


if We 


i 
al 


th f 
uN 


| 


ACT V. 


First Clo. [Sings] 
A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade, 
For and a shrouding sheet : 
O, a pit of clay for to be made 
For such a guest is meet. 
[Throws up another skull. 
Ham. There’s another: why may not that be 
the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities 
now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his 
tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to 
knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, 
and will not tell him of his action of battery ? 
Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great 
buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, 
his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is 


od 


this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his re- | 


coveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt ? 
will his vouchers vouch him no more of his pur- 


chases, and double ones too, than the length and | 
The very convey- | 
ances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and | 


breadth of a pair of indentures ? 


must the inheritor himself have no more, ha ? 

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord. . 

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins ? 

Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. 

Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out 
assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. 
Whose grave’s this, sirrah ? 

First Clo. Mine, sir. 

| Sings] O, a pit of clay for to be made 

For such a guest is meet. 


in ’t. 

First Clo. You lie out on ’t, sir, and therefore it 
is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in ’t, and yet 
it is mine. 

Ham. Thou dost lie in ’t, to be in’t and say it is 
thine: *tis for the dead, not for the quick; there- 
tore thou liest. 


First Clo. ’T is a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again, | 


from me to you. 
Ham. What man dost thou dig it for ? 
First Cle. For no man, sir. 
Ham. What woman, then ? 
First Clo. For none, neither. 
Ham. Who is to be buried in ’t ? 


First Clo. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest | 


her soul, she ’s dead. 
Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak 
by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the 


Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken a | 
note of it; the age is grown so picked that the toe | 
of the peasant comes so near the heel of the cour-— 


tier, he galls his kibe. 
grave-maker ? 

First Clo. Of all the days i’ the year, I came to ’t 
that day that our last king Hamlet overcame For- 
tinbras. 

Ham. How long is that since ? 

First Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool can 


How long hast thou been a 


tell that: it was the very day that young Hamlet | 


was born; he that is mad, and sent into England. 

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England ? 

First Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall 
recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it’s no 
great matter there. 

Ham. Why ? 

First Clo. ’T will not be seen in him there; there 
the men are as mad as he. 

Ham. How came he mad ? 

First Clo. Very piranaely they say. 

Ham. How strangely 

First Clo. Faith, e’en with losing his wits. 

Ham. Upon what ground ? 

First Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have been 
sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. [rot ? 

Ham. How long will a man lie 1’ the earth ere he 


HAMLET. 


SCENE Tf. 


First Clo. V faith, if he be not rotten before he 
die—as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, 
that will scarce hold the laying in — he will last you 
some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you 
nine year. 

Ham. Why he more than another ? ,, 

First Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with 
his trade, that he will keep out water a great while ; 
and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson 
dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull has lain 
in the earth three and twenty years. 

Ham. Whose was it ? 

First Clo. A whoreson mad fellow’s it was: whose 
do you think it was ? 

Ham. Nay, I know not. 

First Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 
a’ poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. 
This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s 
jester. 

Ham. This? 

First Clo. E’en that. 

Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.| Alas, poor 
Yorick! Iknew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite 


| jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on 


his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred 
in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here 
hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how 
oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? 
your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were 
wont to set the table on aroar? Not one now, to 


| mock your own grinning ? quite chap-fallen? Now 
fam. I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest | 


get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her 
paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; 
make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me 
one thing. 

Hor. What’s that, my lord ? 

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look’d 0’ this 
fashion i’ the earth ? 

Hor. E’en so. 

Ham. And smelt so? pah! 

[Puts down the skull. 

Hor. E’en so, my lord. 

Ham. To what base uses we may return, Hora- 
tio! Why may not imagination trace the noble 


| dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung- 


hole ? 

Hor. "I were to consider too curiously, to con- 
sider so. 

Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him 
thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead 
it: as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, 
Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; 
of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, 
whereto he was converted, might they not stop a 
beer-barrel ? 

Imperious Cesar, dead and turn’d to clay, 

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: 

O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, 

Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw! 
But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king. 


Enter Priests, &c. in procession ; the Corpse of Ophelia, 
Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, 
their trains, &c. 


The queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow ? 
And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken 
The corse they follow did with desperate hand 
Fordo its own life: ’t was of some estate. 
Couch we awhile, and mark. \ 
[Retiring with Horatio. 
Laer. What ceremony else ? 
Ham. That is Laertes, 
A very noble youth: mark. 
Laer. What ceremony.else ? [larged 
First Priest. Her obsequies have been as far en- 
As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful ; 
And, but that great command o’ersways the order, 


691 


ACT V. 


She should in ground unsanctified have lodged 
Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, 
Shards, flints and pebbles should be thrown on her: 
Yet here she is allow’d her virgin crants, 

Her maiden strewments and the bringing home 
Of bell and burial. 

Laer. Must there no more be done? 

First Priest. No more be done: 
We should profane the service of the dead 
To sing a requiem and such rest to her 
As to peace-parited souls. 

Laer. Lay her i’ the earth: 
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, 

A ministering angel shall my sister be, 
When thou liest howling. 
Ham. What, the fair Ophelia! 
Qucen. Sweets to the sweet: farewell! 
[Scattering flowers. 
I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; 
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, 
And not have strew’d thy grave. 

Laer. O, treble woe 
Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, 

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense 

Deprived thee of ! Hold off the earth awhile, 

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: 
[Leaps into the grave. 

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, 

Till of this flat a mountain you have made, 

To o’ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head 

Of blue Olympus. 

Ham. [Advancing] What is he whose grief 
Bears such an emphasis ? whose phrase of sorrow 
Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand 
Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, 
Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave. 

Laer. The devil take thy soul! 

[Grappling with him. 

Ham. Thou pray’st not well. 

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat; 

For, though I am not splenitive and rash, 

Yet have I something in me dangerous, 

Which let thy wiseness fear: hold off thy hand. 

King. Pluck them asunder. 


en. 
All. Gentlemen ,— 
Hor. 


Hamlet, Hamlet! 


Good my lord, be quiet. 
[The Attendants part them, and they come 
out of the grave. 
Ham, Why, I will fight with him upon this theme 
Until my eyelids will no longer wag. 
Lair O my son, what theme ? 
am. I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers 
Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her ? 
King. O, he is mad, Laertes. 
Le For love of God, forbear him. 
am. *Swounds, show me what thou It do: 
Woo ’t weep? woo’t fight ? woo’t fast ? woo’t tear 
Woo’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? [thyself ? 
I’lldo’t. Dost thou come here to whine ? 
To outface me with leaping in her grave ? 
Be buried quick with her, and so will I: 
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw 
Millions of acres on us, till our ground, 
Singeing his pate against the burning zone, 
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, 
Ill rant as well as thou. 
Queen. This is mere madness: 
And thus awhile the fit will work on him; 
Anon, as patient as the female dove, 
When that her golden couplets are disclosed, 
His silence will sit drooping. 
Ham. Hear you, sir; 
What is the reason that you use me thus ? 
I loved you ever: but it is no matter; 


692 


HAMLET. 


SCENE Il. 


———— 


Let Hercules himself do what he may, 

The cat will mew and dog will have his day. [vxit. 
King. I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him. 

[ EHxit Horatio. 
[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last 
night’s speech ; 

Well put the matter to the present push. 

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son, 

This grave shall have a living monument: 

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; 

Till then, in patience our proceeding be. 


SCENE II. — A hall in the castle. 


Enter Hamlet and Horatio. 


alae a much for this, sir: now shall you see the 
other ; 
You do remember all the circumstance ? 

Hor. Remember it, my lord! 

Ham. Sir,in my heart there was a kind of fighting, 
That would not let me sleep: methought I lay 
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly, 
And praised be rashness for it, let us know, 
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, ~ 
When our deep plots do pall: and that should teach 
There ’s a divinity that shapes our ends, {us 
Rough-hew them how we will,— 

Hor. That is most certain. 

Ham. Up from my cabin, 

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark 

Groped I to find out them; had my desire, 
Finger’d their packet, and in fine withdrew 

To mine own room again; making so bold, 

My fears forgetting manners, to unseal 
Their grand commission ; where I found, Horatio,— 
O royal knavery !—an exact command, 

Larded with many several sorts of reasons 
Importing Denmark’s health and England’s too, 
With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, 

That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, 

No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, 

one head should be struck off. 


[ Hxeunt. 


or. Is *t possible ? 
Ham. Here’s the commission: read it at more 
leisure. 
But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed ? 
Hor. I beseech you. 
Ham. Being thus be-netted round with villanies,— 
Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, 
They had begun the play —I sat me down, 
Devised a new commission, wrote it fair: 
I once did hold it, as our statists do, 
A baseness to write fair and labour’d much 
How to forget that learning, but, sir, now 
It did me yeoman’s service: wilt thou know 
The effect of what I wrote ? 
Flor. Ay, good my lord. 
Ham. An earnest conjuration from the king, 
As England was his faithful tributary, 
As love between them like the palm might flourish, 
As peace should still her wheaten garland wear 
And stand a comma, ’tween their amities, 
And many such-like ‘ As’es of great charge, 
That, on the view and knowing of these contents, 
Without debatement further, more or less, 
He should the bearers put to sudden death, 
Not shriving-time allow’d. 
Hor. How was this seal’d ? 
Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. 
I had my father’s signet in my purse, 
Which was the model of that Danish seal ; 
Folded the writ up in form of the other, 
Subscribed it, gave ’t the impression, placed it safely 
The changeling never known. Now, the next day 
Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent 
| Thou know’st already. 
| Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to ’t. 


ACT V. 


Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this em- 
ployment ; 
They are not near my conscience; their defeat 
Does by their own insinuation grow: 
’T is dangerous when the baser nature comes 
Between the pass and fell incensed points 
Of mighty opposites. 
Hor. Why, what a king is this! 
Ham. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now 


upon — 

He that hath kill’d my king and whored my mother, 
Popp’d in between the election and my hopes, 
Thrown out his angle for my proper life, 
And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience, 
Toquit him withthisarm ? andis’tnottobedamn’d, 
To let this canker of our nature come 
In further evil ? {land 

Hor. It must be shortly known to him from Eng- 
What is the issue of the business there. 

Ham. It will be short: the interim is mine; 
And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘ One.’ 
But I am very sorry, good Horatio, 
That to Laertes I forgot myself; 
For, by the image of my cause, I see 
The portraiture of his: Ill court his favours: 
But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me 
Into a towering passion. 


Hor. Peace! who comes here ? 


Enter Osric. 


Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to 
Denmark. 

Ham. thumbly thank you, sir. Dost know this 
water-fly ? 

Hor. No, my good lord. 

Ham. Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a 
vice to know him. He hath much land,and fertile: 
let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand 
at the king’s mess: ’tis a chough; but, as I say, 
spacious in the possession of dirt. 

Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, 
I should impart a thing to you from his majesty. 

Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of 
spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for 
the head. . 

Osr. I thank your lordship, it is very hot. 

Ham. No, believe me, ’t is very cold; the wind is 
northerly. 

Osr. It is indifferent cold 

Ham. But yet methinks it 
for my complexion. 

Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as 
*t were,—I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his ma- 
jesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great 
wager on your head: sir, this is the matter,— 

Ham. I beseech you, remember— 

[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat. 

Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good 
faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; 
believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most ex- 
cellent differences, of very soft society and great 
showing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is 
the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in 
him the continent of what part a gentleman would 
see. 

Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in 
you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially 
would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but 
yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in 
the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of 
great article; and his infusion of such dearth and 
rareness, as, to make true diction of him, his sem- 
blable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, 
his umbrage, nothing more. 

Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. 

Ham. The concernancy, sir ? why do we wrap the 
gentleman in our more rawer breath ? 


my lord, indeed. 
is very sultry and hot 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


Osr. Sir ? ‘ 

Hor. Is ’t not possible to understand in another 
tongue? You will do’t, sir, really. 

Ham. What imports the nomination of this gen- 
tleman ? 

Osr. Of Laertes ? 

Hor. His purse is empty already;’all’s golden 
words are spent. 

Ham. Of him, sir. 

Ors. I know you are not ignorant — 

Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you 
did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir? 

Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence 
Laertes is— 

Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should com- 
pare with him in excellence; but, to know a man 
well, were to know himself. 

Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the im- 
putation laid on him by them, in his meed he’s un- 
fellowed. 

Ham. What ’s his weapon ? 

Osr. Rapier and dagger. 

Ham. That ’s two of his weapons: but, well. 

Osr. The king, sir, hath wagered with him six 
Barbary horses: against the which he has imponed, 
as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with 
their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of 
the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very 
responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and 
of very liberal conceit. 

Ham. What call you the carriages ? 

Hor. I knew you must be edified by the margent 
ere you had done. 

Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. 

Ham. The phrase would be more german to the 
matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides: I 
would it might be hangers till then. But, on: six 
Barbary horses against six French swords, their 
assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages; that’s 
the French bet against the Danish. Why is this 
‘imponed,’ as you call it ? 

Osr. The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen 
passes between yourself and him, he shall not ex- 
ceed you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for 
nine; and it would come to immediate trial, if 
your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. 

Ham. How if I answer ‘no’? 

Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your per- 
son in trial. 

Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please 
his majesty, ‘tis the breathing time of day with 
me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, 
and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him 
an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame 
and the odd hits. 

Osr. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so? 

Ham. To this effect, sir; after what flourish 
your nature will. . 

Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship. 

Ham. Yours, yours. [zit Osric.] He does well 
to commend it himself; there are no tongues else 
for ’s turn. 

Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on 
his head. 

Ham. He did comply with ‘his dug, before he 
sucked it. Thus bas he—and many more of the 
same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on— 
only got the tune of the time and outward habit of 
encounter; a kind of yesty collection, which car- 
ries them through and through the most fond and 
winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their 
trial, the bubbles are out. 


Enter a Lord. 


Lord. My lord, his majesty commended him to 
you by young Osric, who brings back to him, that 
you attend him in the hall: he sends to know if 


693 


ACT V. 


your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that | 
you will take longer time. 

Ham. 1 am constant to my purposes, they fol- 
low the king’s pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine 
is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able | 
as now. 

Lord. The king and queen and all are coming 

Ham. In happy time. [down. 

Lord. The queen desires you to use some gentle 
entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play. 

Ham. She well instructs me. [ Hxit Lord. 

Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord. 

Ham. I do not think so: since he went into 
France, I have been in continual practice; I shall 
win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how 
ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter. 

Hor. Nay, good my lord,— 

Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of 
gain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a woman. 

Hor. If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I 
We forestal their repair hither, and say you are not 
fit. 

Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury: there ’s a spe- 
cial providence in the fall of asparrow. If it be 
now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will 
be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the 
readiness is all: since no man has aught of what | 
he leaves, what is ’t to leave betimes ? 


Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric, and 
Attendants with foils, &. 


King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand 
from me. 
[The King puts Laertes’ hand into Hamlet’s. 

Ham. Give me your pardon, sir: I’ve done you 
But pardon ’t, as you are a gentleman. [wrong ; 
This presence knows, 

And you must needs have heard, how Iam punish’d 
With sore distraction. What I have done, 

That might your nature, honour and exception 
Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. 
Was ’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet: 
If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, 

And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, 
Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. 

Who does it, then? His madness: if ’t be so, 
Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d ; 

His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. 

Sir, in this audience, 

Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil 

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts, 
That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house, 

And hurt: my brother. 

Laer. I am satisfied in nature, 
Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most 
To my revenge: but in my terms of honour 
I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement, 

Till by some elder masters, of known honour, 

I have a voice and precedent of peace, 

To keep my name ungored. But till that time, 
I do receive your offer’d love like love, 

And will not wrong it. 


am. 
And will this brother’s 
Give us the foils. 

Come, one for me. 


aer. 
Ham. 17ll be your foil, Laertes: in mine igno- 
rance 
Your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night, 
Stick fiery off indeed. 
Laer. You mock me, sir. 
Ham. No, by this hand. 
King. Give them the foils, young Osric. 
Hamlet, 
You know the wager ? 
Ham. Very well, my lord; 
Your grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker side. 


694 


I embrace it freely ; 
wager frankly play. 
Come on. 


Cousin | 


HAMLET. 


| Here’s to thy health. 


SCENE II. 


a 


King. I do not fear it; I have seen you both: 
But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds. 
Laer. This is too heavy, let me see another. 
Ham. This likes me well. These foils have alla 
length ? [They prepare to play. 
Osr. Ay, my good lord. 
King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. 
If Hamlet give the first or second hit, 
Or quit in answer of the third exchange, 
Let all the battlements their ordnance fire ; 
The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath ; 
And in the cup an union shall he throw, 
Richer than that which four successive kings 
In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; 
And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, 
The trumpet to the cannoneer without, 
The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, 
‘ Now the king drinks to Hamlet.’ Come, begin: 
And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. 
Ham. Come on, sir. 


Laer. Come, my lord. [They play. 
Ham. One. 

Laer. 0. 
Ham. Judgment. 
Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit. 

Laer. Well; again. 


King. Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl 
[is thine; 
[Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within. 

Give him the cup. 

Ham. Ill play this bout first; set it by awhile. 
Come. [They play.] Another hit; what say you? 

Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess. 

King. Our son shall win. 

Queen. He’s fat, and scant of breath. 
Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows: 
The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. 

Ham. Good madam ! 

King. Gertrude, do not drink. 

Queen. I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me. 

King. [Aside] It is the poison’d cup: it is too late. 

Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by. 

Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face. 

Laer. My lord, Ill hit him now. 

cing. I do not think ’t. 

Laer. [Aside] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my con- 

science, 

Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally ; 
I pray you, pass with your best violence; 

I am afeard you make a wanton of me. 

Laer. Say you so? come on. [They play. 

Osr. Nothing, neither way. 

Laer. Have at you now! 

[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffing, they 
change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. 


King. Part them; they are incensed. 
Ham. Nay, come, again. [The Queen falls. 
Osr. Look to the queen there, ho! 


Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my 
Osr. How is ’t, Laertes ? [lord ? 
Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, 
I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery. [Osric ; 
Ham. How does the queen ? 
King. She swounds to see them bleed. 
Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink,— O my dear 
Hamlet,— 
The drink, the drink! I am poison’d. [Dies. 
Ham. O villany! Ho! let the door be lock’d: 
Treachery! Seek it out. 
Laer. It ishere, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain ; 
No medicine in the world can do thee good; 
In thee there is not half an hour of life; 
The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, 
Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice 
Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie, 
Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d: 
I can no more: the king, the king’s to blame. 


ACT V. 


Ham. The point!—envenom’d too! 
Then, venom, to thy work. 
All. Treason! treason! 

King. O, yet defend me, friends; Iam but hurt. 
Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned 
Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? [Dane, 
Follow my mother. [King dies. 
Laer. He is justly served ; 
It is a poison temper’d by himself. 
Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: 
Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, 
Nor thine on me! [ Dies. 


Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. | 


IT am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! 
You that look pale and tremble at this chance, 
That are but mutes or audience to this act, 
Had I but time —as this fell sergeant, death, 
Is strict in his arrest — O, I could tell you— 
But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; 

Thou livest ; report me and my cause aright 
To the unsatisfied. 

Hor. Never believe it: 
fam more an antique Roman than a Dane: 
Hfere’s yet some liquor left. 

Ham. As thou ’rt a man, 
Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I ll have ’t. 
O good Horatio, what a wounded name, 

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind 
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, [me ! 
Absent thee from felicity awhile, 
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, 
To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within. 
What warlike noise is this ? 
._ Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from 
To the ambassadors of England gives 
This warlike volley. 
Ham. O, I die, Horatio; 
The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: 
I cannot live to hear the news from England; 
But I do prophesy the election lights _ 
On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; 
So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, 
Which have solicited. The rest is silence. [Dies. 
Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, 
sweet prince; ; 
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! 
Why does the drum come hither? [March within. 


Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors, 
and others. 


Fort. Where is this sight ? 


[Stabs the Wing. | 


[Poland, 


HAMLET. 


SCENE II. 


For. : What is it ye would see ? 
If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. 
Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud cextli, 
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, . 
That thou so many princes at a shot 
So bloodily hast struck ? 
First Amb. The sight is dismal; 
And our affairs from England come too late: 
The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, 
To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, 
That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead: 
Where should we have our thanks ? 
Hor. Not from his mouth, 
Had it the ability of life to thank you: 
He never gave commandment for their death. 
But since, so jump upon this bloody question, 
You from the Polack wars, and you from England, 
Are here arrived, give order that these bodies 
High on a stage be placed to the view ; 
And let me speak to the yet unknowing world 
How these things came about: so shall you hear 
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, 
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, 
Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, 
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook 
Fall’n on the inventors’ heads: all this can I 
Truly deliver. 
Fort. Let us haste to hear it, 
And eall the noblest to the audience. 
For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune: 
I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, 
Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. 
Hor. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, 
And from his mouth whose voice will draw on 
more: 
But let this same be presently perform’d, 
Even while men’s minds are wild; lest more mis- 
chance, 
On plots and errors, happen. 
Fort. Let four captains 
Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage; 
For he was likely, had he been put on, 
To have proved most royally: and, for his passage, 
The soldiers’ music and the rites of war . 
Speak loudly for him. 


| Take up the bodies: such a sight as this 


Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. 
Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 
[A dead march. Ezxeunt, bearing off the dead 
bodies; after which a peal of ordnance is 
shot off. 


Hamlet.—Alas, poor Yorick! [Takes the skull.] I knew him, Horatio: 
a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.—ActT V., Scene i. 


KING 


LEAR. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


Lear, King of Britain. 

King of France. 

Duke of Burgundy. 

Duke of Cornwall. 

Duke of Albany. 

Earl of Kent. 

Earl of Gloucester. 

Edgar, son to Gloucester. 
Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester. 
Curan, a courtier. 

Old Man, tenant to Gloucester. 
Doctor. 

Fool. 


Oswald, steward to Goneril. 

A Captain employed by Edmund. 
Gentleman attendant on Cordelia. 
A Herald. 

Servants to Cornwall. 

Goneril, 
Regan, 


bosehio to Lear. 
Cordelia, 


Knights of Lear’s train, Captains, Messengers, Sokdiers, 
and Attendants. 


SCENE — Britain. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see Page Lxv.] 


GME) Wy gl 


SCENE I.—King Lear’s palace. 


Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. 


Kent. I thought the king had more affected the 
Duke of Albany than Cornwall. 

Glow. It did always seem so to us: but now, in 
the division of the kingdom, it appears not which 
of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so 
weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice 
of either’s moiety. 

Kent. Is not this your son, my lord ? 

Glow. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: 


I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that, 


now I am brazed to it. 

Kent. I cannot conceive you. 

Glow. Sir, this young fellow’s mother could: 
whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had,indeed, 
sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for 
her bed. Do you smell a fault ? 

Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue 
of it being so proper. 

Glou. But I have, sir,a son by order of law, some 
year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my ac- 
count: though this knave came something saucily 
into the world before he was sent for, yet was his 
mother fair; there was good sport at his making, 
and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you 
know this noble gentleman, Edmund ? 

Edm. No, my lord. 

Glow. My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter 
as my honourable friend. 

idm. My services to your lordship. 

Kent. must love you, and sue to know you better. 

Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving. 

Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he 
shall again. The king is coming. 


Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, 
Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants. 


Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, 

tlou. I shall, my liege. [Gloucester. 

[Hxeunt Gloucester and Edmund. 

Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker pur- 
pose. 


696 


| Give me the map there. Know that we have divided 
In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent 
To shake all cares and business from our age; 
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we . 
Unburthen’d crawl toward death. Our son of Corn- 
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,  [wall, 
We have this hour a constant will to publish 
Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife 
May be prevented now. ‘The princes, France and 
Burgundy, 
Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, 
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, 
And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daugh- 
Since now we will divest us, both of rule, [ters,— 
Interest of territory, cares of state,— 
Which of you shall we say doth love us most ? 
That we our largest bounty may extend 
Where nature doth with merit challenge. 
Our eldest-born, speak first. 
Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield 
the matter ; 
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty ;. 
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; 
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour ; 
As much as child e’er loved, or father found; 
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable; 
Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 
Oor. [Aside] What shall Cordelia do? Love, 
and be silent. [this, 
Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to 
With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, 
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, 
We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue 
Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, 
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak. 
Reg. Sir, 1am made 
Of the self-same metal that my sister is, 
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
I find she names my very deed of love: 
Only she comes too short: that I profess 
Myself an enemy to all other joys, 
Which the most precious square of sense possesses 
And find I am alone felicitate 
In your dear highness’ love. 


Goneril, 


a SS ee ee 


KING 


BCor. [Aside] Then poor Cordelia! 
And yet not so; since, [am sure, my love’s 
More richer than my tongue. 

Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever 
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; 
No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy, 
Although the last, not least; to whose young love 
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy 
Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw 


ACT I. 


A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak. 
Cor. Nothing, my lord. 
Lear. Nothing! 
Cor. N othing. 
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. 


Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty 
According to my bond; nor more nor less. 
Lear. How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a 
Lest it may mar your fortunes. [little, 
Cor. Good my lord, 
You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I 
Return those duties back as are right fit, 
Obey you, love you, and most honour you. 
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, 
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry 
Half my love with him, half my care and duty: 
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
To love my father all. 
Lear. But goes thy heart with aa 
Cor. y, good my lord. 
Lear. So young, and so Giese, %3 
Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 
Lear. Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower : 
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, 
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; 
By all the operation of the orbs 
From whom we do exist, and cease to be; 
Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
Propinquity and property of blood, 
And as a stranger to my heart and me__[Scythian, 
Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous 
Or he that makes his generation messes 
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 
Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and relieved, 
As thou my sometime daughter. 
Kent. 
Lear. Peace, Kent! 
Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 
I loved her most, and thought to set my rest 
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight! 
So be my grave my peace, as here I give [stirs ? 
Her father’s heart from her! Call France; who 
Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany, 
With my two daughters’ dowers Ae this third: 
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. 
I do invest you jointly with my power, 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects [course, 
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly 
With reservation of an hundred knights, 
By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode 
Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain 
The name, and all the additions to a king; 
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, 
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, 
This coronet part betwixt you. [Giving the crown. 
Kent. Royal Lear, 
Whom I have ever honour’d-as my king, 
Loved as my father, as my master follow’d, 
As my great patron. thought on in my prayers,— 
Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the | 


shaft. 

Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly, 
When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man? 
Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, 


Good my liege,— 


LEAR. 


When power to flattery bows ? 
our ’s bound, 
When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy doom; 
And, in thy best consideration, check [ment, 
This hideous rashness: answer my life my judg- 
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; 
Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound 
Reverbs no hollowness. 
Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
Icent. My life I never held but asa pawn 
To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, 
Thy safety being the motive. 
Lear. Out of my sight! 
Kent. See better, Lear; and let me still remain 
The true blank of thine eye. 
Lear. Now, by Apollo,— 
ent. Now, by Apollo, king, 
Thou swear’st thy gods in vain. 


SCENE I. 


To plainness hon. 


Lear. O, vassal! miscreant ! 
[Laying his hand on his sword. 

ae \ Dear sir, forbear. 

Kent. Do; 


Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow 

Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom; 

Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, 

I ll tell thee thou dost evil. 
Lear. 

On thine allegiance, hear me! 

Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, 

Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride 

To come between our sentence and our power, 

Which nor our nature nor our place can bear, 

Our potency made good, take thy reward. 

Five days we do allot thee, for provision 

To shield thee from diseases of the world; 

And on the sixth to turn thy hated back 

Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following, 


Hear me, recreant! 


| Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, 


The moment is thy death. 
This shall not be revoked. [appear, 
Kent. Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt 

Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. 

[To Cordelia] The eods to their dear shelter take 
thee, maid, 

That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said! 

[To Regan and Goneril] And your large speeches 
may your deeds approve 

That good effects may spring from words of love. 

Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; 

He’ll shape his old course in a country new. [fzit. 


Away! by Jupiter, 


Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, 
Burgundy, and Attendants. 


Glou. Here’s Franceand Burgundy, my noble lord. 
Lear. My lord of Burgundy, 
We first address towards you, who with this king 
Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what, in the least, 
Will you require in present dower with her, 
Or cease your quest of love? 
Bur. Most royal majesty, 
T crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, 
Nor will you tender less. 
Lear. Right noble Burgundy, 
When she was dear to us, we did hold her so ; 
But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: 
If aught within that little seeming substance, 
Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced, 
And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, 
eae ’s there, and she is yours. 

Bur I know no answer. 
Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, 
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate, foath, 
Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our 

Take her, or leave her ? 


Bur. Pardon me, royal sir ; 
Election makes not up on such conditions. 
697 


ACT I. 


LEAR. 


ee 


Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that 
made me, 
I tell you all her wealth. [Zo #rance] For you, 
reat king, 

IT would not from your love make such a stray, 
To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you 
To avert your liking a more worthier way 
Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed 
Almost to acknowledge hers. 

France. This is most strange, 
That she, that even but now was your best object, 
The argument of your praise, balm of your age, 
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time 
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle 
So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence 
Must be of such unnatural degree, 

That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d atrection 
Fall’n into taint: which to believe of her, 

Must be a faith that reason without miracle 
Could never plant in me. 

Cor. I yet beseech your majesty ,— 
If for I want that glib and oily art, 

To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, 
Ill do’t before I speak,—that you make known 

It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 

No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step, 

That hath deprived me of your grace and favour ; 
But even for want of that for which I am richer, 
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue 

As Iam glad I have not, though not to have it 
Hath lost me in your liking. 

Lear. Better thou [better. 
Hadst not been born than not, to have pleased me 

France. Is it but this,—a tardiness in nature 
Which often leaves the history unspoke 
That it intends todo? My lord of Burgundy, 
What say you to the lady ? Love’s not love 
When it is mingled with regards that stand 


Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ? 
She is herself a dowry. 
Bur. Royal Lear, 


Give but that portion which yourself proposed, 
And here I take Cordelia by the hand, 
Duchess of Burgundy. 

Lear. Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. 

Bur. Lam sorry, then, you have so lost a father 
That you must lose a husband. 

Cor. Peace be with Burgundy! 
Since that respects of fortune are his love, 

I shall not be his wife. 

France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most. rich, 

being poor; ~~~ 

Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised ! 
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: 
Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away. [neglect 
Gods, gods! ‘tis strange that from their cold’st 
My love should kindle to infiamed respect. 
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, 
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: 
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy 
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me. 
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: 
Thou losest here, a better where to find. [for we 

Lear. Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; 

Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see 
That face of hers again. Therefore be gone 
Without our grace, our love, our benison. 
Come, noble Burgundy. 
[Flourish. Exeunt all but France, Goneril, 
Regan, and Cordelia. 

France. Bid farewell to your sisters. 

Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes 
Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; 
And like a sister am most loath to call 
Your faults as they are named. Use well our father: 
To your professed bosoms I commit him: 

But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, 
698 


I would prefer him to a better place. 
So, farewell to you both. 

Rey. Prescribe not us our duties. 

Gon. Let your study 
Be to content your lord, who hath received you 
At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, 
And well are worth the want that you have wanted. 

Cor. Time shall unfold what plaited cunning 

hides : ‘ 

Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. 
Well may you prosper ! 
France. Come, my fair Cordelia. 
[Exeunt France and Cordelia. 

Gon. Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what 
most nearly appertains to us both. I think our 
father will hence to-night. 

Reg. That’s most certain, and with you; next 
month with us. 

Gon. You see how full of changes his age is; the 
observation we have made of it hath not been little: 
he always loved our sister most; and with what 
poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears 
too grossly. 

veg. "T'is the infirmity of his age: yet he hath 
ever but slenderly known himself. 

Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath 
been but rash; then must we look to receive from 
his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed 
condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness 
that infirm and choleric years bring with them. 

Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to have 
from him as this of Kent’s banishment. 

Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking 
between France and him. Pray you, let’s hit 
together: if our father carry authority with such 
dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his 
will but offend us. 

Reg. We shall further think on ’t. 

Gon. We must do something, and i’ the heat. 

[Haewnt. 


SCENE I1.—The Earl of Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Edmund, with a letter. 


Edm. Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law 
My services are bound. Wherefore should I 
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit 
The curiosity of nations to deprive me, 
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines 
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base? — 
When my dimensions are as well compact, 
My mind as generous, and my shape as true, 
As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us 
With base? with baseness? bastardy ? base, base ? 
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take 
More composition and fierce quality 
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, 
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops, 
Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well, then, 
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: 
Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund 
As to the legitimate: fine word,— legitimate! 
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, 
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base 
Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper: 
Now, gods, stand up for bastards! 


Enter Gloucester. 


Glou. Kent banish’d thus! and France in choler 
parted! 
And the king gone to-night! subscribed his power ! 
Confined to exhibition! All this done 
Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news ? 
Edm. So please your lordship, none. 
[Putting up the letter. 
Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that 
Edm. 1 know no news, my lord. [letter ? 


ACT I. KING 


Glou. What paper were you reading ? 

Edm. Nothing, my lord. 

Glou. No? What needed, then, that terrible dis- 
patch of it into your pocket? the quality of noth- 
ing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see: 
come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. 

Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me: it is a letter 
from my brother, that I have not all o’erread; and 
for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for 
your o’er-looking. 

Glou. Give me the letter, sir. 

Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. 
The contents, as in part I understand them, are to 

Glou. Let’s see, let ’s see. [blame. 

Edm. I hope, for my brother’s justification, he 
wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue. 

Glo. [Reads] ‘This policy and reverence of age 
makes the world bitter to the best of our times; 
keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot 
relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bond- 
age in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways, 
not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to 
me, that of this I may speak more. If our father 
would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy 
half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of 
vour brother, EDGAR.’ 
Hum — conspiracy !—‘ Sleep till I waked him,— 
you should enjoy half his revenue,’— My son Edgar! 
Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to 
breed it in ?—When came this to you? who brought 


Edm. It was not brought me, my lord; there’s 
the cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the case- 
ment of my closet. 

Glou. Youknow the character to be your brother’s? 

Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst 
swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would 
fain think it were not. 

Glou. It is his. 

Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his 
heart is not in the contents. 

Glou. Hath he never heretofore sounded you in 
this business ? 

Edm. Never, my lord: but I have heard him oft 
maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age, and 
fathers declining, the father should be as ward to 
the son, and the son ea his revenue. 

Glou. O villain, villain! His very opinion in 
the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, 
brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, 
seek him; I ’ll apprehend him: abominable villain! 
Where is he ? 

Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall 
please you to suspend your indignation against my 
brother till you can derive from him better testi- 
mony of his intent, you shall run a certain course ; 
where, if you violently proceed against him, mis- 
taking his purpose, it would make a great gap in 
your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of 
his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, 
that he hath wrote this to feel my affection to your 
honour, and to no further pretence of danger. 

Glou. Think you so? 

Edm. Tf your honour judge it meet, I will place 
you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by 
an auricular assurance have your satisfaction ; and 
that without any further delay than this very 

Glou. He cannot be such a monster— _ [evening. 

Edm. Nor is not, sure. 

Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely 
loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him 
out: wind me into him, I pray you: frame the 
business after your own wisdom. I would unstate 
myself, to be in a due resolution. 

Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently: convey the 
oS as I shall find means, and acquaint you 
withal. 


LEA R. SCENE II. 


Glou. These late eclipses in the sun and moon por- 
tend no good to us: though the wisdom of nature 
can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself 
scourged by the sequent effects: love cools, friend- 
ship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies ; 
in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the 
bond cracked *twixt son and father. This villain 
of mine comes under the prediction; there ’s son 
against father: the king falls from bias of nature; 
there ’s father against child. We have seen the 
best of our time: machinations, hollowness. treach- 
ery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to 
ourgraves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall 
lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the noble 
and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, hon- 
esty! ’T is strange. | Hitt. 

Hdm. This is the excellent foppery of the world, 
that, when we are sick in fortune,—often the surfeit 
of our own behaviour,— we make guilty of our dis- 
asters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we 
were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly com- 
pulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical 
predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by 
an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and 
all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an 
admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his 
goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My 
father compounded with my mother under the 
dragon’s tail; and my nativity was under Ursa 
major; so that it follows, I am rough and lech- 
erous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the 
maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my 
bastardizing. Edgar— 


Enter Hdgar. 


and pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old 


comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a 
sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O, these eclipses do por- 
tend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi. 

Edg. How now, brother Edmund! what serious 
contemplation are you in? 

Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I 
read this other day, what should follow these 
eclipses. 

Edg. Do you busy yourself about that ? 

Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed 
unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child 
and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient 
amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledic- 
tions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, 
banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nup- 
tial breaches, and I know not what. — 

Edg. How long have you been a sectary astro- 
nomical ? 

Edm. Come, come; when saw you my father 
last ? 

Edg. Why, the night gone by. 

Edm. Spake you with him? 

Edg. Ay, two hours together. 

Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found you no 
displeasure in him by word or countenance ? 

EKdg. None at all. 

Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may have 
offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his pres- 
ence till some little time hath qualified the heat of 
his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in 
him, that with the mischief of your person it would 
scarcely allay. 

Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. 

Edm. That ’s my fear. I pray you, have a conti- 
nent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes 
slower; and, asI say, retire with me to my lodging, 
from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord 
speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key: if you do stir 
abroad, go armed. 

Edg. Armed, brother! 

Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best ; 


go armed: 
699 ; 


AGCTIP, 


Tam no honest man if there be any good meaning 
towards you: I have told you what I have seen and 
heard: but faintly, nothing like the image and hor- 
ror of it: pray you, away. | 
Edg. Shall I hear from you anon ? 
Edm. I do serve you in this business. [ Huit Edgar. 
A eredulous father! and a brother noble, 
Whose nature is so far from doing harms, 
That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty 
My practices ride easy! I see the business. 
Let me; if not by birth, have lands by wit : 
All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.  [Hvit. 


SCENE III. — The Duke of Albany’s palace. 


Enter Goneril, and Oswald, her steward. 


Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman for 
chiding of his fool ? 
Osw. Yes, madam. 
Gon. By day and night he wrongs me; every hour 
He flashes into one gross crime or other, 
That sets us all at odds: Ill not endure it: 
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us 
On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, 
IT will not speak with him; say I am sick: 
If you come slack of former services, 
You shall do well; the fault of it Ill answer. 
Osw. He’s coming, madam; I hear him. 
[Horns within. 
Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please, 
You and your fellows; I’ld have it come to ques- 
If he dislike it, let him to our sister, [tion: 
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, 
Not to be over-ruled. Idle old man, 
That still would manage those authorities 
That he hath given away! Now, by my life, 
Old fools are babes again; and must be used 
With checks as flatteries,— when. they are seen 
Remember what I tell you. [abused. 
Osw. Well, madam. __[you; 
Gon. And let his knights have colder looks among 
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so: 
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, 
That I may speak: Ii] write straight to my sister, 
To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE IV.—A hall in the same. 


Enter Kent, disguised. 


Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow, 
That can my speech defuse, my good intent 
May carry through itself to that full issue 
For which I razed my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent, 
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d, 
So may it come, thy master, whom thou lovest, 
Shall find thee full of labours. 


Horns 


Enter Lear, Knights, and 
Attendants. 


Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it 
ready. [Hvit an Attendant.]| How now! what art 

Kent. A man, sir. [thou ? 

Lear. What dost thou profess? what wouldst 
thou with us? 

kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to 
serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love 
him that is honest; to converse with him that is 
wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight 
when [ cannot choose; and to eat no fish. 

Lear. What art thou ? 

‘vent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as. poor 
us the king. 

Lear. If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for 
«a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou ? 

Kent. Service. 

Lear. Who wouldst thou serve ? 

Avent. You. 


within. 


700 


KING LEAR. 


SCENE IV. 


Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ? 

Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your counte 
nance which I would fain call master. 

Lear. What’s that ? 

Kent. Authority. 

Lear. What services canst thou do? 

Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar 
a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain mes- 
sage bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, 
I am qualified in; and the best of me is diligence. 

Lear. How old art thou ? 

Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for 
singing, nor so old to dote on her for any thing: I 
have years on my back forty eight. 

Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me: if I like 
thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from 
thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? 
my fool? Go you, and call my fool hither. 

[Exit an Attendant. 


Enter Oswald. 
You, you, sirrah, where ’s my daughter ? 
Osw. So please you,— . ee 
Lear. What says the fellow there? Call the 
clotpoll back. [Hit a Knight.| Where’s my fool, 
ho? I think the world’s asleep. 


Re-enter Knight. 


How now! where’s that mongrel ? [well. 
Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not 
Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when 

I called him. 

Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest 
manner, he would not. 

Lear. He would not! 

Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; 
but, to my judgment, your highness is not enter- 
tained with that ceremonious affection as you were 
wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness ap- 
pears as well in the general dependants as in the 
duke himself also and your daughter. 

Lear. Ha! sayest thou so ? 

Knight. I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I 
be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I 
think your highness wronged. 

Lear. Thou but rememberest me of mine own 
conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect. 
of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own 
jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and pur- 
pose of unkindness: I will look further into ’t. 
But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this 
two days. 

Knight. Since my young lady ’s going into France, 
sir, the fool hath much pined away. 

Lear. No more of that; I have noted it well. 
Go you, and tell my daughter I would speak with 


her. [ait an Attendant.]| Go you, call hither my 
fool. | Heit an Attendant. 


Re-enter Oswald. 


O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir? 
Osw. My lady’s father. 
Lear. ‘My lady’s father’! my lord’s knave: you 
whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! 
Osw. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech 
your pardon. 
Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal ? 
[Striking him. 
Osw. Ill not be struck, my lord. 
Kent. Nor tripped neither, you base foot-ball 
xb [Tripping up his heels. 
ear. I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and 
Ill love thee. 
Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! Ill teach you dif- 
ferences: away, away! If you will measure your 
lubber’s length again, tarry: but away! go to; 


have you wisdom ? so. [Pushes Oswald out. 


ACT TI. 


KING 


LEA Rk. 


SCENE IV. 


Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: 
there’s earnest of thy service. [Giving Kent money. 


Enter Fool. 


Fool. Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb. 
[Offering Kent his cap. 

Lear. How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou? 

Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. 

Kent. Why, fool ? 

Fool. Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of 
favour: nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind 
sits, thou It catch cold shortly: there, take my cox- 
comb: why, this fellow has banished two on’s 
daughters, and did the third a blessing against his 
will; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my 
coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two 
coxcombs and two daughters ! 

Lear. Why, my boy? 

Fool. If I gave them all my living, I’ld keep my 
coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of 
thy daughters. 

Lear. Take heed, sirrah; the whip. 

Fool. Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be 
whipped out, when Lady the brach may stand by 
the fire and stink. 

Lear. A pestilent gall to me! 

Fool. Sirrah, Ill teach thee a speech. 

Lear. Do. 

Foot. Mark it, nuncle: 

Have more than thou showest, 
Speak less than thou knowest, 
Lend less than thou owest, 
Ride more than thou goest, 
Learn more than thou trowest, 
Set less than thou throwest: 
Leave thy drink and thy whore, 
And keep in-a-door, 

And thou shalt have more 
Than two tens to a score. 

Kent. This is nothing, fool. 

Fool. Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d 
- lawyer; you pare me nothing for’t. Can you 
make no use of nothing, nuncle ? 

Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out 
of nothing. 


Fool. [To Kent] Prithee, tell him, so much the | 


* rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool. 

Lear. A bitter fool! 

Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, be- 
tween a bitter fool and a sweet fool ? 

Lear. No, lad; teach me. 

Fool. That lord that counsell’d thee 

To give away thy land, 
Come place him here by me, 
Do thou for him stand: 

The sweet and bitter fool 
Will presently appear; 

The one in motley here, 
The other found out there. 

Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy ? 

fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away; 
that thou wast born with. 

Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. 

Fool. No, faith, lords and great men will not let 
me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part 
on ’t: and ladies too, they will not let me have all 
fool to myself; they ll be snatching. Give me an 
egg, nuncle, and [’ll give thee two crowns. 

Lear. What two crowns shall they be ? 

Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle, 
and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the ege. 
When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and 
gavest away both parts, thou borest thy ass on thy 
back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald 
crown, when thou gavest thy golden one away. If 
I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that 
first finds it so. 


[Singing] Fools had ne’er less wit in a year; 
For wise men are grown foppish, 
They know not how their wits to wear, 
Their manners are so apish. 
Lear. When were you wont to be so full of songs, 
sirrah ? 
fool. I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou 
madest thy daughters thy mothers: for when thou 
gavest them the rod, and put’st down thine own 
breeches, 
[Singing] Then they for sudden joy did weep, 
And I for sorrow sung, 
That such a king should play bo-peep, 
And go the fools among. 
Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach 
thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie. 
Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped. 
Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters 
are: they ’ll have me whipped for speaking true. 
thou It have me whipped for lying; and sometimes 
Lam whipped for holding my peace. I had rather 
be any kind o’ thing than a fool: and yet I would 
not be thee, nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit 0’ both 
sides, and left nothing 1’ the middle: here comes 
one 0’ the parings. 


Enter Goneril. 


Lear. How now, daughter! what makes that 
frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ 
the frown. 

Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst 
no need to care for her frowning; now thou art an 
O without a figure: I am better than thou art now; 
Iam a fool, thou art nothing. [Zo Gon.] Yes, for- 
sooth, I will hold my tongue; so your face bids me, 
though you say nothing. Mum, mum, 

He that keeps nor crust nor crum, 
Weary of all, shall want some. 
[Pointing to Lear| That ’s a shealed peascod. 

Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool, 
But other of your insolent retinue 
Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth 
In rank and not-to-be endured riots. Sir, 

Thad thought, by making this well known unto you, 
To have found a safe redress ; but now grow fearful, 
By what yourself too late have spoke and done, 
That you protect this course, and put it on 

By your allowance; which if you should, the fault 
Would not ’scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, 
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, 

Might in their working do you that offence, 
Which else were shame, that then necessity 

Will call discreet proceeding. 

fool. For, you trow, nuncle, 

The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long, 
That it’s had it head bit off by it young. 
So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling. 

Lear. Are you our daughter ? 

Gon. Come, sir, 
I would you would make use of that good wisdom, 
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away 
These dispositions, that of late transform you 
From what you rightly are. 

Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws 
the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee. 

Lear. Dothany hereknowme? Thisisnot Lear: 
Doth Lear walk thus ? speak thus? Whereare his 
Either his notion weakens, his discernings [eyes ? 
Are lethargied —Ha! waking? ’tis not so. 

Who is it that can tell me who Iam? 

Fool. Lear’s shadow. 

Lear. I would learn that; for, by the marks of 
sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be 
false persuaded I had daughters. 

Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. 

Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman ? 

Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour 


701 


KOOL Ts KING LEAR. SCENE V. 


Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you _ Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, 
To understand my purposes aright: ' Beweep this cause again, Ill pluck ye out, 
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. | And cast you, with the waters that you lose, 
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; | To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? 
Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold, | Let it be so: yet have I left a daughter, 
That this our court, infected with their manners, | Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: 
Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails 
Make it more like a tavern or a brothel | She’ flay thy wolvish visage. ‘Thou shalt find 
Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak | That Ill resume the shape which thou dost think 
For instant remedy: be then desired I have cast off for ever: thou shalt, I warrant thee. 
By her, that else will take the thing she begs, [Hueunt Lear, Kent, and Attendants. 
A little to disquantity your train; Gon. Do you mark that, my lord ? . 
And the remainder, that shall still depend, Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, 
To be such men as may besort your age, To the great love I bear you,— 
And know themselves and you. Gon. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! 
Lear. Darkness and devils! | [Zo the Fool] You, sir, more knave than fool, after 
Saddle my horses; call my train together. your master. 
Degenerate bastard! I7ll not trouble thee: Fool. Nuncle Lear, nunele Lear, tarry and take 
Yet have I left a daughter. the fool with thee. 
Gon. You strike my people; and your disorder’d A fox, when one has caught her, 
Make servants of their betters. [rabble And such a daughter, 
Should sure to the slaughter, 
Enter Albany. If my cap would buy a halter: 
Lear. Woe, that too late repents,—[7To Alb.] O, So the fool follows after. [ Exit. 
sir, are you come ? Gon. This man hath had good counsel: — a hun- 
Is it your will? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses. dred knights! 
Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, | Tis politic and safe to let him keep [dream , 
More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child At point a hundred knights: yes, that, on every 
Than the sea-monster ! Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, 
Alb. Pray, sir, be patient. He may enguard his dotage with their powers, 
Lear. [To Gon.] Detested kite! thou liest: And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say! 
My train are men of choice and rarest parts, | Alb. Well, you may fear too far. 
That all particulars of duty know, Gon. Safer than trust too far: 
And in the most exact regard support | Let me still take away the harms I fear, 
The worships of their name. O most small fault, | Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. 
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: 
That, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature | If she sustain him and his hundred knights, 
From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, | When I have show’d the unfitness,— 
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! | 
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, Re-enter Oswald. 
[Striking his head. | How now, Oswald! 
And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people. What, have you writ that letter to my sister ? 
Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Osw. Yes, madam. ; 
Of what hath moved you. | Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse: 
Lear. It may be so, my lord. | Inform her full of my particular fear; 
Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear ! And thereto add such reasons of your own 
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend AS may compact it more. Get you gone; 
To make this creature fruitful! And hasten your return. [zit Oswald.] No, no, 
Into her womb convey sterility! my lord, 
Dry up in her the organs of increase; This milky gentleness and course of yours 
And from her derogate body never spring Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, 
A babe to honour her! If she must teem, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom 
Create her child of spleen; that it may live, Than praised for harmful mildness. 
And be a thwart disnatured torment to her! Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: 
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; Striving to better, oft we mar what ’s well. 
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Gon. Nay, then— 
Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits Alb. Well, well; the event. {Exeunt. 
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel 
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is SCENE V.— Court before the same. 
To have a thankless child! Away,away!  [Hvit. 
Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 
this ? Leai. Go you before to Gloucester with these let- 
Gon. Never afflict yourself to know the cause; ters. Acquaint my daughter no further with any 
But let his disposition have that scope thing you know than comes from her demand out 
That dotage gives it. of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, lL 
R Shall be there afore you. ; 
e-enter Lear. Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have deliy- 
Lear, What, fifty of my followers at a clap! ered your letter. [ Exit. 
Within a fortnight! | ool. If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were ’t 
Ib. What ’s the matter, sir ? | not in danger of kibes ? 
Lear. Il tell thee: [To Gon.] Life and death! Tear. Ay, boy. 
I am ashamed Fool. Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall 
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; | ne’er go slip-shod. 
That these hot tears, which break from me per- Lear. Ha, ha, ha! 
fore [thee! | Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee 


e 
Should make thee worth them. Blastsand fogs upon | kindly; for though she’s as like this as a crabs 
The untented woundings of a father’s curse like an apple, yet [ can tell what I can tell. 


702 


ACT II. 


BING GEAR. 


SCENE T. 


Lear. Why, what canst thou tell, my boy ? 

Fool. She will taste as like this as a crab does to 
a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ the 
middle on’s face ? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose ; 
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. 
Lear. I did her wrong — 
Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell ? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Nor [neither ; but I can tell why a snail hasa 

Lear. Why? [house. 

Fool. Why,to put his head in; not to give it away 
to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. 

Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! 
Be my horses ready ? 

Fool. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason 
why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty 

Lear. Because they are not eight ? [reason. 


: Fool. Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good 
OOl. 
: saehiyh To take ’t again perforce! Monster ingrati- 
ude ! 

Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I Id have thee 
beaten for being old before thy time. 

Lear. How’s that ? 

fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou 
hadst been wise. 

Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! 
Keep me in temper: I would not be mad! 


Enter Gentleman. 


How now! are the horses ready ? 
Gent. Ready, my lord. 
Lear. Come, boy. [departure, 
Fool. She that ’s a maid now, and laughs at my 
Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut 
shorter. Eaeunt. 


ee OD TW: 


SCENE I.— The Earl of Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Edmund, and Curan meets him. 

Edm. Save thee, Curan. 

Cur. And you,sir. I have been with your father, 
and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and 
Regan his duchess will be here with him this night. 

Edm. How comes that ? 

Cur. Nay, I know not.. You have heard of the 
news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they 
are yet but ear-kissing arguments ? 

Edm. Not 1: pray you, what are they ? 

Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, 
*twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany ? 

Edm. Not a word. 

Cur. You may do, then,in time. Fare you well, 
sir. [ Heit. 

Hdm. The duke be here to-night? The better! 
This weaves itself perforce into my business. [best! 
My father hath set guard to take my brother ; 

And I have one thing, of a queasy question, 
Which I must act: briefness and fortune, work! 
Brother, a word; descend: brother, I say! 


Enter Edgar. 


My father watches: O sir, fly this place; 
Intelligence is given where you are hid; 
You have now the good advantage of the night: 
Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall ? 
He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste, 
And Regan with him; have you nothing said 
Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany ? 
Advise yourself. 
Edg. I am sure on ’t, not a word. 
Edm. I hear my father coming: pardon me; 
In cunning I must draw my sword upon you: 
Draw ; seem to defend yourself; now quit you well. 
Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here! 
Fly, brother. Torches, torches! So, farewell. 
[Huit Hdgar. 
Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion 
Wounds his arm. 


Of my more fierce endeavour : I have seen drunkards | 


Do more than this in sport. 
Stop, stop! No help ? 


Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches. 


Glou. Now, Edmund, where ’s the villain? [out, 
Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword 
Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon 
ota auspicious mistress ,— 
ou. 


Father, father ! 


But where is he ? 


Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. 


Glow. Where is the villain, Edmund ? 
Edm. ae this way, sir. When by no means he 
could — 


Glou. Pursue him, ho! Go after. 
Servants.] By no means what ? 
Edm. Persuade me to the murder of your lord- 
But that I told him, the revenging gods [ship ; 
’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; 
Spoke, with how manifold and strong a bond 
The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine, 
Seeing how loathly opposite I stood 
To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion, 
With his prepared sword, he charges home 
My unprovided body, lanced mine arm: 
But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, 
Bold in the quarrel’s right, roused to the encounter, 
Or whether gasted by the noise I made, 
Full suddenly he fled. 
Glou. Let him fly far: 
Not in this land shall he remain uncaught ; 
And found—dispatch. The noble duke my master, 
My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night: 
By his authority I will proclaim it, 
That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, 
Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; 
He that conceals him, death. 
Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent, 
And found him pight to do it, with curst speech 
I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, 
‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think, 
If I would stand against thee, would the reposal 
Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee [deny,— 
Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should 
As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce 
My very character, —I ’ld turn it all 
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: 
And thou must make a dullard of the world, 
If they not thought the profits of my death 
Were very pregnant and potential spurs 
To make thee seek it.’ 
Glou. Strong and fasten’d villain ! 
Would he deny his letter? I never got him. 
| Tucket within. 


[Hxeunt some 


Hark, the duke’s trumpets! I know not why he 


comes. 

All ports I ll bar; the villain shall not ’scape, 

The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture 
I will send far and near, that all the kingdom 

May have due note of him; and of my land, 
Loyal and natural boy, Ill work the means 

To make thee capable. 


703 


KING 


ACT II. 


Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants. 


Corn. How now, my noble friend! since I came 
hither, 
Which I can call but now, [have heard strange news. 
Tteg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short 
Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord ? 
Glow. O, madam, my old heart is crack’d, it ’s 
erack’d ! 


Reg. What, did my father’s godson seek your life ? | 


He whom my father named? your Edgar ? 

Glou. O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid! 

Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous 
That tend upon my father ? [knights 

Glou. I know not, madam: ’tis too bad, too bad. 

Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. 

Tteg. No marvel, then, though he were ill affected : 
°T is they have put him on the old man’s death, 
To have the expense and waste of his revenues. 

I have this present evening from my sister 

Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions, 
That if they come to sojourn at my house, 

Ill not be there. 

Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. 
Edmund, [ hear that you have shown your father 
A child-like office. 

Edm. "T was my duty, sir. 

Glou. He did bewray his practice; and received 
This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. 

Corn. Is he pursued ? 

Glou. Ay, my good lord. 

Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more 
Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose, 
How in my strength you please. 
Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant 
So much commend itself, you shall be ours: 
Natures of such deep trust we shall much need ; 
You we first seize on. 


Edm. I shall serve you, sir, 
Truly, however else. 
Glou. For him I thank your grace. 


Corn. You know not why we came to visit you,— 
Reg. aie out of season, threading dark-eyed 
night: 
Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, 
Wherein we must have use of your advice: 
Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, 
Of differences, which I best thought it fit 
To answer from our home; the several messengers 
From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, 
Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow 
Your needful counsel to our business, 
Which craves the instant use. 
Glou. I serve you, madam: 
Your graces are right welcome. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. — Before Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Kent and Oswald, severally. 


Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this 
house ? 

Kent. Ay. 

Osw. Where may we set our horses:? 

Kent. I’ the mire. 

Osw. Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me. 

Kent. I love thee not. 

Osw. Why, then, I care not for thee. 

Kent. If 1 had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would 
make thee care for me. 

Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee 

Kent. Fellow, I know thee. [not. 

Osw. What dost thou know me for ? 

Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken 
meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suit- 
ed, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave ; 
a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, 
glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one- 

704 


For you, Edmund, | 
| He dies that strikes again. 


LEAR. 


SCENE II, 


_trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, 


in way of good service, and art nothing but the 


composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, 


{ 


| valour. 


and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom 
I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou de- 
niest the least syllable of thy addition. 

Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, 
thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee 
nor knows thee! 

Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to 
deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I 
tripped up thy heels, and beat thee before the 
king? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, 
yet the moon shines; I ll make a sop o’ the moon- 
shine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber- 
monger, draw. Drawing his sword. 

Osw. Away! I have nothing to do with thee. 

Kent. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters 


against the king; and take vanity the puppet’s 


part against the royalty of her father: draw, you 
rogue, or Ill so carbonado your shanks: draw, you 
rascal; come your ways. 

Osw. Help, ho! murder! help! 

Kent. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; 
you neat slave, strike. [Beating him. 

Osw. Help, ho! murder! murder! 


Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Cornwall, 
Regan, Gloucester, and Servants. 


Edm. How now! What’s the matter ? 
Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please: 


' come, I ’ll flesh ye; come on, young master. 


Glou. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here ? 
Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives: 

What is the matter ? 
Reg. The messengers from our sister and the 
Corn. What is your difference ? speak. {king. 
Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord. 

Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirred your 
You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in 
thee: a tailor made thee. fa man ? 

Corn. Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make 

Kent. Ay,a tailor, sir: astone-cutter or a painter 
could not have made him so ill, though he had been 
but two hours at the trade. 

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel ? 

Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have 
spared at suit of his gray beard,— 

Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary 
letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will 
tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub 
the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my gray beard, 

Corn. Peace, sirrah ! [you wagtail ? 
You beastly knave, know you no reverence ? 

Kent. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege. 

Corn. Why art thou angry ? {sword, 

Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a 
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as 
Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain __ [these, 
Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every 
That in the natures of their lords rebel; —_ [passion 
Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; 
Renege, affirm, and turn their haleyon beaks 
With every gale and vary of their masters, 
Knowing nought, like dogs, but following. 

A plague upon your epileptic visage! 
Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool ? 
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, 
Ill drive ye cackling home to Camelot. 

Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow ? 

Glou. How fell you out ? say that. 

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy 
Than I and such a knave. [his offence ? 

Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? What’s 

dikent. His countenance likes me not. [nor hers. 

Corn. No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, 

Kent. Sir, tis my occupation to be plain: 


ACT II. KING LEAR. SCENE IV. 


f have seen better faces in my time A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: 

Than stands on any shoulder that I see Give you good morrow! 

Before me at this instant. Glou. The duke’s to blame in this: ’t will be ill 
Corn. This is some fellow, taken. [ Exit. 

Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect Kent. Good king, that must approve the common 

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb | Thou out of heaven’s benediction comest [saw, 

Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, To the warm sun! if 

An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, 


An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. [ness | That by thy comfortable beams I may 
These kind of knaves I know, which in this plain- | Peruse this letter! Nothing almost sees miracles 


Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends But misery: I know ’t is from Cordelia, 
Than twenty silly ducking observants Who hath most fortunately been inform’d 
That stretch their duties nicely. Of my obscured course; and shall find time 
Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, From this enormous state, seeking to give 
Under the allowance of your great aspect, Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, 
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold 
On flickering Pheebus’ front,— This shameful lodging. 
Corn. What mean’st by this ? | Fortune, good night: smile once more; turn thy 
Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discom- wheel ! [ Sleeps. 


mend so much. I know, sir, lam no flatterer: he 
that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain 
knave; which for my part I will not be, though I 
should win your displeasure to entreat me to ’t. 
Corn. What was the offence you gave him ? 
Osw. I never gave him any: 
It pleased the king his master very late 


SCENE III.—A wood. 


Enter Edgar. 
Edg. I heard myself proclaim’d ; 
And by the happy hollow of a tree 
Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place, 
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; That guard, and most unusual vigilance, 
When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure, | Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may ’scape, 
Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d, I will preserve myself: and am bethought 


And put upon him such a deal of man, To take the basest and most poorest shape 
That worthied him, got praises of the king That ever penury, in contempt of man, 
For him attempting who was self-subdued ; Brought near to beast : my face Ill grime with filth ; 
And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots; 
Drew on me here again. And with presented nakedness out-face 
Kent. None of these rogues and cowards | The winds and persecutions of the sky. 
But Ajax is their fool. The country gives me proof and precedent 
Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, 
You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart, | Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms 
Well teach you— Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary : 
Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn : And with this horrible object, from low farms, 
Call not your stocks for me: I serve the king; Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, 
On whose employment I was sent to you: Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, 
You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom! 
Against the grace and person of my master, That ’s something yet: Edgar [nothingam. [zit. 


Stocking his messenger. 
Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life | SCENE IV.—Before Gloucester’s castle. Kent in 


v and paren v rt the stocks. 
here shall he sit till noon. 00. 
Reg. Till noon! till night, my lord; and all night Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. 
Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, Tear. °Tis strange that they should so depart 
You should not use me so. from home, 
Req. Sir, being his knave, I will. | And not send back my messenger. 


Corn. This is a fellow of the self-same colour Gent. As I learn’d, 
Our Se eae of. Come, bring away the stocks! | The night before there was no purpose in them 
| Stocks brought out. | Of this remove. 


Glou. Let me beseech your grace not to do so: Kent. Hail to thee, noble master ! 
His fault is much, and the good king his master Lear. Ha! 
Will check him for ’t.: your purposed low correction | Makest thou this shame thy pastime ? 
Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches Kent. No, my lord. 
For pilferings and most common trespasses Fool. Ha,ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses 


are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by the neck, 


Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill, 
monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a 


That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger, 


Should have him thus restrain’d. man’s over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden 
Corn. Ill answer that. | nether-stocks. [took 
Tteg. My sister may receive it much more worse, Lear. What’s he that hath so much thy place mis- 

To have her gentleman abused, assaulted, To set thee here ? 

For following her affairs. Put in his legs. Kent. It is both he and she; 

[Kent is put in the stocks. | Your son and daughter. 

Come, my good lord, away. Lear. No 


[ Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent. Kent. Yes. 
Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s Lear. No, I say. 
pleasure, Kent. I say, yea. 
Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Lear. No, no, they would not. 
Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d: I ’ll entreat for thee. Kent. Yes, they have. 
Kent. Pray, do not, sir: I have watched and Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no. 
travell’d hard; Ixent. By Juno, I swear, ay. 
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest Ill whistle. Lear. They durst not do *t; 
45 705 


LOT 


They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than 
murder, 

To do upon respect such violent outrage: 

Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way 

Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage, 

Coming from us. 

Kent. My lord, when at their home 

I did commend your highness’ letters to them, 

Ere I was risen from the place that show’d 

My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, 
Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth 
From Goneril his mistress salutations ; 

Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, 

Which presently they read: on whose contents, 
They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse ; 
Commanded me to follow, and attend 

The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: 
And meeting here the other messenger, 

Whose welcome, I perceived, had poison’d mine,— 
Being the very fellow that of late 

Display’d so saucily against your highness,— 
Having more man than wit about me, drew: 

He raised the house with loud and coward cries. 
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth 
The shame which here it suffers. 

Fool. Winter ’s not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly 

that way. 
Fathers that wear rags 
Do make their children blind; 
But fathers that bear bags 
Shall see their children kind. 
Fortune, that arrant whore, 
Ne’er turns the key to the poor. 
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolour 
for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. 
Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my 
heart ! 
Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, 
Thy element ’s below! Where is this daughter ? 

Kent. With the earl, sir, here within. 

Lear. Follow me not; 
Stay here. 

Gent. Made you no more offence but what you 
speak of ? 

Kent. None. 

How chance the king comes with so small a train ? 

Fool. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that 
question, thou hadst well deserved it. 

Kent. Why, fool ? 

Fool. Well set thee to school to an ant, to teach 
thee there’s no labouring i’ the winter. <All that 
follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind 
men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but 
can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold 
when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break 
thy neck with following it; but the great one that 
goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. Whena 
wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine 
again: I would have none but. knaves follow it, 
since a fool gives it. 

That sir which serves and seeks for gain, 
And follows but for form, 
Will pack when it begins to rain, 
And leave thee in the storm. 
But I will tarry; the fool will stay, 
And let the wise man fly: 
The knave turns fool that runs away; 
The fool no knave, perdy. 
Kent. Where learned you this, fool ? 
Fool. Not i’ the stocks, fool. 


Re-enter Lear, with Gloucester. 


Lear. Deny to speak with me? They are sick ? 
they are weary ? 
They have travell’d all the night ? 
The images of revolt and flying off. 
Fetch me a better answer. 


706 


AMP Sis 


Mere fetches; 


[ Eoctt. | 


ATA: SCENE IV. 


Glou. My dear lord, 
You know the fiery quality of the duke; 
How unremoveable and fix’d he is 
In his own course. 
Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! 
Fiery ? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Glou- 


cester, 
I ’ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. 

Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them 

So. [man ? 

Lear. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, 

Glou. Ay, my good lord. 

Lear. The king would speak with Cornwall; the 

dear father [vice: 
Would with his daughter speak, commands her ser- 
Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! 
Fiery ? the fiery duke? ‘Tell the hot duke that — 
No, but not yet: may be he is not well: ;, 
Infirmity doth still neglect all office 
Whereto our health is bound ; we are not ourselve 
When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind 
To suffer with the body: Ill forbear; 
And am fall’n out with my more headier will, 
To take the indisposed and sickly fit 
For thesound man. Deathon my state! wherefore 

[Looking on Kent. 

Should he sit here? This act persuades me 
That this remotion of the duke and her 
Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. 
Go tell the duke and ’s wife I ’ld speak with them, 
Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, 
Or at their chamber-door I ’]l beat the drum 
Till it cry sleep to death. 

Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. [Hwit. 

Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, 

down! 

Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the 
eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knap- 
ped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick, and cried 
‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’T was her brother that, 
in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. 


Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Ser- 
vants. 


Lear. Good morrow to you both. 
Corn. Hail to your grace! 
[Kent is set at liberty. 
Reg. I am glad to see your highness. 
Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what 
reason 
I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, 
I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, 
Sepulchring an adultress. [Yo Kent] O, are you 
Some other time for that. Beloved Regan, [free ? 
Thy sister ’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied 
Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here: 
[Points to his heart; 
T can searce speak to thee; thou ‘lt not believe 
With how depraved a quality —O Regan ! 
Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope 
You lees know how to value her desert 
Than she to scant her duty. 
Lear. Say, how is that ? 
Mah I cannot think my sister in the least 
Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance 
She have restrain’d the riots of your followers. 
’T is on such ground, and to such wholesome end, 
As clears her from all blame. 
Lear. My curses on her! 
Req. O, sir, you are old: 
Nature in you stands on the very verge 
Of her confine: you should be ruled and led 
By some discretion, that discerns your state 
Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you, 
That to our sister you do make return ; 
Say you have wrong’d her, sir. 
Lear. Ask her forgiveness ? 


KING 


ACT: Ei. 


LEA R. 


SCENE IV. 


Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 
‘Dear daughter, I confess that lam old; [/tneeling. 
Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg 
That you ’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’ 
Reg. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks: 
Return you to my sister. 
Lear. [ Rising] Never, Regan: 
She hath abated me of half my train; 
Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue, 
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart: 
All the stored vengeances of heaven fall 
On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, 
You taking airs, with lameness ! 
Corn. Fie, sir, fie! 
Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding 
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, [flames 
You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, 
To fail and blast her pride! 
Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on me, 
When the rash mood is on. [curse : 
Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my 
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give 
Thee o’er to harshness: her eyes are fierce ; but thine 
Do comfort and not burn. ’Tis not in thee 
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, 
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, 
And in conclusion to oppose the bolt 
Against my coming in: thou better know’st 
The offices of nature, bond of childhood, 
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude ; 
Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, 
Wherein I thee endow’d. 
Good sir, to the purpose. 
i’ the stocks ? 
[ Tucket within. 
Corn. What trumpet ’s that ? 
Reg. I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her 
That she would soon be here. [letter, 


Enter Oswald. 


Is your lady come ? 
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride 
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. 
Out, varlet, from my sight ! 


eg. 
Lear. Who put my man 


Corn. “What means your grace ? 
Lear. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have 
good hope [heavens, 


Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O 


Enter Goneril. 


If you do love old men, if your sweet sway 

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, 

Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! 
[To Gon.| Art not ashamed to look upon this beard? 
O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand ? 

Gon. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I 
All’s not offence that indiscretion finds [offended? 
And dotage terms so. 

Leur. O sides, you are too tough; 
Will you yet hold? Howcame my man i’ the stocks? 

Corn. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders 
Deserved much less advancement. 

Lear. You! did you? 

Fteg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. 
If, till the expiration of your month, 

You will return and sojourn with my sister, 
Dismissing half your train, come then to me: 

I am now from home, and out of that provision 
Which shall be needful for your entertainment. 

Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d ? 
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose 
To wage against the enmity o’ the air; 

To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,— 
Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? 
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took 
Our youngest born, I could as well be brought 

To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg 


| To keep base life afoot. Return with her ? 


Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter 

To this detested groom. [Pointing at Oswald. 
Gon. At your choice, sir. 
Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad: 

I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell: 

We’ll no more meet, no more see one another : 

But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter ; 

Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, 

Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil, 

A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle, 

In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee ; 

Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: 

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, 

Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: 

Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: 

I can be patient: I can stay with Regan, 

I and my hundred knights. 


Reg. Not altogether so: 
I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided 
For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister: 
For those that mingle reason with your passion 
Must be content to think you old, and so— 
But she knows what she does. 
Lear. Is this well spoken ? 
Fteg. I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers ? 
Is it not well? What should you need of more ? 
Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger 
Speak ’gainst so great a number? How, in one 
Should many people, under two commands, _ [house, 
Hold amity? ’Tis hard: almost impossible. 
Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive at- 
tendance 
From those that she calls servants or from mine ? 
Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanced 
' to slack you 
We could control them. If you will come to me,— 
For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you 
To bring but five and twenty: to no more 
Will I give place or notice. 
Lear. I gave you all— 
Reg. And in good time you gave it. 
Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ; 
But kept a reservation to be follow’d 
With such a number. What, must I come to you 
With five and twenty, Regan ? said you so ? 
Reg. And speak ’t again, my lord; no more with 
me. [favour’d, 
Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well- 
When others are more wicked; not being the worst 
Stands in some rank of praise. [Zo Gon.] Ill go 
with thee ; 
Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, 
And thou art twice her love. 
Gon. Hear me, my lord: 
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five, 
To follow in a house where twice so many 
Have a command to tend you? 
Req. What need one ? 
Lear. O, reason not the need: our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest thing superfluous : 
Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
Man’s life ’s as cheap as beast’s: thou art a lady ; 
If only to go warm were gorgeous, 
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st, 
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. but, for true 
need ,— [need ! 
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I 
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
As full of grief as age; wretched in both! 
If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts 
Against their father, fool me not so much 
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, 
And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, 
Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, 
I will have such revenges on you both, 
| That all the word shall—I will do such things,— 


707 


KING 


ACT Tait. 


What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be 
The terrors of the earth. You think I ’ll weep; 
No, Ill not weep: 
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart 
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, 
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad! 
[Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. 
Storm and tempest. 
Corn. Let us withdraw; ’t will be a storm. 
Reg. This house is little: the old man and his 
people 
Cannot be well bestow’d. 
Gon. ’T is hisown blame; hath put himself from 
rest, 
And must needs taste his folly. 
Reg. For his particular, Ill receive him gladly, 
But not one follower. 
Gon. So am I purposed. 
Where is my lord of Gloucester ? 
Corn. Follow’d the old man forth: he is return’d. 


AGT 
SCENE I.—A heath. 


Enter Kent and a Gentleman, 
meeting. 

Kent. Who’s there, besides foul weather ? 

Gent. One minded like the weather, most unqui- 


Storm still. 


Kent. I know you. Where’s the king ? [etly. 
Gent. Contending with the fretful element ; 
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, 
Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, _ [hair, 


That things might change or cease; tears his white 
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, 
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of; 
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn 
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. [couch, 
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would 
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf 
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, 
And bids what will take all. 

Kent. But who is with him ? 

Gent. None but the fool; who labours to outjest 
His heart-struck injuries. 

Kent. Sir, I do know you; 
And dare, upon the warrant of my note, 
Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, 
Although as yet the face of it be cover’d 
With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; 
Who have—as who have not, that their great stars 
Throned and set high ?—servants, who seem no less, 
Which are to France the spies and speculations 
Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen, 
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes, 
Or the hard rein which both of them have borne 
Against the old kind king; or something deeper, 
Whereof perchanee these are but furnishings; 
But, true it is, from France there comes a power 
Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, 
Wise in our negligence, have secret feet 
In some of our best ports, and are at point 
To show their open banner. Now to you: 
If on my credit you dare build so far 
To make your speed to Dover, you shall find 
Some that will thank you, making just report 
Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow 
The king hath cause to plain. 
I am a gentleman of blood and breeding ; 
And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer 
This office to you. 

Gent. I will talk further with you. 

Kent. No, do not. 
For confirmation that I am much more 

708 


LEAR. 


SCENE If. 


Re-enter Gloucester. 
Glou. The king is in high rage. 
orn. Whither is he going ? 
Glou. He calls to horse; but will I know not 
whither. [self, 
Corn. ’T is best to give him way; he leads him- 
Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. 
Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak 
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about [winds 
There ’s scarce a bush. 
eg. O, sir, to wilful men, 
The injuries that they themselves procure 
Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors: 
He is attended with a desperate train ; 
And what they may incense him to, being apt 
To have his ear abused, wisdom bids fear. [night: 
Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild 
My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm. 
[ Eveunt. 


LIT 


Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take 

What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,— 

As fear not but you shall,—show her this ring; 

And she will tell you who your fellow is 

That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! 

I will go seek the king. [say ? 
Gent. Give me your hand: have you no more to 
Itent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all 

yet; [your pain 

That, when we have found the king,—in which 

That way, I ll this,—he that first ights on him - 

Holla the other. [Hxeunt severally. 


SCENE II.— Another part of the heath. Storm still. 


Enter Lear and Fool. 


Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! 
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout blow! 
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the 

cocks! 
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, 
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thun- 
Smite flat the thick rotundity 0’ the world! [der, 
Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, 
That make ingrateful man! 

Fool. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house 
is better than this rain-water out 0’ door. Good 
nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters’ blessing: here ’s 
a night pities neither wise man nor fool. [rain ! 

Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, 
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: 

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 

I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children, 
You owe me no subscription: then let fall 

Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man: 

But yet I call you servile ministers, 

That have with two pernicious daughters join’d 
Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head 

So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul! 

Fool. He that has a house to put ’s head in has a 
good head-piece. 

The cod-piece that will house 
Before the head has any, 
The head and he shall louse; 
So beggars marry many. 
The man that makes his toe 
What he his heart should make, 
Shall of a corn ery woe, 
And turn his sleep to wake. 


AQT ITI. KING 


For there was never yet fair woman but she made 
mouths in a glass. 
. Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience ; 
ills thing. 
Seah ey ake Enter Kent. 


Kent. Who’s there ? 

Fool. Marry, here ’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s 
a wise man and a fool. [night 

Kent. Alas, sir, are you here ? things that love 
Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies 
Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, 

And make them keep their caves: since I was man, 
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, 
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
Remember to have heard : man’s nature cannot carry 
The affliction nor the fear. 

ear. Let the great gods, 
That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads, 
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, 
That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 
Unwhipp’d of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand ; 
Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue 
That art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake, 
That under covert and convenient seeming 
Hast practised on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, 
Rive your concealing continents, and cry 
These dreadful summoners grace. I am aman 
More sinn’d against than sinning. 

Kent. Alack, bare-headed ! 
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; 

Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest : 
Repose you there; while I to this hard house — 
More harder than the stones whereof ’t is raised ; 
Which even but now, demanding after you, 
Denied me to come in—return, and force 

Their scanted courtesy. 

Lear. My wits begin to turn. 
Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold? 
Iam cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? 
The art of our necessities is strange, [hovel. 
That can make vile things precious. Come, your 
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 
That ’s sorry yet for thee. 

Fool. [Singing] He that has and a little tiny wit,— 

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,— 
Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to 

this hovel. | Hxeunt Lear and Kent. 

Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. 
Ill speak a prophecy ere I go: 

When priests are more in word than matter ; 

When brewers mar their malt with water; 

When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; 

No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors ; 

When every case in law is right; 

No squire in debt, nor no poor knight ; 

When slanders do not live in tongues; 

Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; 

When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; 

And bawds and whores do churches build; 

Then shall the realm of Albion 

Come to great confusion: 

Then comes the time, who lives to see ’t, 

That going shall be used with feet. 

This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before 
his time. [ Hevit. 


SCENE III.— Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Gloucester and Edmund. 


Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this un- 
natural dealing. When I desired their leave that I 
might pity him, they took from me the use of mine 
own house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual 
displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for 
him, nor any way sustain him, 


LEAR SCENE IV. 


idm. Most savage and unnatural! 

Glou. Go to; say you nothing. There’s a divi- 
sion betwixt the dukes; and a worse matter than 
that: I have received a letter this night; ’tis dan- 
gerous to be spoken; I have locked the letter in my 
closet: these injuries the king now bears will be re- 
venged home; there’s part of a power already foot- 
ed: we must incline to the king. I will seek him, 
and privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk 
with the duke, that my charity be not of him per- 
ceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. 
Though I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the 
king my old master must be relieved. There is 
some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be 
careful. Exit. 

Hdm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke 
Instantly know; and of that letter too: 

This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me 
That which my father loses; no less than all: 
The younger rises when the old doth fall. [ Heit. 


SCENE IV.—The heath. Before a hovel. 


Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. 


Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, 
The tyranny of the open night’s toorough [enter: 
For nature to endure. [Storm still. 

Lear. Let me alone. 

JIckent. Good my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Wilt break my heart ? 

Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good my 

lord, enter. [tious storm 

Lear. Thou think’st ’tis much that this conten- 
Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee; 

But where the greater malady is fix’d, 

The lesser is scarce felt. Thou ’ldst shun a bear; 

But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, 

Thou ’ldst meet the bear i’? the mouth. When the 
mind’s free, 

The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind 

Doth from my senses take all feeling else 

Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! 

Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand 

For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home: 

No, I will weep no more. In such a night 

To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. 

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! 

Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,— 

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; 

No more of that. 

sent. Good my lord, enter here. 

Lear. Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease: 
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 
On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. 
[To the Fool] In, boy; go first. You houseless 

poverty — 
Nay, get thee in. Ill pray, and then Ill sleep. 

[fool goes in. 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, | 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en 
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; 
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, 
And show the heavens more just. 

Edgq. { Within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! 
Poor Tom! 

[The Fool runs out from the hovel. 

Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. 
Help me, help me! 

Kent. Give me thy hand. Who’s there? 

‘ Fool. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name ’s poor 
om. 

Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i 
the straw? Come forth. 


709 


KING 


ACT Lit. 


LEAR. SCENE IV. 


Enter Edgar disguised as a madman. 


Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me! 

Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. 
Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. 

Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters ? 
And art thou come to this? 

Edg. Who gives any thing to poor Tom? whom 
the foul fiend hath led through fire and through 
flame, and through ford and whirlipool, o’er bog and 
quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, 
and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; 
made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting- 
horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own 
shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s 
a-cold,— O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from 
whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor 
Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: 
there could I have him now,—and there,—and 
there again, and there. [Storm still. 

Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to 

this pass ? all ? 
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them 

Fool. Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had 
been all shamed. [air 

Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous 
Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters! 

Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. nature 

Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued 

To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. 
Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers 
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh ? 
Judicious punishment! ’t was this flesh begot 
Those pelican daughters. 

Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill: 
Halloo, halloo, loo, loo! 

Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and 
madmen. 

Edg. Take heed o’ the foul fiend: obey thy pa- 
rents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit 
not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet 
heart on proud array. Toms a-cold. 

Lear. What hast thou been ? 

Edg. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; 
that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served 
the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of 
darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake 
words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven: 
one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked 
to do it: wine loved I deeply, dice dearly: and in 
woman out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, 
light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in 
stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion 
in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the 
rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman: 
keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of 
plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the 
foul fiend. 

Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: 

Says suum, mun, ha, no, nonny. 

Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by. 
[Storm still. 

Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to 
answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of 
the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider 
him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast 
no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. 
Ha! here’s three on ’s are sophisticated! Thou art 
the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more 
but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. 
Off, off, you lendings! come, unbutton here. 

[ Tearing off his clothes. 

Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented ; *tisanaughty 
night to swim in. Nowa little fire in a wild field 
were like an old lecher’s heart; a small spark, all 
the rest on ’s body cold. Look. here comes a walk- 
ing fire. 

710 


Enter Gloucester, with a torch. 


Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he 
begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he 
gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and 
makes the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and 
hurts the poor creature of earth. 

S. Withold footed thrice the old ; 

He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold; 
Bid her alight, 
And her troth plight, 

And, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee! 

Kent. How fares your grace ? 

Lear. What ’s he? 

Kent. Who’s there? What is’t you seek ? 

Glou. What are you there? Your names? 

Edg. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, 
the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt and the water; 
that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend 
rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old 
rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of 
the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to 
tithing, and stock-punished, and imprisoned; wh 
hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to hi 
body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear; 

But mice and rats, and such small deer, 
Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. 
RAE Rye ei Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou 
end! 

Glou. What, hath your grace no better company ? 

Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman : 
Modo he’s eall’d, and Mahu. [lord, 

Glou. Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my 
That it doth hate what gets it. 

Edg. Poor Tom’s a-cold. 

Glou. Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer 
To obey in all your daughters’ hard commands: 
Though their injunction be to bar my doors, 

And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, 
Yet have I ventured to come seek you out, 
And bring you where both fire and food is ready. 

Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. 
What is the cause of thunder ? [house. 

Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into the 

Lear. 1’ll talk a word with this same learned 
What is your study ? [Theban. 

Edg. How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin. 

Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. 

Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord; 
His wits begin to unsettle. 

Glou. Canst thou blame him? [Storm still. 
His daughters seek his death: ah, that good Kent! 
He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! 
Thou say’st the king grows mad; I ll tell thee, friend, 
I am almost mad myself: I had a son, 

Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life, 
But lately, very late: I loved him, friend ; 

No father his son dearer: truth to tell thee, 

The grief hath crazed my wits. What anight’sthis ? 
I do beseech your grace,— 

Lear. O, ery you mercy, sir. 
Noble philosopher, your company. 

Edg. Tom’s a-cold. [warm. 

Glou. In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee 

Lear. Come, let ’s in all. 

Kent. 

Lear. 

I will keep still with my philosopher. i 

Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take 

the fellow. 

Glou. Take him you on. 

Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. 

Lear. Come, good Athenian. 

Glou. No words, no words: hush. 

Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came, 

His word was still,— Fie, foh, and fum, 
I smell the blood of a British man. [Evewnt. 


This way, my lord. 
With him; 


~~ el 


eS! 
~~ 
— 


KING LEAR.—Aect III., Scene iv. 


——— 
ee 


Se fi 


THOS 


LOA 
NY tT mn ’ 


ACT ITl. 


LEAR. 


SCENE VI. 


SCENE V.— Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Cornwall and Edmund. 


Corn. I will have my revenge ere I depart his 
10use. 

Edm. How, my lord, I may be censured, that 
nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears 
me to think of. 

Oorn. I now perceive, it was not altogether your 
brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death ; 
but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable 
badness in himself. 

Edm. How malicious is my fortune, that I must 
repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, 
which approves him an intelligent party to the ad- 
vantages of France. O heavens! that this treason 
were not, or not I the detector! 

Corn. Go with me to the duchess. 

Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you 
have mighty business in hand. 

Corn. True or false, it hath made thee earl of 
Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he 
may be ready for our apprehension. 

EKdm. | Aside] If I find him comforting the king, 
it will stuff his suspicion more fully.—I will per- 
severe in my course of loyalty, though the conflict 
be sore between that and my blood. 

Corn. I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt 
find a dearer father in my love. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI.—A chamber in a farmhouse adjoining 
the castle. 


Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and 
Edgar. 


Glou. Here is better than the open air; take it 
thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what 
addition I can: I will not be long from you. 

Kent. All the power of his wits have given way 
to his impatience: the gods reward your kindness! 

[ EHxit Gloucester. 

Kdg. Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is 
an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, 
and beware the foul fiend. 

Fool. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman 
be a gentleman or a yeoman ? 

Lear. A king, a king! 

Fool. No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to 
his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a 
gentleman before him. 

Lear. To have a thousand with red burning spits 
Come hissing in upon ’em,— 

Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. 

Fool. He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a 
wolf,ahorse’s health, a boy’s love, ora whore’s oath. 

Lear. It shall be done; I willarraign them straight. 
[To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned jus- 


ticer ; [she foxes! 
[To the Fool] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you 

Edg. Look, where he stands and glares! Want- 
est thou eyes at trial, madam ? 

Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me,— 

Fool. Her boat hath a leak, 

And she must not speak 
Why she dares not come over to thee. 

Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the 
voice of a nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom’s 
belly for two white herring. Croak not, black 
angel; I have no food for thee. 

Kent. How do you, sir? Stand you not soamazed: 
Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions ? 

Lear. Ill see their trial first. Bring in the evi- 

ence. place; 
[To Edgar| Thou robed man of justice, take thy 
[To the Fool| And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, 
Bench by his side: [To Kent] you are 0’ the com- 
Sit you too. [mission, 


Edg. Let us deal justly. 
Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd ? 
Thy sheep be in the corn ; 
And for one blast of thy minikin mouth, 
Thy sheep shall take no harm. 
Pur! the cat is gray. 

Lear. Arraign her first; tis Goneril. I here 
take my oath before this honourable assembly, she 
kicked the poor king her father. 

Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is you name Gon- 

Lear. She cannot deny it. [eril ? 

Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. 

Lear. And here’s another, whose warp’d looks 

proclaim 
What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! 
Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place! 
False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape ? 

Edg. Bless thy five wits! 

Kent. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now, 
That you so oft have boasted to retain ? 

Edg. [Aside] My tears begin to take his part so 
They 71] mar my counterfeiting. [much, 

Lear. The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me. 

Edg. Tom will throw his head atthem. Avaunt, 
you curs! 

Be thy mouth or black or white, 

Tooth that poisons if it bite; 

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, 

Hound or spaniel, brach or lym, 

Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, 

Tom will make them weep and wail: 

For, with throwing thus my head, 

Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. 
Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and 
fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. 

Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan; see what 
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in 
nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar] 
You, sir, I entertain for one of my hundred; only 
Ido not like the fashion of your garments: you 
will say they are Persian attire; but let them be 
changed. 

Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. 

Lear. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the 
curtains: so,so,so. We’ll goto supper i’ the morn- 
a So. so, so. 

ool. And Ill go to bed at noon. 


Re-enter Gloucester. 


Glou. Come hither, friend: where is the king my 

master ? [gone, 

Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are 

Glou. Good friend, I prithee, take him inthy arms; 
I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him: 

There is a litter ready; lay him in’t, [meet 
And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt 
Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master: 
If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, 

With thine, and all that offer to defend him, 
Stand in assured loss: take up, take up; 

And follow me, that will to some provision 

Give thee quick conduct. 

Kent. Oppressed nature sleeps: 
This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken senses, 
Which, if convenience will not allow, 

Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool] Come, help to 
bear thy master ; 
Thou must not stay behind. 

Glou. Come, come, away. 
[Exeunt all but Hdgar. 

Edg. When we our betters see bearing our woes, 
We scarcely think our miseries our foes. 

Who alone suffers suffers most i’ the mind, 
Leaving free things and happy shows behind: 
But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip, 
When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 


yg 


ACT III. KING LEAR. SCENE VII. 


How light and portable my pain seems now, | Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, 
When that which makes me bend makes the king | Which came from one that ’s of a neutral heart, 
He childed as I father’d! Tom, away! [bow, | And not from one opposed. 
Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray, Corn. Cunning. 
When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles Req. ; And false. 
thee, Corn. Where hast thou sent the king ? 
In thy just proof, repeals and reconciles thee. Glou. To Dover. 
What will hap more to-night, safe ’scape the king! fteg. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charged 
Lurk, lurk. [ Heit. at peril — 
Corn. Wherefore to Dover ? Let him first answer 
SCENE VII.— Gloucester’s castle. that. 
: Glow. Lam tied to the stake, and I must stand the 
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund, and course. 
Servants. —eg. Wherefore to Dover, sir ? 


Corn. Post speedily to my lord your husband ; Glou. Because I would not see thy cruel nails 
show him this letter: the army of France is landed. | Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister 


Seek out the villain Gloucester. In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. 
[Exeunt some of the Servants. | The sea, with such a storm as his bare head 
Reg. Hang him instantly. In hell-black night endured, would have buoy’d up, 
Gon. Pluck out his eyes. And quench’d the stelled fires : 


Oorn. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. 
keep you our sister company: the revenges we are | If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, 
bound to take upon your traitorous father are not | Thoushouldst have said ‘Good porter, turn the key,’ 
fit for your beholding. Advise the duke, where you | All cruels else subscribed: but I shall see 
are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are | The winged vengeance overtake such children. 


bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and in- Corn. See ’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the 
telligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister: fare- | Upon these eyes of thine Ill set my foot. _[chair. 
well, my lord of Gloucester. Glou. He that will think to live till he be old, 
Give me some help! Ocruel! O you gods! 
Enter Oswald. Reg. One side will mock another; the other too. 
How now! where’s the king ? [hence: Corn. If you see vengeance,— 
Osw. My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him First Serv. Hold your hand, my lord « 
Some five or six and thirty of his knights, I have served you ever since I was a child ; 
Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; But better service have I never done you 
Who, with some other of the lords dependants, Than now to bid you hold, 
Are gone with him towards Dover; where they boast eg. How now, you dog! 
To have well-armed friends. First Serv. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, 
Corn. Get horses for your mistress. | I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean ? 
(fon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. Oorn. My villain ! [They draw and fight. 
Corn. Edmund, farewell. First Serv. Nay, then, come on, and take the 
| Hxeunt Goneril, Edmund, and Oswald. chance of anger. {thus! 
Go seek the traitor Gloucester, fieg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up 
Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Takes a sword, and runs at him behind. 
| Hxeunt other Servants. First Serv. O, I am slain! My lord, you have 
Though well we may not pass upon his life one eye left 
Without the form of justice, yet our power To see some mischief on him. O! [ Dies. 
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly ! 
May blame, but not control. Who’s there? the} Where is thy lustre now ? Hadrian ? 
traitor ? Glow. Alldark and comfortless. Where ’s my son 
Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three. Frsanit thie hotell ps ee ee 
Reg. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he. eg. Out, treacherous villain! 
Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he 
Glou. What mean your graces ? Good my friends, | That made the overture of thy treasons to us; 
consider Who is too good to pity thee. 
You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends. Glow. O my follies! then Edgar was abused. 
Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him. | Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! 
Reg. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell 
Glow. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none. His way to Dover. [Hwit one with Gloucester.| How 
Corn. To thischair bind him. Villain, thou shalt is’t, my lord ? how look you? 
find — | Regan plucks his beard. Corn. I have received a hurt : follow me, lady. 
Glou. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done | Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave 
To pluck me by the beard. Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: 
Keg. So white, and such a traitor ! Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm. 
Glow. Naughty lady, [Exit Cornwall, led by Regan. 
These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin, Sec. Serv. Ill never care what wickedness I do, 
Will quicken, and accuse thee: I am your host: If this man come to good. 
With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours Third Serv. If she jive long, 
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? And in the end meet the old course of death, 
Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from | Women will all turn monsters. [Bedlam 
France ? Sec. Serv. Let’s follow the old earl, and get the 


fteg. Be simple answerer, for we know the truth. | To lead him where he would: his roguish madness 
Corn. And what confederacy have you with the | Allows itself to any thing. 


traitors Third Serv. Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and 
Late footed in the kingdom ? whites of eggs 
fteg. 'To whose hands have you sent the lunatic To apply to his bleeding face. Now, heaven help 


Speak. [king ? 
712 


him! | Hxeunt severally. 


ACT TY. 


KING LEAR. 


SCENE II. 


AGT IV. 


SCENE I.— The heath. 


Enter Edgar. 


Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, 
Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, 
The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, 
Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: 

The lamentable change is from the best ; 

The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then, 
Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace! 

The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst 
Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here ? 


Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man. 


My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! 
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, 
Life would not yield to age. 

Old Man. O, my good lord, I have been your 
tenant, and your father’s tenant, these fourscore 
years. 

Glou. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone: 
Thy comforts can do me no good at all; 

Thee they may hurt. 

Old Man. Alack, sir, you cannot see your way. 

Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; 
I stumbled when I saw: full oft ’t is seen, 

Our means secure us, and our mere defects 
Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, 
The food of thy abused father’s wrath ! 
Might I but live to see thee in my touch, 

I ‘ld say I had eyes again! 

Old Man. How now! Who’s there? 

Edg. [Aside] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at 
I am worse than e’er I was. [the worst ’ ? 

Old Man. *T is poor mad Tom. 

Edg. [Aside] And worse I may be yet: the worst 


So long as we can say ‘ This is the worst.’ _ [is not 
Old Man. Fellow, where goest ? 
Glou. Is it a beggar-man ? 


Old Man. Madman and beggar too. 

Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. 
V’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; 
Which made me think a man a worm: my son 
Came then into my mind; and yet my mind 
Was then scarce friends with him; I have heard 

more since. 
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods, 
They kill us for their sport. 
dg. | Aside] How should this be ? 
Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, 
Angering itself and others. — Bless thee, master! 

Glou. Is that the naked fellow ? 

Old Man. Ay, my lord. 

Glou. Then, prithee, get thee gone: if, formy sake, 
Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain, 

I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love; 
And bring some covering for this naked soul, 
Who I?ll entreat to lead me. 
Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad. 
Glou. "Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead 
the blind. 
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; 
Above the rest, be gone. 

Old Man. 1’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, 
Come on ’t what will. [ Heit. 

Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow,— 

Edg. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside] I cannot daub 

it further. 

Glou. Come hither, fellow. 

Edg. [Aside] And yet I must.— Bless thy sweet 

eyes, they bleed. 

Glou. Know’st thou the way to Dover ? 

Edg. Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot- 
path. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good 


wits: bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! 

five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, 

as Obidicut; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness ; 

Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; ’Flibberti- 

gibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since pos- 

sesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless 
thee, master! 
Glou. Here, take this purse, thou whom the 
heavens’ plagues 

Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched 

Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still! 

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, 

That slaves your ordinance, that will not see 

Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly ; 

So distribution should undo excess, 

And each man have enough. Dost thou know 
Edg. Ay, master. [Dover ? 
Glou. There isa cliff, whose high and bending head 

Looks fearfully in the confined deep: 

Bring me but to the very brim of it, 

And Ill repair the misery thou dost bear — 

With something rich about me: from that place 

I shall no leading need. 

Eadg. Give me thy arm: 

Poor Tom shall lead thee. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Before the Duke of Albany’s palace. 


Enter Goneril and Edmund. 


Gon. Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild hus- 
Not met us on the way. [band 


Enter Oswald. 


Now, where’s your master ? 
Osw. Madam, within ; but never man so changed. 
I told him of the army that was landed; 
He smiled at it: I told him you were coming; 
His answer was ‘The worse:’ of Gloucester’s 
And of the loyal service of his son, [treachery, 
When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, 
And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out: 
What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him ; 
What like, offensive. 
Gon. [Zo Edm.] Then shall you go no further. 
Tt is the cowish terror of his spirit, 
That dares not undertake: he ’l] not feel wrongs 
Which tie him to ananswer. Our wishes on the way 
May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother ; 
Hasten his musters and conduct his powers: 
I must change arms at home, and give the distaff 
Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant 
Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear, 
If you dare venture in your own behalf, 
A mistress’s command. Wear this; spare speech; 
[Giving a favour. 
Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak, 
Would stretch thy spirits up into the air: 
Conceive, and fare thee well. 
Edm, Yours in the ranks of death. 
Gon. My most dear Gloucester ! 
| Hoit Edmund. 
O, the difference of man and man! 
To thee a woman’s services are due: 
My fool usurps my body. 


Osw. Madam, here comes my to. 
yet. 
Enter the Duke of Albany. 
Gon. I have been worth the whistle. 
Alb. O Goneril! 


You are not worth the dust which the rude wind 
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition: 
That nature, which contemns its origin. 

Cannot be border’d certain in itself : 

She that herself will sliver and disbranch 


718 


ACT LV: 


From her material sap, perforce must wither 
And come to deadly use. 

Gon. No more; the text is foolish. 

Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile: 
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done ? 
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d ? 
A father, and a gracious aged man, [lick, 
Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would 
Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded. 
Could my good brother suffer you to do it ? 

A man, a prince, by him so benefited! 

If that the heavens do not their visible spirits 
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, 
It will come, 

Humanity must perforce prey on itself, 

Like monsters of the deep. 

Gon. Milk-liver’d man! 
That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; 
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning 
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st 
Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d 
Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy 

drum ? 
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land ; 
With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats ; 
Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit’st still, and criest 
‘Alack, why does he so?’ 

Alb. See thyself, devil! 
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend 
So horrid as in woman. 

on. O vain fool! [shame, 

Alb. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for 
Be-monster not thy feature. Were ’t my fitness 
To let these hands obey my blood, 
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear 
Thy flesh and bones: howe’er thou art a fiend, 
A woman’s shape doth shield thee. 

Gon. Marry, your manhood now — 


Enter a Messenger. 


Alb. What news ? [dead ; 

Mess. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s 
Slain by his servant, going to put out 
The other eye of Gloucester. 

Alb. Gloucester’s eyes ! 

Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with re- 

morse, 
Opposed against the act, bending his sword 
To his great master; who, thereat enraged, 
Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead ; 
But not without that harmful stroke, which since 
Hath pluck’d him after. 

Alb. This shows you are above, 
You justicers, that these our nether crimes 
So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester ! 
Lost he his other eye ? 

Mess. Both, both, my lord. 

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer ; 
*T is from your sister. 

Gon. [Aside] One way I like this well; 
But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, 
May all the building in my fancy pluck 
Upon my hateful life: another way, . 

The news is not so tart.— I ll read, and answer. 
[ Heit. 

Alb. Where was his son when they did take his 

Mess. Come with my lady hither. [eyes ? 

Alb. He is not here. 

Mess. No, my good lord; I met him back again. 

Alb. Knows he the wickedness ? [him ; 

Mess. Ay, my good lord ; ’*t was he inform’d against 
And quit the house on purpose, that their punish- 
Might have the freer course. [ment 

Alb. Gloucester, I live 
To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the king, 
And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend: 
Tell me what more thou know’st. [ Exeunt. 


714 


KING LEAS 


SCENE IV 


SCENE III.—The French camp near Dover. 


Enter Kent and a Gentleman. 


Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly 
gone back know you the reason ? 

Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, 
which since his coming forth is thought of; which 
imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, 
that his personal return was most required and 
necessary. 

Kent. Who hath he left behind him general ? 

Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far. 

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any 
demonstration of grief ? [presence ; 

Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my 
And now and then an ample tear trill’?d down 
Her delicate cheek: it seem’d she was a queen 
Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, 

Sought to Be king o’er her. \ 

Kent. O, then it moved her. 

Gent. Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove 
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen 
Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears 
Were like a better way: those happy smilets, 

That play’d on her ripe lip, seem’d not to know 
What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, 
As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, 
Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved, 
If all could so become it. 
Kent. Made she no verbal question ? 
Gent. Faith, once or twice she heaved the name 
of ‘ father ’ 
Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart: 
Cried ‘Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! 
Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the 
Let pity not be believed!’ There sheshook [night? 
The holy water from her heavenly eyes, 
And clamour moisten’d: then away she started 
To deal with grief alone. 
Kent. It is the stars, 
The stars above us, govern our conditions; 
Else one self mate and mate could not beget 
Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? 

Gent. No. 

Kent. Was this before the king return’d ? 

Gent. No, since. 

Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear ’s i’ the 
Whosometime, in his better tune, remembers [town; 
What we are come about, and by no means 
Will yield to see his daughter. 

Gent. Why, good sir? 

Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own 

unkindness, 
That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her 
To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights 
To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting 
His mind so venomously, that burning shame 
Detains him from Cordelia. 

Gent. Alack, poor gentleman ! 

Kent. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you 

Gent. "Tis so, they are afoot. [heard not ? 

Kent. Well, sir, Ill bring you to our master Lear, 
And leave you to attend him: some dear cause 
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile; 

When I am known aright, you shall not grieve 
Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go 
Along with me. [| Hxewnt, 


SCENE IV.— The same. A tent. 


Enter, with drum and colours, Cordelia, Doctor 
and Soldiers. 


Cor. Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now 
As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud ; 
Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds. 
With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 


ACT oLi¥ 


In our sustaining corn. A century send forth ; 
Search every acre in the high-grown field, 
And bring him to our eye. [Hxit an Officer.]| What 
can man’s wisdom 
In the restoring his bereaved sense ? 
He that helps him take all my outward worth. 
Doct. There is means, madam: 
Our foster-nurse of nature is repose, 
The which he lacks; that to provoke in him, 
Are many simples operative, whose power 
Will close the eye of anguish. 
Cor. All blest secrets, 
All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, 
Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate 
In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him ; 
Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life 
That wants the means to lead it. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mes. News, madam; 
The British powers are marching hitherward. 

Cor. "Tis known before; our preparation stands 
In expectation of them. O dear father, 
It is thy business that I go about ; 
Therefore great France 
My mourning and important tears hath pitied. 
No blown ambition doth our arms incite, 
But love, dear love, and our aged father’s right : 
Soon may I hear and see him! [ Heunt. 


F = SCENE V.— Gloucester’s castle. 


Enter Regan and Oswald. 


Reg. But are my brother’s powers set forth ? 
Osw. Ay, madam. 
Reg. Himself in person there ? 

Osw. Madam, with much ado: 
Your sister is the better soldier. 

Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at 

home ? 

Osw. No, madam. [him ? 

Reg. What might import my sister’s letter to 

Osw. I know not, lady. 

Reg. ’Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. 
It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, 
To let him live: where he arrives he moves 
All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone, 
In pity of his misery, to dispatch 
His nighted life; moreover, to descry 
The strength o’ the enemy. (letter. 

Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my 

Feg. Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with 
The ways are dangerous. [us; 

Osw. I may not, madam: 

My lady charged my duty in this business. 
fteg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might 
not you 
Transport her purposes by word? Belike, 
Something—I know not what: I’ll love thee much, 
Let me unseal the letter. 

Osw. Madam, I had rather — 

fteg. I know your lady does not love her husband ; 
J am sure of that: and at her late being here 
She gave strange ceillades and most speaking looks 
To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. 

Osw. I, madam ? 

Reg. Ispeak in understanding ; youare, I know’t: 
Therefore I do advise you, take this note: 

My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d; 

And more convenient is he for my hand 

Than for your lady’s: you may gather more. 

If you do find him, pray you, give him this; 

And when your mistress hears thus much from you, 
I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her. 

So, fare you well. 

If you do chance to hear.of that blind traitor, 
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. 


FOE Gi) DATS. 


SCENE VI. 


Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I should 
What party I do follow. [show 


Reg. Fare thee well. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE VI. — Fields near Dover. 


Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a 
peasant. 
Glou. When shall we come to the top of that 
same hill ? [bour. 
Edg. You do climb up it now: look, how we la- 
Glow. Methinks the ground is even. 


Edq. Horrible steep. 
Hark, do you hear the sea ? 
Glow. No, truly. 


Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect 
By your eyes’ anguish. 

Glou. So may it be, indeed: 
Methinks thy voice is alter’d ; and thou speak’st 
In better phrase and matter than thou didst. 

Edg. You’re much deceived: in nothing am I 
But in my garments. [changed, 

Glou. Methinks you ’re better spoken. 

dg. Come on, sir; here ’s the place: stand still. 

How fearful 
And dizzy ’t is, to cast one’s eyes so low! 
The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half-way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade! 
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: 
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 
Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, 
Diminish’d to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge, 
That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes, 
Cannot be heard so high. I’ look no more; 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong. 

Glou. Set me where you stand. 

cee Give me your hand: you are now within a 

oot 


Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon 
Would I not leap upright. 

Glou. Let go my hand. 
Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel 
Well worth a poor man’s taking: fairies and gods 
Prosper it with thee! Go thou farther off; 

Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. 

Edg. Now fare you well, good sir. 

Glou. With all my heart. 

Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair 
Is done to cure it. 

Glou. [Kneeling] O you mighty gods! | 
This world I do renounce, and, in your sights, 
Shake patiently my great affliction off: 

If I could bear it longer, and not fall | 

To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, 

My snuff and loathed part of nature should 

Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! 
Now, fellow, fare thee well. [He falls forward. 

Edg. Gone, sir: farewell. 
And yet I know not how conceit may rob 
The treasury of life, when life itself 
Yields to the theft: had he been where he thought, 
By this, had thought been past. Alive or dead ? 
Ho, you sir! friend! Here you, sir! speak! 

Thus might he pass indeed: yet ‘he revives. 
What are you, sir? 

Glou. Away, and let me die. 

Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feath- 
So many fathom down precipitating, [ers, air, 
Thou ’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost 

breathe ; 
Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art 
Ten masts at each make not thealtitude [sound. 
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell: 
Thy life ’s a miracle. Speak yet again 
715 


ACT IV. KING 


LEAR. SCENE V1. 


Glow. But have I fall’n, or no? 

Edgy. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. 
Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far 
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up. 

Glou. Alack, I have no eyes. 

Is wretchedness deprived that benefit, 

To end itself by death? ’T was yet some comfort, 
When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage, 

And frustrate his proud will. 


Edq. Give me your arm: 
Up: so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You 
Glou. Too well, too well. (stand. 


Edq. This is above all strangeness. 
Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was that 
Which parted from you? 

Glou. A poor unfortunate beggar. 

Edg. As I stood here below, methought his eyes 
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, 
Horns whelk’d and waved like the enridged sea: 

It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father, 
Think that the clearest gods, who make them hon- 
Of men’s impossibilities, have preserved thee. [ours 

Glou. I do remember now: henceforth I 711 bear 
Affliction till it do cry out itself 
‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak 
I took it fora man; often *t would say lof, 
‘The fiend, the fiend :’ he led me to that place. 

Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who 

comes here ? 


Enter Lear, fantastically dressed with wild flowers. 


The safer sense will ne’er accommodate 
His master thus. 

Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coining; I 
am the king himself. 

Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! 

Lear. Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s 
your press-money. ‘That fellow handles his bow 
like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. 
Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace; this piece of 
toasted cheese will do’t. There ’s my gauntlet; Ill 
prove it ona giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, 
well flown, bird! i’ the clout, i’ the clout: hewgh! 
Give the word. 

Edg. Sweet marjoram. 

Lear. Pass. 

Glou. I know that voice. 

Lear. Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They 
flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white 
hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. 
To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to every thing that I said!— 
‘Ay’ and ‘no’ too was no good divinity. When 
the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to 
make me chatter; when the thunder would not 
peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I 
smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their 
words: they told me I was every thing; ’t is a lie, I 
am not ague-proof. 

Glou. The trick of that voice I do well remem- 
Is *t not the king ? [ber : 

Lear. Ay, every inch a king: 

When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. 
I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause ? 
Adultery ? 
Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: 
The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly 
Does lecher in my sight. 
Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester’s bastard son 
Was kinder to his father than my daughters 
Got ’tween the lawful sheets. ‘ 
To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. 
Behold yond simpering dame, 
Whose face between her forks presages snow; 
That minces virtue, and does shake the head 
To hear of pleasure’s name; 
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to ’t 
With a more riotous appetite. 

716 


Down from the waist they are Centaurs, 

Though women all above: 

But to the girdle do the gods inherit, 

Beneath is all the fiends, 

There ’s hell, there ’s darkness, there ’s the sulphur- 
ous pit, 

Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, 

fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good 

apothecary, to sweeten my imagination: there’s 

money for thee. 

Glou. O, let me kiss that hand! 

Lear. Let me wipe it first ; it smells of mortality. 

Glou. O ruin’d piece of nature! This great world 
Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me? 

Lear. 1 remember thine eyes well enough. Dost 
thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind 
Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; 
mark but the penning of it. fone. 

Glou. Were all the letters suns, I could not see 

Edg. I would not take this from report; it is, 
And my heart breaks at it. 

Lear. Read. 

Glou. What, with the case of eyes ? 

Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes 
in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your 
eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light: yet 
you see how this world goes. 

Glou. I see it feelingly. 

Lear. What,art mad? A man may see how this 
world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: 
see how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. 
Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy- 
dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? 
Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar ? 

Glou. Ay, sir. 

Lear. And the creature run from the cur? There 
thou mightst behold the great image of authority: 
a dog ’s obeyed in office. 

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!  [back; 
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own 
Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind [cozener. 
For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the 
Through tatter’d clothes small vices do appear; 
Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, 
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks ; 
Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it. 
None does offend, none, I say, none; I ’ll able ’em: 
Take that of me, my friend, who have the power 
To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes; 
And, like a scurvy politician, seem [now: 
To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, 
Pull off my boots: harder, harder: so. 

Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix’d! 
Reason in madness! 

Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. 
I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester: 
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: 
Thou know’st, the first time that we smell the air, 
We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. 

Glou. Alack, alack the day! [come 

Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are 
To this great stage of fools: this a good block; 

It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe 

A troop of horse with felt: 17] put ’t in proof; 
And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law, 
Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! 


Enter a Gentleman, with Attendants. 


Gent. O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir, 
Your most dear daughter— 
Lear. Norescue? What,aprisoner? I am even 
The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; 
You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; 
I am cut to the brains. 
Gent. You shall have any thing. 
Lear. No seconds ? all myself ? 
Why, this would make a man a man of salt, 


ACT IV. KING 


To use his eyes for garden water-pots, 


Ay, and laying autumn’s dust. 
Gent. Good sir,— 
Lear. I will die bravely, like a bridegroom. What! 
I will be jovial: come, come; Iam a king, 
My masters, know you that. 
Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey you. 
Lear. Then there’s life in ’t. Nay, if you get it, 
you shall get it with running. Sa, sa, sa, sa. 
[Exit running; Attendants follow. 
Gent. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, 
Past speaking of ina king! Thou hast one daughter, 
Who redeems nature from the general curse 
Which twain have brought her to. 
Edg. Hail, gentle sir. 
Gent. Sir, speed you: what ’s your will ? 
Edg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? 
Gent. Most sure and vulgar: every one hears that, 
Which can distinguish sound. 
lq. But, by your favour, 
How near’s the other army ? 
Gent. Near and on speedy foot; the main descry 
Stands on the hourly thought. 
Edg. I thank you, sir: that’s all. 
Gent. Though that the queen on special cause is 
Her army is moved on. [here, 
Edg. I thank you, sir. 
[Exit Gent. 
Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from 
Let not my worser spirit tempt me again [me ; 
To die before you please! 
Edg. Well pray you, father. 
Glou. Now, good sir, what are you? blows; 
Edg. A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s 
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, 
Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, 
Ill lead you to some biding. 
lou. Hearty thanks: 
The bounty and the benison of heaven 
To boot, and boot! 


Enter Oswald. 


Osw. A proclaim’d prize! Most happy! 
That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh 
To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, 
Briefly thyself remember: the sword is out 
That must destroy thee. 


Glou. Now let thy friendly hand 
Put strength enough to ’t. [ Hdgar interposes. 
Osw. Wherefore, bold peasant, 


Darest thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; 
Lest that the infection of his fortune take 
Like hold on thee.. Let go his arm. 

Edg. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion. 

Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest ! 

Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor 
volk pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my 
life, ’t would not ha’ bin zo long as ’t is by a vort- 
night. Nay,come not near th’ old man; keep out, 
che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my 
ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you. 

Osw. Out, dunghill! 

Edg. Chill pick your teeth, zir: come; no matter 
vor your foins. 

[They fight, and Edgar knocks him down. 

Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me: villain, take my 
If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; [purse : 
And give the letters which thou find’st about me 
To Edmund earl of Gloucester; seek him out 
Upon the British party: O, untimely death! [Dies. 

Edg. I know thee well: a serviceable villain ; 

As duteous to the vices of thy mistress 
As badness would desire. 

Glou. What, is he dead ? 

Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you. 

Let ’s see these pockets : the letters that he speaks of 
May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry 


LbDAR: SCENE VII. 


He had no other death’s-man. Let us see: 

Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not: 
To Know our enemies’ minds, we ’Id rip their hearts; 
Their papers, is more lawful. 

[ Reads] ‘ Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. 
You have many opportunities to cut him off: if 
your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully 
offered. There is nothing done, if he return the 
conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my 
gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, 
and supply the place for your labour. 

‘ Your — wife, so I would say — 
‘ Affectionate servant, 
‘GONERIL.’ 
O undistinguish’d space of woman’s will! 
A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life; 
And the exchange my brother! Here, in the sands, 
Thee [ll rake up, the post unsanctified 
Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time 
With this ungracious paper strike the sight 
Of the death-practised duke; for him ’t is well 
That of thy death and business I can tell. 

Glou. The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, 
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling 
Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: 

So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs, 
And woes by wrong imaginations lose 
The knowledge of themselves. 
Edg. Give me your hand: 
[Drum afar off. 
Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum: 
Come, father, I ll bestow you with a friend. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII.—A tent in the French camp. Lear 
on a bed asleep, soft music playing; Gentleman, 
and others attending. 


Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Doctor. 


Cor. Othou good Kent, how shall I live and work, 
To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, 
And every measure fail me. 

Kent. To be acknowledged, madam, is o’erpaid. 
All my reports go with the modest truth ; 

Nor more nor clipp’d, but so. 

Cor. Be better suited : 
These weeds are memories of those worser hours: 

I prithee, put them off. 

Kent. Pardon me, dear madam ; 
Yet to be known shortens my made intent: 

My boon I make it, that you know me not 
Till time and I think meet. 
Cor. Then be’t so,my good lord. [Zo the Doctor] 
How does the king ? 
Doct. Madam, sleeps still. 
Cor. O you kind gods, 
Cure this great breach in his abused nature ! 
The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up 
Of this child-changed father ! 

Doct. So please your majesty 
That we may wake the king: he hath slept long. 

Cor. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed 
I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d ? 

Gent. Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep 
We put fresh garments on him. 

Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ; 
I doubt not of his temperance. 

Cor. Very well. [there! 

Doct. Please you, draw near. Louder the music 

Cor. O my dear father! Restoration hang 
Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made! ; 

Kent. Kind and dear princess ! 

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white 

flakes 
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face 


(ayy 


LOT 


To be opposed against the warring winds ? 
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder ? 
In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning ? to watch—poor perdu !— 
With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, 
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn, 
In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 
°T is wonder that thy life and wits at once 
Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him. 
Doct. Madam, do you; ’tis fittest. [majesty ? 
Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your 
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the 
Thou art a soul in bliss; but Iam bound [grave: 
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 
Cor. Sir, do you know me ? 
Lear. Youare a spirit, I know: when did you die ? 
Oor. Still, still, far wide! 
Doct. He’s searce awake: let him alone awhile. 
Lear. Where haveI been? WhereamI? Fair 
daylight ? ; 
IT am mightily abused. I should e’en die with pity, 
To see another thus. I know not what to say. 
I will not swear these are my hands: let ’s see; 
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
Of my condition! 
Cor. O, look upon me, sir, 
And hold your hands in benediction o’er me: 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 
Lear. Pray, do not mock me: 
IT am a very foolish fond old man, 
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; 
And, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you, and know this man; 
Yet Iam doubtful: for Iam mainly ignorant 


KING LEAR. 


SCENE 1. 


| What place this is; and all the skill I have 


Remembers not these garments; nor I know not 

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; 

For, as Iam a man, I think this lady 

To be my child Cordelia. 
Cor. And so lam, Iam. 
Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes, faith. I pray, wecp 

If you have poison for me, I will drink it. [not: 

I know you do not love me; for your sisters 

Have, as I do remember, done me wrong: 

You have some cause, they have not. 


Cor. No cause, no cause. 
Lear. Am I in France? j 
Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. 


Lear. Do not abuse me. 
Doct. Be comforted, good madam: the great rage, 
You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger 
To make him even o’er the time he has lost. 
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more 
Till further settling. 
Cor. Will’t please your highness walk ? 
Lear. You must bear with me: 
Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and 
foolish. [EHveunt all but Kent and Gentleman. 
Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall 
was So slain ? 
Kent. Most certain, sir. 
Gent. Who is conductor of his people ? 
Kent. As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester. 
Gent. They say Edgar, his banished son, is with 
the Earl of Kent in Germany. 
Kent. Report is changeable. °’T is time to look 
about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace. 
Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. 
Fare you well, sir. [ Extt. 
Kent. My point and period will be throughly 
wrought, 
Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought. [zit. 


ANAS Ns 


SCENE I.—The British camp, near Dover. 


Enter, with drum and colours, Edmund, Regan, 
Gentlemen, and Soldiers. 


Edm. Know of the duke if his last purpose hold, 
Or whether since he is advised by aught 
To change the course: he’s full of alteration 
And self-reproving: bring his constant pleasure. 
[To a Gentleman, who goes out. 
Reg. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried. 
Edm. ’T is to be doubted, madam. 
Teg. Now, sweet lord, 
You know the goodness I intend upon you: 
Tell me — but truly — but then speak the truth, 
Do you not love my sister ? 
Edm. In honour’d love. 
Reg. But have you never found my brother’s way 
To the forfended place ? 
Edm. 
fteg. 1 am doubtful that you have been conjunct 
And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers. 
Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. 
Jteg. I never shall endure her: dear my lord, 
Be not familiar with her. 
Edm. : Fear me not: 
She and the duke her husband! 


Enter, with drum and colours, Albany, Goneril, 
and Soldiers. 
Gon. [Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that 
Should loosen him and me. [sister 
Alb. Our very loving sister, well be-met. 
Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter, 
With others whom the rigour of our state 


718 


That thought abuses you. |; 


Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest, 
I never yet was valiant: for this business, 
It toucheth us, as France invades our land, 
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear, 
Most just and heavy causes make oppose. 
Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. 
Reg. Why is this reason’d ? 
Gon. Combine together ’gainst the enemy ; 
For these domestic and particular broils 
Ayre not the question here. 
Alb. Let ’s then determine 
With the ancient of war on our proceedings. 
Edm. I shall attend you presently at your tent. 
fteg. Sister, you ’ll go with us? 
Gon. No. 
feg. ’T is most convenient ; pray you, go with us. 
Gon. [Aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.—I will go. 


As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised. 


Edg. if e’er your grace had speech with man so 
Hear me one word. [poor, 
Alb. Ill overtake you. Speak. 
[Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar. 
Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. 
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound 
For him that brought it: wretched though I seem, 
I can produce a champion that will prove 
What is avouched there. If you miscarry, 
Your business of the world hath so an end, 
And machination ceases. Fortune love you! 
Alb. Stay till I have read the letter. 
Eda. I was forbid it. 
When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, 
And Ill appear again. 


KING 
Alb. Why, fare thee well: I will o’erlook thy 


, Exit Hdgar. 
Paper Re-enter Edmund. as oe 


Edm. The enemy ’s in view; draw up your powers. 
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces 
By diligent discovery; but your haste 
Is now urged on you. 

Alb. We will greet the time. [Evit. 

Edm. To both these sisters have [sworn my love; 
Each jealous of the other, as the stung 
Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? 
Both ? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, 
If both remain alive: to take the widow 
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril ; 

And hardly shall I carry out my side, 

Her husband being alive. Now then we’ll use 
His countenance for the battle; which being done, 
Let her-who would be rid of him devise 

His speedy taking off. As for the mercy 
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, 
The battle done, and they within our power, 
Shall never see his pardon; for my state 
Stands on me to defend, not to debate. 


ACT V. 


[ Hicit. 
SCENH II.—A field between the two camps. 


Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, Lear, 
Cordelia, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt. 


Enter Edgar and Gloucester. 


Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree 
For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: 
If ever I return to you again, . 

Ill bring you comfort. 
Glou. Grace go with you, sir! 
[Hat Edgar. 


Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter Edgar. 


Edg. Away, old man; give me thy hand; away! 
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: 
Give me thy hand; come on. 

Glou. No farther, sir; a man may rot even here. 

Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must 

endure | 
Their going hence, even as their coming hither: 
Ripeness is all: come on. 
Glou. And that’s true too. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—The British camp near Dover. 


Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, Edmund; 
‘Lear and Cordelia, prisoners ; Captain, Soldiers, &c. 


Edm. Some officers take them away: good guard, 
Until their greater pleasures first be known 
That are to censure them. 

Cor. We are not the first 
Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst. 
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down ; 

Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown. 
Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters ? 

Lear. No,no,no,no! Come, let ’s away to prison: 
We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: 
When thou dost ask me blessing, I ’1l kneel down, 
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we ’ll live, 

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh 
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 

Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, 
Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; 
And take upon.’s the mystery of things, 

As if we were God’s spies: and we ’ll wear out, 

In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones, 
That ebb and flow by the moon. 

Hdm. Take them away. 

Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, [thee ? 
The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught 
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, 
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; 
The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell, 


LEAR. SCENE III. 


Ere they shall make us weep: we’llsee ’em starve first. 
Come. [Hxeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded. 
Edm. Come hither, captain; hark. 
Take thou this note [giving a paper]; go follow them 
to prison: 
One step I have advanced thee; if thou dost 
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way 
To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men 
Are as the time is: to be tender-minded 
Does not become a sword: thy great employment 
Will not bear question; either say thou ’lt do ’t, 
Or thrive by other means. 
apt. Ill do’t, my lord. 
Edm. About it; and write happy when thou hast 
Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so [done. 
As I have set it down. 
Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; 
If it be man’s work, I ’ll do’t. [ Heit. 


Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, 
another Captain, and Soldiers. 


Alb. Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain, 
And fortune led you well: you have the captives 
That were the opposites of this day’s strife: 

We do require them of you, so to use them 

As we shall find their merits and our safety 

May equally determine. 

Edm. Sir, I thought it fit 
To send the old and miserable king 
To some retention and appointed guard; 

Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, 

To pluck the common bosom on his side, 

And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes [queen; 

Which do command them. With him I sent the 

My reason all the same; and they are ready 

To-morrow, or at further space, to appear 

Where you shall hold your session. At this time 

We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; 

And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed 

By those that feel their sharpness: 

The question of Cordelia and her father 

Requires a fitter place. 

Alb. Sir, by your patience, 

I hold you but a subject of this war, 

Not as a brother. 

Reg. That ’s as we list to grace him. 
Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded, 
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers; 
Bore the commission of my place and person ; 

The which immediacy may well stand up, 

And eall itself your brother. 

Gon. Not so hot: 

In his own grace he doth exalt himself, 

More than in your addition. 

eg. In my rights, 

By me invested, he compeers the best. [you. 
Gon. That were the most, if he should husband 
Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. 

Gon. Holla, holla! 
That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint. 

Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer 
From a full-flowing stomach. General, 

Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony ; 

Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine: 

Witness the world, that I create thee here 

My lord and master. 

on. Mean you to enjoy him ? 

Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. 

Edm. Nor in thine, lord. 

Alb. Half-blooded fellow, yes. 

Reg. [To Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove 

my title thine. 

Alb. Stay yet; hearreason. Edmund, Larrest thee 
On capital treason; and, in thine attaint, 
Thisgilded serpent [ pointingtoGon.]. Foryourclaim, 
I bar it in the interest of my wite; [fair sister, 
’T is she is sub-contracted to this lord, 

And I, her husband, contradict your bans. 


719 


KING 


If you will marry, make your loves to me, 
My lady is bespoke. 
Gon. An interlude! [pet sound: 
Alb. Thou art arm’d, Gloucester: let the trum- 
If none appear to prove upon thy head 
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, 
There is my pledge [throwing down a glove]; : 
prove it on thy heart, 
Ere I taste bread, thou art ‘in nothing less 
Than I have here proclaim’d thee. 
eee Sick, O, sick! 
Gon. [Aside] If not, I ll ne’er trust medicine. 
Edm. There’s my exchange [throwing down a 
glove]; what in the world he is 
That names me traitor, villain-like he les: 
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, 
On him, on you, who not? I will maintain 
My truth and honour firmly. 


Alb. A herald, ho! 
A herald, ho, a herald! 


ACT V. 


Ly it 


Edm. 
Alb. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, 
All levied in my name, have in my name 
Hee their discharge. 
My sickness grows upon me. 
convey her to my tent. 
[Exit Regan, led. 


A pis She is not well; 


Enter a Herald. 
Come hither, herald,— Let the trumpet sound,— 
And read out this. 
Capt. Sound, trumpet ! [A trumpet sounds. 
Her. [Reads] ‘ If any man of quality or degree 
within the lists of the army will maintain upon 
Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a 
manifold tr aitor, let him appear by the third sound 
of the trumpet: he is bold in his defence.’ 
Edm. Sound! [First Trumpet. 
Her. Again! [Second Trumpet. 
Her. Again! [Third Trumpet. 
[Trumpet answers within. 


Enter Edgar, at the third sound, armed, with a 

trumpet before him. 

Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears 
Upon this call 0’ the trumpet. 

Her. What are you? 
Your name, your quality ? and why you answer 
This present summons ? 

Edg. Know, my name is lost; 
By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit: 
Yet am I noble as the adversary 
I ta to cope. 

Which is that adversary ? 
Ba 9. What’s he that speaks for Edmund Earl of 
Gloucester ? 

Edm. Himself: what say’st thou to him ? 

Edg. Draw thy sword, 
That, if my speech offend a noble heart, 

Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. 
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, 

My oath, and my profession: I protest, 

Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, 
Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, 
Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; 
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father: 
Conspirant ’oainst this high- illustrious prince; 
And, from the extremest upward of thy head 

To the descent and dust below thy foot, 

A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘ No,’ 

This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent 
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, 

Thou liest. 

Edm. In wisdom I should ask thy name; 

But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, 
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, 
What safe and nicely I might well delay 

By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn: 

Back do I toss these treasons to thy head ; 

With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart ; 


' 720 


SCENE soa 


Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, 

This sword of mine shall give them instant way, 

Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! 
[ Alarums. The fight. Edmund falls. 

Alb. Save him, save him! 

Gon. This is practice, Gloucester: 
By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer 
An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, 
But cozen’d and beguiled. 


LEAR. 


._ Shut. your mouth, dame, 
Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir: 
Thou worse than any name, read thine Overre i : 
No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it. 
[Gives the letter to Edmund. 
Gon. Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: 
Who can arraign me for ’t ? 
Alb. Most monstrous! oh! 
Know’st thou this paper ? 
Gon. Ask me not what I know. [Evit. 
Alb. Go after her: she’s desperate; govern her. 
ge anne you have charged me with, that have 
one ; 
And more, much more; the time will pring it out: 
T is past, ‘and so am I. But what art thou 
That hast this fortune on me? If thou ’rt epee 
I do forgive thee. 
Edg. Let ’s exchange charity. 
I am no less in blood than thou art. Edmund; 
If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me. 
My name is Edgar, and thy father’s son. 
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
Make instruments to plague us: 
The dark and vicious place where thee he got 
Cost him his eyes. 
Edm. Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; 
The wheel is come full circle; I am here. 
Alb. Methought thy very gait did prophesy 
A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee: 
Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I 
Did hate thee or thy father! 
Edgq. Worthy prince, I know ’t. 
Alb. Where have you hid yourself? 
How have you known the miseries of your father ? 
Edg. By nursing them,my lord. Lista brief tale ; 
And sien tis told, O, that my heart would burst! 
The bloody proclamation to escape, 
That follow’d me so near,—O, our lives’ sweetness! 
That we the pain of death would hourly die 
Rather than die at once! —taught me to shift 
Into a madman’s rags; to assume a semblance 
That very dogs disdain’d: and in this habit 
Met I my father with his bleeding rings, 
Their precious stones new lost: became his guide, 
Led him, begg’d for him, saved him from despair; 
Never,— 'O fault !—reveal’d myself unto him, 
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm’d: 
Not sure, though hoping, of this good success, 
I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last 
Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw’d heart, 
Alack, too weak the conflict to support! 
Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, 
Burst smilingly. 
Edm. This speech of yours hath moved me, 
And shall perchance do good: but speak you on ; 
You look as you had something more to say. 
Alb. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; 
For I am almost ready to dissolve, 
Hearing of this. 
Edq. This would have seem’d a period 
To such as love not sorrow; but another, 
To amplify too much, would make much more, 
And top extremity. 
Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man, 
Who, having seen me in my worst estate, 
Shunn’d my Pabhorr’d society ; but then, finding 
Who *t was that so endured, with his strong arms 
He fasten’d on my neck, and bellow’d out 
As he ’ld burst. heaven; ‘threw him on my father ; 


# Me 


ACT V. KING 


LEAR. 


SCENE III. 


Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him 
That ever ear received: which in recounting 
His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life 
Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded, 
And there I left him tranced. 

Alb. But who was this ? 


Edg. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise 
Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service 
Improper for a slave. 


Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife. 


Gent. Help, help, O, help! 

Edg. What kind of help ? 

Alb. Speak, man. 

Edg. What means that bloody knife ? 

Gent. ’T is hot, it smokes ; 
It came even from the heart of—O, she’s dead! 

Alb. Who dead ? speak, man. 

Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister 
By her is poisoned ; she hath confess’d it. 

Edm. I was contracted to them both: all three 
Now marry in an instant. 

Edg. Here comes Kent. 

Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead: 
This judgmentof the heavens, that makesustremble, 
Touches us not with pity. [ Hxit Gentleman. 


Enter Kent. 
O, is this he ? 
The time will not allow the compliment 
Which very manners urges. 

Kent. I am come 
To bid my me and master aye good-night : 
Is he not here: 

Alb. Great thing of us forgot! 

Speak, Edmund, where ’s the king ? and where’s 
See’st thou this object, Kent ? [Cordelia ? 
[The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in. 

Kent. Alack, why thus ? 

Edm. “Yet Edmund was beloved: 
The one the other poison’d for my sake, 

And after slew herself. 

Alb. Even so. Cover their faces. 

Edm. I pant for life: some good I mean to do, 
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, 

Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ 

Ts on the life of Lear and on Cordelia: 

_ Nay, send in time. 
Alb. Run, run, O, run! 

Edg. To who, my lord + 2’ Who hath the office ? send 
Thy token of reprieve. * 

Kdm. Well thought on: take my sword, 

Give it the captain. 

Alb. Haste thee, for thy life. [Heit Edgar. 

Hdm. He hath commission from thy wife and me 
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and 
To lay the blame upon her own despair, 


That she fordid herself. 
Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him hence 
awhile. [Edmund is borne off. 


Re-enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; 
Edgar, Captain, and others following. 
Tear. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men 
of stones: 
Had I your tongues and eyes, I ‘ld use them so 
That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for 
I know when one is dead, and when one lives; [ever! 
She’s dead as earth. Lend mea looking- elass ; 
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, 
Why, then she lives. 
Kent. Is this the promised end ? 
ae Or image of that horror ? 
Alb. Fall, and cease! 
Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, 
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows 
That ever [ have felt. 


46 


Kent. [Kneeling] O my good master ! 

Lear. Prithee, away. 

iidq. *T is noble Kent, your friend. 
Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! 

I might have saved her; now she’s gone for ever! 

Cordelia, Cordelia ! stay a little. Ha! 

What is *t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft, 

Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. 

I kill’d the slave that was a- hanging thee. 

Capt. ’T is true, my lords, he did. 
Lear. Did I not, fellow ? 

I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion 

I would have made them skip: I am old now, 

And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you: ? 

Mine eyes are not 0’ the best: Ill tell you straight. 
Kent. If fortune brag of two she loved and hated, 

One of them we behold. 

Lear. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent? 
Kent. The same, 

Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius ? 
Lear. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; 

He ’ll strike, and quickly too: he’s dead and rotten. 
Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man,— 
Lear. Ill see that straight. 

Kent. That, from your first of difference and de- 

Have follow’d your sad steps. [cay, 
Lear. You are welcome hither. 
Kent. Nor no man else; all’s cheerless, dark, and 

deadly. 

Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, 

And desperately are dead. 

Lear. Ay, so I think. 
Alb. He knows not what he says: and vain it is 
are we present us to him. 


dq. Very bootless. 


Enter « Captain. 


ane Edmund is dead, my lord. 

That ’s but a trifle here. 
you ee and noble friends, know our intent. 
What comfort to this great decay may come 
Shall be applied: for us, we will resign, 

During the life of this old majesty, 

To him our absolute power: [Zo Edgar and Kent] 
you, to your rights; 

With boot, and such addition as your honours 

Have more than merited. All friends shall taste 

The wages of their virtue, and all foes 

The cup of their deservings. O, see, see! 

Lear. And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no 
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, _ [life! 
And thou no breath at all? Thou lt come no more, 
Never, never, never, never, never! 

Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir. 
Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, 
Look there, look there ! [ Dies. 

Edq. He faints! My lord, my lord! 

re Break, heart; I prithee, break! 

Edg. Look up, my lord. 

Rae Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he 

hates him much 
That would upon the rack of this tough world 
Stretch him out longer. 

Edg. He is gone, indeed. 

Kent. The wonder is, he hath endured so long: 
He but usurp’d his life. 

Alb. Bear them from hence. Our present business 
Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my 

soul, you twain 
Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. 

Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; 
My master calls me, I must not say no. - 

Alb. The weight of this sad time we must obey; 
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. 

The oldest hath borne most : we that are young 
Shall never see so much, nor live so long. 
: LE ceunt, with a dead march. 


721 


OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICH. 


DRAMATIS PERSONAL. 


Duke of Venice. 

Brabantio, a senator. 

Other Senators. 

Gratiano, brother to Brabantio. 

Lodovico, kinsman to Brabantio. 

Othello, a noble Moor in the service of the Vene- 
tian state. 

Cassio, his lieutenant. 

Iago, his ancient. 

Roderigo, a Venetian gentleman. 


Montano, Othello’s predecessor in the government 
of Cyprus. 

Clown, servant to Othello. 

Desdemona, daughter to Brabantio and wife ta 
Othello. 

Emilia, wife to Iago. 

Bianca, mistress to Cassio. 


Sailor, Messenger, Herald, Officers, Gentlemen, Musi- 
cians, and Attendants, 


SCENE — Venice: a Sea-port in Cyprus. 


[For an Analysis of the Piot of this Play, see page Lxv.] 


We O76 BoA Ee 


SCENE I.— Venice. A street. 


Enter Roderigo and Iago. 


Rod. Tush! never tell me; I take it much un- 
kindly 

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse 

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. 
Iago. ’Sblood, but you will not hear me: 

If ever I did dream of such a matter, 

Abhor me. [hate. 
Rod. Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy 
Iago. Despise me, if Ido not. Three great ones 

of the city, 

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, 

Off-capp’d to him: and, by the faith of man, 

I know my price, I am worth no worse a place: 

But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, 

Evades them, with a bombast circumstance 

Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war; 

And, in conclusion, 

Nonsuits my mediators; for, ‘ Certes,’ says he, 

‘T have already chose my officer.’ 

And what was he? 

Forsooth, a great arithmetician, 

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 

A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife; 

That never set a squadron in the field, 

Nor the division of a battle knows 

More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, 

Wherein the toged consuls can propose 

As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice, 

Ts all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election: 

And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof 

At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds 


Christian and heathen, must be be-lee’d and calm’d | 


By debitor and creditor: this counter-caster, 
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, — [cient. 
And I—God bless the mark !—his Moorship’s an- 
Tod. By heaven, I rather would have been his 
hangman. [service, 
Iago. Why, there’s no remedy; ’tis the curse of 
Preferment goes by letter and affection, 
And not by old gradation, where each second 
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself, 
722 


| 
| 
| 
| 


Whether I in any just term am affined 
To love the Moor. | 
Rod. I would not follow him then. 
Iago. O, sir, content you; 
I follow him to serve my turn upon him: 
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters 
Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark 
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, 
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, 
Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass, 
For nought but provender, and when he’s old, 
cashier’d: 
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are 
Who, trimm/’d in forms and visages of duty, 
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, 
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords, 
Do well thrive by them and when they have lined 
their coats [soul ; 


| Do themselves homage: these fellows have some 


And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, 
It is as sure as you are Roderigo, 
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago: 
In following him, I follow but myself; 
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, 
But seeming so, for my peculiar end: — 
For when my outward action doth demonstrate 
The native act and figure of my heart ~ 
In compliment extern, ’tis not long after 
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve 
For daws to peck at: Iam not what I am. 
Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, 
If he can carry ’t thus! 
Tago. Call up her father, 
Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight, 
Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, 


_ And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, 


Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, 
Yet throw such changes of vexation on ’t, 
As it may lose some colour. 
Rod. Here is her father’s house; I ll call aloud. 
Iago. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell 
As when, by night and negligence, the fire 
Is spied in populous cities. 
Rod. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho! 


YO ES bs 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE Il. 


Iago. Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! 
thieves! thieves! 
Look to your house, your daughter and your bags! 
Thieves! thieves! 


Brabantio appears above, at a window. 


Bra. What is the reason of this terrible summons ? 
What is the matter there ? 

' Rod. Signior, is all your family within ? 

Jago. Are your doors lock’d ? 

Bra. Why, wherefore ask you this ? 

fago. "Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d; for shame, put 

on your gown; 
Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; 
Even now, now, very now, an old black ram 
Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise ; 
Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, 
Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you: 
Arise, I say. 

Bra. What, have you lost your wits ? 

Rod. Most reverend signior, do you know my 

Bra. Not I: what are you ? [voice ? 

Rod. My name is Roderigo. 

Bra. The worser welcome : 
I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors: 
In honest plainness thou hast heard me say 
My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, 
Being full of supper and distempering draughts, 
Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come 
To start my quiet. 

fod. Six, sir, sir,— 

Bru: But thou must needs be sure 
My spirit and my place have in them power 
To make this bitter to thee. . 

Rod. Patience, good sir. 

Bra. What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is 
My house is not a grange. [Venice ; 

Rod. Most grave Brabantio, 
In simple and pure soul I come to you. 

flago. ’Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will 
not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we 
come to do you service and you think we are ruf- 
fians, you’ll have your daughter covered with a 
Barbary horse; you ’ll have your nephews neigh to 
you; you ’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets 
for germans. 

Bra. What profane wretch art thou ? 

Jago. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your 
daughter and the Moor are now making the beast 
with two backs. 

Bra. Thou art a villain. 

Tago. You are —a senator. 

Bra. This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Rod- 

erigo. [you, 
fod. Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech 
If ’t be your pleasure and most wise consent, 
As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter, 
At this odd-even and dull watch 0’ the night, 
Transported, with no worse nor better guard 
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, 
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,— 
If this be known to you and your allowance, 
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs; 
But if you know not this, my manners tell me 
We have your wrong rebuke. Do rot believe 
That, from the sense of all civility, 
I thus would play and trifle with your reverence : 
Your daughter, if you have not given her leave, 
I say again, hath made a gross revolt; 
Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes 
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger 
Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself : 
If she be in her chamber or your house, 
Let loose on me the justice of the state 
For thus deluding you. 

Bra. Strike on the tinder, ho! 

Give me a taper! call up all my people! 


This accident is not unlike my dream: 

Belief of it oppresses me already. 

Light, I say! light! [Hait above 
Lago. Farewell; for I must leave you 

It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place, 

To be produced —as, if I stay, I shall— | 

Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state, 

However this may gall him with some check, 

Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d 

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, 

Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls, 

Another of his fathom they have none, 

To lead their business: in which regard, 

Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains, 

Yet, for necessity of present life, 

I must show out a flag and sign of love, [find him, 

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely 

Lead to the Sagittary the raised search ; 

And there will I be with him. So, farewell. [Hvzit. 


Enter, below, Brabantio, and Servants with 
torches. 


Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is; 

And what ’s to come of my despised time 

Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, 

Where didst thou see her? O unhappy girl! 

With the Moor, say’st thou ? Who would be a father ! 

How didst thou know ’t was she ? O,she deceives me 

Past thought! What said she to you? Get more 

tapers ; 

Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you ? 
Rod. Truly, I think they are. [the blood! 
Bra. O heaven! How got she out ? O treason of 

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds 

By what you see them act. Is there not charms 

By which the property of youth and maidhood 

May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo, 

Of some such thing ? 

Rod. Yes, sir, I have indeed. 
Bra. Call up my brother. O, would you had 
had her! 

Some one way, some another. Do you know 

Where we may apprehend her and the Moor ? 

Rod. I think I can discover him, if you please 

To get good guard and go along with me. [call ; 
Bra. Pray you, lead on. At every house Ill 

I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! 

And raise some special officers of night. 

On, good Roderigo: Ill deserve your pains. 


[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE I1.—Another street. 


Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with torches. 


Jago. Though in the trade of war I have slain 
Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience [men, 
To do no contrived murder: I lack iniquity 
Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times 
IT had thought to have yerk’d him here under the 

Oth. ’T is better as it is. [ribs. 

lago. Nay, but he prated, 
And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms 
Against your honour 
That, with the little godliness I have, 
I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir, 
Are you fast married? Be assured of this, 
That the magnifico is much beloved, 

And hath in his effect a voice potential 

As double as the duke’s: he will divorce you; 
Or put upon you what restraint and grievance 
The law, with all his might to enforce it on, 
Will give him cable. 

Oth. Let him do his spite; 

My services which I have done the signiory 
Shallout-tongue hiscomplaints. ’Tis yet to know,— 
Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, 


| T shall promulgate —I fetch my life and being 


From men of royal siege, and my demerits 
723 


ACT I. 


May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune 

As this that I have reach’d: for know, Iago, 

But that I love the gentle Desdemona, 

I would not my unhoused free condition 

Put into circumscription and confine [yond ? 

For the sea’s worth. But, look! what lights come 
Iago. Those are the raised father and his friends: 

You were best go in. 
Oth. Not I; I must be found: 

My parts, my title and my per fect soul 

Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they ? 
Iago. By Janus, I think no. 


Enter Cassio, and certain Officers with torches. 


Oth. The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant. 
The goodness of the night upon you, friends! 

What is the news? 

Cas. The duke does greet you, general, 
And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance, 
Even on the instant. 

Oth. What is the matter, think you? 

Cas. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine: 

It is a business of some heat: the galleys 

Have sent a dozen sequent messengers 

This very night at one another’s heels, 

And many of the consuls, raised and met, 

Are at the duke’s already : you have been hotly 
call’d for; 

When, being not at your lodging to be found, 

The senate hath sent about three several quests 

To search you out. 

Oth. ’T is well I am found by you. 
T will but spend a word here in the house, 

[Eexit. 


And go with you. 
Cas Ancient, what makes he here ? 
rae "Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land 
carack : 
If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever. 
Cas. I do not understand. 


Lago. He’s married. 
Cas. To who? 


Re-enter Othello. 
Iago. Marry, to—Come, captain, will you go? 
Oth. Have with you. 
Cas. Here comes another troop to seek for you. 
fago. It is Brabantio. General, be advised ; 
He comes to bad intent. 


Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers with 
torches and weapons. 


Holla! stand there! 
Signior, it is the Moor. 
Down with him, thief! 
[They draw on both sides. 
Iago. You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you. 
Oth. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew 
will rust them. 
Good signior, you shall more command with years 
Than with your weapons. 
Bra. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow’d 
my daughter ? 
Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her; 
For I ll refer me to all things of sense, 
If she in chains of magic were not bound, 
Whether a maid so tender, fair and happy, 
So opposite to marriage that she shunn’d 
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation, 
Would ever have, to incur a general mock, 
Run from her cuardage to the sooty bosom 
Of such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight. 
Judge me the world, if tis not gross in sense 
That thou hast practised on her with foul charms, 
Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals 
That weaken motion: Ill have ’t disputed on; 
*T is probable and palpable to thinking. 
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee | 
For an abuser of the world, a practiser . 


724 


Oth. 
Rod. 
Bra. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. 
Lay hold upon him: if he do resist, 
Subdue him at his peril. 
Oth. Hold your hands, 
Both you of my inclining, and the rest: 
Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it 
Without a prompter. Where will you that I go 
To answer this your charge ? 
Bra. To prison, till fit time 
Of law and course of direct session 
Call thee to answer. 
Oth. What if I do obey ? 
How may the duke be therewith satisfied, 
Whose messengers are here about my side, 
Upon some present business of the state 
To bring me to him ? 
First Off. *T is true, most worthy signior; 
The duke ’s in council, and your noble self, 
I am sure, is sent for. 
Bra. How! the duke in council! 
In this time of the night! Bring him away: 
Mine ’s not an idle cause: the duke himself, 
Or any of my brothers of the state, 
Cannot but feel this wrong as ’t were their own; : 
For if such actions may have passage free, 
Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. 
[ Hxeunt. 
SCENE ITI.—A council-chamber. 


The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers 
attending. 


Duke. There is no composition in these news 
That gives them credit. 
First Sen. Indeed, they are disproportion’d ; 
My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. 
Duke. And mine, a hundred and forty. 
Sec. Sen. And mine, two hundred: 
But though they jump not on a just account, — 
As in these cases, where the aim reports, 
Tis oft with difference — yet do they all confirm 
A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. 
Duke. Nay, it is possible enough to judgment: 
I do not so secure me in the error, 
But the main article I do approve 
In fearful sense. 
Sailor. [Within] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho! 
First Off. A messenger from the galleys. 


Enter a Sailor. 


Duke. Now, what ’s the business ? 
Sail. The Turkish prepar ation makes for Rhodes; 
So was I bid report here to the state 
By Signior Angelo. 
Duke. How say you by this change ? 
Hirst Sen. This cannot be, 
By no assay of reason: ’tis a pageant, 
To keep us in false gaze. When we consider 
The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, 
And let ourselves again but understand, 
That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, 
So may he with more facile question bear it, 
For that it stands not in such warlike brace, 
But altogether lacks the abilities [this 
That Rhodes is dress’d in: if we make thought of 
We must not think the Turk is so unskilful 
To leave that latest which concerns him first, 
Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, 
To wake and wage a danger profitless. 
Duke. Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes. 
First Off. Here is more news. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, 
Steering with due course towards the isle of Rhodes. 
Have there injointed them with an after fleet. 

First Sen. Ay, so I thought. How many, as you 


euess ? 


ACT I. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Mess. Of thirty sail: and now they do re-stem 
Their backward course, bearing with frank appear- 
ance 
Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, 
Your trusty and most valiant servitor, 
With his free duty recommends you thus, 
And prays you to believe him. 
Duke. ’T is certain, then, for Cyprus. 
Mareus Luccicos, is not he in town ? 
First Sen. He’s now in Florence. 
Duke. Write from us to him; post-post-haste dis- 
patch. [Moor. 
First Sen. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant 


Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and 
Officers. 


Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ 
Against the general enemy Ottoman. [you 
{Zo Brabantio] I did not see you; welcome, gentle 

signior ; 
We lack’d your counsel and your help to-night. 

Bra. So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon 


me; 
Neither my place nor aught I heard of business 
Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general 
Take hold on me, for my particular grief [care 
Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature 
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows 
And it is still itself. 

Duke. Why, what ’s the matter ? 

Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter! 

Duke and Sen. Dead ? 

Bra. Ay, to me; 
She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted 
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks ; 
For nature so preposterously to err, 

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, 
Sans witchcraft could not. 

Duke. Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding 
Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself 
And you of her, the bloody book of law 
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter 
After your own sense, yea, though our proper son 
Stood in your action. : 

Bra. Humbly I thank your grace. 
Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems, 
Your special mandate for the state-affairs 
Hath hither brought. 

Duke and Sen. We are very sorry for ’t. 

Duke. [To Othello] What, in your own part, can 

you say to this? 

Bra. Nothing, but this is so. 

Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 
My very noble and approved good masters, 

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, 

It is most true; true, I have married her: 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath this extent,no more. Rudeam [in my speech, 

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace: 

For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith, 

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 

Their dearest action in the tented field, 

And little of this great world can I speak, 

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, 

And therefore little shall I grace my cause 

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious 

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver  [patience, 

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what 
charms, 

What conjuration and what mighty magic, 

For such proceeding I am charged withal, 

I won his daughter. 

Bra. A maiden never bold; 

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion 
Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature, 
Of years, of country, credit, every thing, 

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on! 


It is a judgment maim’d and most imperfect 
That will confess perfection so could err 
Against all rules of nature, and must be driven 
To find out practices of cunning hell, 
Why this should be. I therefore vouch again 
That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, 
Or with some dram conjured to this effect, 
He wrought upon her. . 
Duke. To vouch this, is no proof, 
Without more wider and more overt test 
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods 
Of modern seeming do prefer against him. 
First Sen. But, Othello, speak: 
Did you by indirect and forced courses 
Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections ? 
Or came it by request and such fair question 
As soul to soul affordeth ? 
Oth. I do beseech you, 
Send for the lady to the Sagittary, 
And let her speak of me before her father: 
If you do find me foul in her report, 
The trust, the office I do hold of you, 
Not only take away, but let your sentence 
Even fall upon my life. 
Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 
Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the 
place. [Hxeunt Iago and Attendants. 
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven 
I do confess the vices of my blood, 
So justly to your grave ears I *ll present 
How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love, 
And she in mine. 
Duke. Say it, Othello. 
Oth. Her father loved me; oft invited me; 
Still question’d me the story of my life, 
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I have pass’d. 
I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it; 
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, 
Of moving accidents by flood and field, [breach, 
Of hair-breadth scapes i’ the imminent deadly 
Of being taken by the insolent foe 
And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence 
And portance in my travels’ history: 
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, [heaven, 
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads toucii 
It was my hint to speak,— such was the process ; 
And of the Cannibals that each other eat, 
The Anthropophagi and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear 
Would Desdemona seriously incline: 
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence: 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She ’ld come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse: which I observing, 
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
But not intentively: I did consent, 
And often did beguile her of her tears, 
When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: 
She swore, in faith, ’t was strange, ’t was passing 
"T was pitiful, ’t was wondrous pitiful: _[strange, 
She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d 
That heaven had made her such a man: she thank’d 


me 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

IT should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: 
She loved me for the dangers I had pass’d, 

And I loved her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have used: 

Here comes the lady; let her witness it. 


725 


AGT I. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants. 


Duke. I think this tale would win my daughter 
(,ood Brabantio, [too. 
Take up this mangled matter at the best: 

Men do their broken weapons rather use 
Than their bare hands. 

STA. I pray you, hear her speak: 
If she confess that she was half the wooer, 
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame 
Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress : 
Do you perceive in all this noble company 
Where most you owe obedience ? 

Des. 

I do perceive here a divided duty: 
To you I am bound for life and education ; 

My life and education both do learn me 

Tlow to respect you; you are the lord of duty; 

I am hitherto your daughter: but here’s my hus- 
And so much duty as my mother show’d [band, 
To you, preferring you before her father, 

So much I challenge that I may profess 

Due to the Moor my lord. 

Bra. God be wi’ you! I have done. 

Please it your grace, on to the state-affairs: 

I had rather to adopt a child than get it. 

Come hither, Moor: 

I here do give thee that with all my heart 
Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart 
I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel, 
[am glad at soul I have no other child; 

For thy escape would teach me tyranny, 

To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. 

Duke. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sen- 

tence, 

Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers 
Into your favour. 
When remedies are past, the griefs are ended 
By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. 
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone 
Is the next way to draw new mischief on. 
What cannot be preserved when fortune takes 
Patience her injury a mockery makes. [thief ; 
The robb’d that smiles steals something from the 
He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. 

Bra. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile; 
We lose it not, so long as we can smile. 
He bears the sentence well that nothing bears 
But the free comfort which from thence he hears, 
But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow 
That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. 
These sentences, to sugar, or to gall, 
Being strong on both sides, are equivocal: 
But words are words; I never yet did hear 
That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. 
[humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. 

Duke. The Turk with a most mighty preparation 
makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the 
place is best known to you; and though we have 
there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet 
opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a 
more safer voice on you: you must therefore be 
content to slubber the gloss of your-new fortunes 
with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. 

Oth. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, 
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war 
My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize 
A natural and prompt alacrity i 
I find in hardness, and do undertake 
These present wars against the Ottomites. 

Most humbly therefore bending to your state, 

I crave fit disposition for my wife, 

Due reference of place and exhibition, 

With such accommodation and besort 

As levels with her breeding. 
Duke. 

Be ’t at her father’s. 


My noble father, 


If you please, 


726 


bra I ll not have it so. 
Oth. Nor I 
Des Nor I; I would not there reside, 


To put my father in impatient thoughts 
By being in his eye. Most gracious duke, 
To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear; 
And let me find a charter in your voice, 
To assist my simpleness. 

Duke. What would you, Desdemona ? 

Des. That I did love the Moor to live with him, 
My downright violence and storm of fortunes 
May trumpet to the world: my heart ’s subdued 
Even to the very quality of my lord: 

IT saw Othello’s visage in his mind, 

And to his honours and his valiant parts 

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. 

So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, 

A moth of peace, and he go to the war, 

The rites for which I love him are bereft me, 
And I a heavy interim shall support 

By his dear absence. Let me go with him. 

Oth. Let her have your voices. 

Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not, 
To please the palate of my appetite, 

Nor to comply with heat —the young affects 

In me defunct — and proper satisfaction, 

But to be free and bounteous to her mind: 

And heaven defend your good souls; that you think 
I will your serious and great business scant 

For she is with me: no, when light-wing’d toys 
Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dullness 
My speculative and officed instruments, 

That my disports corrupt and taint my business, 
Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, 

And all indign and base adversities 

Make head against my estimation! 

Duke. Be it as you shall privately determine, 
Either for her stay or going: the affair cries haste, 
And speed must answer it. 

First Sen. You must away to-night. 

Oth. With all my heart. 

Duke. At nine i’ the morning here we’ll meet 
Othello, leave some officer behind, [again. 
And he shall our commission bring to you; 

With such things else of quality and respect 
As doth import you. 
Oth. So please your grace, my ancient; 
A man he is of honesty and trust: 
To his conveyance I assign my wife, 
With what else needful your good grace shall think 
To be sent after me. 
Let it be so. 


uke. 
Good night to every one. [Zo Brab.] And, noble 
If virtue no delighted beauty lack, [signior, 
Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. [well. 
First Sen. Adieu, brave Moor; use Desdemona 
Bra. Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: 
She has deceived her father, and may thee. 
[Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, &c. 
Oth. My life upon her faith! Honest lago, 
My Desdemona must I leave to thee: 
I prithee, let thy wife attend on her; 
And bring them after in the best advantage. 
Come, Desdemona; I have but an hour 
Of love, of worldly matters and direction, 
To spend with thee: we must obey the time. 
[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. 
Rod. Tago,— 


Iago. What say’st thou, noble heart ? 

Rod. What will I do, thinkest thou ? 

Iago. Why, go to bed, and sleep. 

Rod. I will incontinently drown myself. 

Iago. If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. 
Why, thou silly gentleman ! 

fod. It is silliness to live when to live is tor- 
ment; and then have we a prescription to die when 
death is our physician. 


ACT II. 


Iago. O villanous! I have looked upon the world 
for four times seven years; and since I could dis- 
tinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never 
found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I 
would say, I would drown myself for the love of a 
guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a 
baboon. 

Rod. What should Ido? I confess it is my shame 


to be sofond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it. | 
Tago. Virtue! afig! ’tis in ourselves that we are | 


thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the 
which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will 
plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE I. 


thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or dis-— 
tract it with many, either to have it sterile with | 
idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power | 


and corrigible authority of this les in our wills. If 
the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason 
to poise another of sensuality, the blood and base- 


| 
| 


ness of our natures would conduct us to most pre- | 
posterous conclusions: but we have reason to cool | 
our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted | 


lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a 
sect or scion. 

Rod. It cannot be. 

Iago. It is merely a lust of the blood and a per- 
mission of the will. Come,beaman. Drown thy- 
self! drown cats and blind puppies. I have pro- 
fessed me thy friend and I confess me knit to thy 
deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I 
could never better stead thee than now. Put money 
in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy fa- 
vour with an usurped beard ; I say, put mgney in thy 
purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long 
continue her love to the Moor,— put money in thy. 
purse,—nor he his to her: it was a violent com- 
mencement, and thou shalt see an answerable se- 
questration :— put but money in thy purse. These 
Moors are changeable in their wills : — fill thy purse 
with money :—the food that to him now is as lus- 
cious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as 
coloquintida. She must change for youth: when 
she is sated with his body, she will find the error of 
her choice: she must have change, she must: there- 
fore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs 
damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drown- 
ing. Make all the money thou canst: if sanctimony 


and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a | 


supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits 
and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; there- 
fore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is 
clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged 
in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go 
without her. 

fod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend 
on the issue ? 

fago. Thou art sure of me : — go, make money :—I 
have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and 
again, I hate the Moor: my cause is hearted; thine 
hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our 
revenge against him; if thou canst cuckold him, 
thou dost thyself a pleasure, measport. There are 
many events in the womb of time which will be de- 
livered. Traverse! go, provide thy money. We 
will have more of this to-morrow. Adieu. 

fod. Where shall we meet i’ the morning ? 

Tago. At my lodging. 

Rod. 111 be with thee betimes. 

Iago. Goto; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo ? 

Rod. What say you ? 

lago. No more of drowning, do you hear ? 

Rod. 1am changed: Ill go sell all my land. 

[ Hatt. 
lago. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse; 
For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane, 

If I would time expend with such a snipe, 

But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor ; 

And it is thought abroad, that ’twixt my sheets 

He has done my office: I know not if ’t be true; 

But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, 

Will do as if for surety. He holds me well; 

The better shall my purpose work on him. 

Cassio ’s a proper man: let me see now: 

To get his place and to plume up my will 

In double knavery — How, how ? — Let’s see: — 

After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear 

That he is too familiar with his wife. 

He hath a person and a smooth dispose 

To be suspected, framed to make women false. 

The Moor is of a free and open nature, 

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, 

And will as tenderly be led by the nose 

AS asses are. 

I have’t. It is engender’d. Hell and night 

Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s 
light. [ Hatt. 


Je AG By Ah 6. 


SCENE I.— A Sea-port in Cyprus. An open place | 


near the quay. 


Enter Montano and two Gentlemen. 


Mon. What from the cape can you discern at sea ? 

First Gent. Nothing at all: it is a high-wrought 
I cannot, ’twixt the heaven and the main, _[flood; 
Descry a sail. 

Mon. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land; 
A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements: 
If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, ; 

What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, 
Can hold the mortise ? What shall we hear of this ? 
Sec. Gent. A segregation of the Turkish fleet: 

For do but stand upon the foaming shore, 

The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds ; 

The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous 
mane, 

Seems to cast water on the burning bear, 

And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole: 

I never did like molestation view 


On the enchafed flood. 
Mon. If that the Turkish fieet 


Be not enshelter’d and embay’d, they are drown’d - 
It is impossible they bear it out. 


Enter a third Gentleman. 


Third Gent. News, lads! our wars are done. - 
The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the Turks, 
That their designment halts : a noble ship of Venice 
Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance 
On most part of their fleet. 

Mon. How! is this true? 

Third Gent. The ship is here put in, 
A Veronesa; Michael Cassio, 

Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, 
Is come on shore: the Moor himself at sea, 
And is in full commission here for Cyprus. 
Mon. Iam glad on’t; *tis a worthy governor. 
Third Gent. But this same Cassio, though he speak 
of comfort 
Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly, 
And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted 
With foul and violent tempest. 

Mon. Pray heavens he be; 

For I have served him, and the man commands 


727 


AOTIAE 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE I. 


Like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho! 
As well to see the vessel that ’s come in 
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, 
Even till we make the main and the aerial blue 
An indistinct regard. 

Third Gent. Come, let ’s do so; 
For every minute is expectancy 
Of more arrivance. 


Enter Cassio. 


Cas. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle, 
That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens ‘ 
Give him defence against the elements, 

For I have lost him. on a dangerous sea. 

Mon. Is he well shipp’d ? 

Cas. His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot 
Of very expert and approved allowance ; 

Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, 
Stand in bold cure. 


[A ery within ‘ A sail, a sail, a sail!’ | 


Enter a fourth Gentleman. 


Cas. What noise ? 
Fourth Gent. The town is empty; on the brow 0’ 
the sea 
Stand ranks of people, and they cry ‘ A sail!’ 
Cas. My hopes do shape him for the governor. 
[Guns heard. 
Sec. Gent. They do discharge their shot of cour- 
Our friends at least. [tesy : 
Cas. I pray you, sir, go forth, 
And give us truth who ’tis that is arrived. 
Sec. Gent. I shall. [ Hatt. 
Mon. But, good lieutenant, is your general wived ? 
Cas. Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid 
That paragons description and wild fame; 
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, 
And in the essential vesture of creation 
Does tire the ingener. 


Re-enter second Gentleman. 


7 How now! who has put in? 
Sec. Gent. "Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. 
Cas. Has had most favourable and happy speed : 

Tempests themselves, high seas and howling winds, 
The gutter’d rocks and congregated sands,— 
Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel,— 
As having sense of beauty, do omit 
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by 
The divine Desdemona. 

What is she ? 


Mon. 

Cas. She that I spake of, our great captain’s cap- 
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, [tain, 
Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts 
A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, 
And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, 
That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, 
Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, 
Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits, 

And bring all Cyprus comfort! 


Enter Desdemona, Emilia, Iago, Roderigo, and 
Attendants. 
O, behold, 
The riches of the ship is come on shore! 
Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. 
Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, 
Before, behind thee and on every hand, 
Enwheel thee round! 
Des. I thank you, valiant Cassio. 
What tidings can you tell me of my lord ? 
Cas. Te is not yet arrived: nor know I aught 
* But that he’s well and will be shortly here. 
Des. O, but I fear— How lost you company ? 
Cas. The great contention of the sea and skies 
Parted our fellowship — But, hark! a sail. 
| Within ‘A sail, a sail!’ Gms heard. 
728 


Sec. Gent. They give their greeting to the citadel : 
This likewise is a friend. 
Cas. See for the news. [Hxit Gentleman. 
Good ancient, you are welcome. [Zo Hmilia] Wel- 
come, mistress: 
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, 
That I extend my manners; ’tis my breeding 
That gives me this bold show of courtesy. 
| [Kissing her. 
Iago. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips 
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, 
You ’ld have enough. 
Des. Alas, she has no speech. 
Iago. In faith, too much ; 
I find it still, when I have list to sleep: 
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant, 
She puts her tongue a little in her heart, 
And chides with thinking. 
Emil. You have little cause to say so. [doors, 
Iago. Come on, come on; you are pictures out of 
Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitchens, 
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, 
Playersin your housewifery, and housewives in your 
Des. O, tie upon thee, slanderer ! [beds. 
Iago. Nay, it is true, or else Iam a Turk: 


| You rise to play and go to bed to work. 


Emil. You shall not write my praise. 

Lago. No, let me not. 

Des. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou 

shouldst praise me ? 

Iago. O gentle lady, do not put me to ’t; 

For I am nothing, if not critical. 

Des. Come on, assay. There’s one gone to the 

Iago. Ay, madam. [harbour ? 
* Des. 1am not merry; but I do beguile 
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. 

Come, how wouldst thou praise me ? 

Iago. Tam about it; but indeed my invention 
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize ; 
It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, 
And thus she is deliver’d. 

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, 

The one’s for use, the other useth it. [witty ? 
Des. Well praised! How if she be black and 
Iago. If she be black, and thereto have a wit, 

She 71] find a white that shall her blackness fit. 
Des. Worse and worse. 

Emil. How if fair and foolish ? . 

Iago. She never yet was foolish that was fair; 
For even her folly help’d her to an heir. 

Des. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools 
laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast 
thou for her that’s foul and foolish ? 

Jago. There ’s none so foul and foolish thereunto, 
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do. 

Des. O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst 
best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a 
deserving woman indeed, one that, in the authority 
of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very 
malice itself ? 

Iago. She that was ever fair and never proud, 
Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, 

Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay, 

Filed from her wish and yet said ‘ Now I may,’ 

She that being anger’d, her revenge being nigh, 

Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly, 

She that in wisdom never was so frail 

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail, 

She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind, 

See suitors following and not look behind, 

She was a wight, if ever such wight were,— 

Des. To do what ? 

Jago. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. 

Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do 
not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy his- 
band. How say you, Cassio? is he not a most pro- 
fane and liberal counsellor ? 


ACTIVI. 


Cas. He speaks home, madam: you may relish 
him more in the soldier than in the scholar. 

lago. | Aside] He takes her by the palm: ay, well 
said, whisper: with as little a web as this will I 
ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon 
her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. 
You say true; tis so, indeed: if such tricks as 
these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been 
better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, 
which now again you are most apt to play the sir 
in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy ! 
tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your 
lips ? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! 
[Trumpet within.| The Moor! I know his trumpet. 

Cas. ’T is truly so. 

Des. Let’s meet him and receive him. 

Cas. Lo, where he comes! 


Enter Othello and Attendants. 


. O my fair warrior! 
: My dear Othello! 

Oth. It gives me wonder great as my content 
To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy! 

If after every tempest come such calms, 

May the winds blow till they have waken’d death ! 
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas 
Olympus-high and duck again as low 

As hell ’s from heaven! If it were now to die, 

’T were now to be most happy; for, I fear, 

My soul hath her content so absolute 

That not another comfort like to this 

Succeeds in unknown fate. 

Des. The heavens forbid 
But that our loves and comforts should increase, 
Even as our days do grow! 

Oth. Amen to that, sweet powers! 
I cannot speak enough of this content ; 

It stops me here; it is too much of joy: 

And this, and this, the greatest discords be 
[Kissing her. 

That e’er our hearts shall make! 

Iago. [Aside] O, you are well tuned now! 

But Ll set down the pegs that make this music, 
As honest as Iam. 

Oth. Come, let us to the castle. 

News, friends; our wars are done, the Turks are 
drown’d. 
TLow does my old acquaintance of this isle ? 
Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus; 
It have found great love amongst them. 
I prattle out of fashion, and I dote [sweet, 
In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago, 
Go to the bay and disembark my coffers: 
Bring thou the master to the citadel ; 
He is a good one, and his worthiness 
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona, 
Once more, well met at Cyprus. 
[Hxeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. 

lago. Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. 
Come hither. If thou be’st valiant,—as, they say, 
base men being in love have then a nobility in 
their natures more than is native to them,—list 
me. The lieutenant to-night watches on the court 
of guard : —first, I must tell thee this — Desdemona 
is directly in love with him. 

Rod. With him! why, ’tis not possible. 

Tago. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be in- 
structed. Mark me with what violence she first 
loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her 
fantastical lies: and will she love him still for 
prating ? let not thy discreet heart think it. Her 
eye must be fed; and what delight shall she have 
to look on the devil? When the blood is made 
dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to 
inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, love- 
liness in favour, sympathy in years, manners and 
beauties; all which the Moor is defective in; now, 


O my 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE l. 


for want of these required conveniences, her del- 
icate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to 
heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor; 
very nature will instruct her in it and compel her 
to some second choice. Now, sir, this granted,— 
as it is a most pregnant and unforced position,— 
who stands so eminent in the degree of this for- 
tune as Cassio does? a knave very voluble; no 
further conscionable than in putting on the mere 
form of civil and humane seeming, for the better 
compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affec- 
tion ? why, none; why, none: aslipper and subtle 
knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye can 
stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true 
advantage never present itself; a devilish knave. 
Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath 
all those requisites in him that folly and green 
minds look after: a pestilent complete knave; and 
the woman hath found him already. 

Rod. I cannot believe that in her; she’s full of 
most blessed condition. 

lago. Blessed fig’s-end! the wine she drinks is 
made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would 
never have loved the Moor! Blessed pudding ! 
Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his 
hand ? didst not mark that ? 

Rod. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. 

Jago. Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure 
prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. 
They met so near with their lips that their breaths 
embraced together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo ! 
when these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at 
hand comes the master and main exercise, the in- 
corporate conclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled 
by me: I have brought you from Venice. Watch 
you to-night; for the command, [ll lay ’t upon you. 
Cassio knows younot. Ill not be far from you: do 
you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by 
speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline; or 
from what other course you please, which the time 
shall more favourably minister. 

Rod. Well. 

Iago. Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and 
haply may strike at you: provoke him, that he may ; 
for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to 
mutiny ; whose qualification shall come into no true 
taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So 
shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by 
the means I shall then have to prefer them; and the 
impediment most profitably removed, without the 
which there were no expectation of our prosperity. 

Rod. I will do this, if I can bring it to any op- 
portunity. 


Jago. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the 


citadel: I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Fare- 
well. ; ; 
Rod. Adieu. [ Exit. 


Iago. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it ; 
That she loves him, ’t is apt and of great credit : 
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, 

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, 

And I dare think he ’ll prove to Desdemona 

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too; 
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure 

I stand accountant for as great a sin, 

But partly led to diet my revenge, 

For that I do suspect the lusty Moor 
Hath leap’d into my seat; the thought whereof 
Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards; 
And nothing can or shall content my soul 

Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife, 

Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor 

At least into a jealousy so strong : 

That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do, 
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash 

For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, 

Ill have our Michael Cassio on the hip. 


(29 


ACT Il. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb — 

For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too — 

Make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me, 
For making him egregiously an ass 

And practising upon his peace and quiet 

Even to madness. ’T is here, but yet confused: 
Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used. [EHvit. 


SCENE II.—A street. 
Enter « Herald with a proclamation ; People following. 


Her. It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant | 
general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived, im- | 
porting the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every 
man put himself into triumph; some to dance, some 
to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels 
his addiction leads him: for, besides these beneficial | 
news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much 
was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices 
are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from 
this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. 
Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble gen- 
eral Othello! [ Exeunt. 


SCENE III.— A hall in the castle. 


Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and 
Attendants. 


Oth. Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night : 
Let ’s teach ourselves that honourable stop, 
Not to outsport discretion. 
Cas. Iago hath direction what to do; 
But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye 
Will I look to’t. 
Oth. Iago is most honest. 
Michael, good night: to-morrow with your earliest 
Let me have speech with you. [7o Desdemona] Come, 
my dear love, 
The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; 
That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you. 
Good night. 
[Hxeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. 


Enter Iago. 


Cas. Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch. 

lago. Not this hour, lieutenant; ’tis not yet ten 
o’ the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the 
love of his Desdemona: who let us not therefore 
blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night 
with her; and she is sport for Jove. 

Cas. She ’s a most exquisite lady. 

Tago. And, I?ll warrant her,full of game. [ture. 

Cas. Indeed, she’s a most fresh and delicate crea- 

lago. What an eye she has! methinks it sounds 
a parley of provocation. [modest. 

Cas. An inviting eye; and yet methinks right 

fago. And when she speaks, is it not an alarum 

Cas. She is indeed perfection. [to love ? 

Iago. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieu- 
tenant, I have a stoup of wine; and here without 
are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have 
a measure to the health of black Othello. 

Cas. Not to-night, good Iago: I have very poor 
and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish 
courtesy would invent some other custom of enter- 
tainment. 

ayo. O, they are our friends; but one cup: Ill 
drink for you. 

Cas. I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that 
was craftily qualified too, and, behold, what inno- 
vation it makes here: I am unfortunate in the in- | 
firmity, and dare not task my weakness with any 
more. 

ago. What, man! 
gallants desire it. 

Cas. Where are they ? : 

lago. Here at the door; I pray you, call them in. | 


730 


’tis a night of revels: the 


_ lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. 


_ then that I am drunk. 


Cas. 1’ dot; but it dislikes me. [ Heit. 
lago. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, 


——ee 


| With that which he hath drunk to-night already, 
_He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence 
| AS my young mistress’ dog. 


Now, my sick fool 
Roderigo, 

Whom love hath turn’d almost the wrong side out, 

To Desdemona hath to-night caroused 


_ Potations pottle-deep ; and he’s to watch: 


Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, 

That hold their honours in a wary distance, 

The very elements of this warlike isle, 

Have I to-night fluster’d with flowing cups, 

And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of 
drunkards, 

Am I to put our Cassio in some action 

That may offend the isle.-— But here they come: 

If consequence do but approve my dream, 

My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. 


Re-enter Cassio ; with him Montano and Gentle- 
men; Servants following with wine. 

Cas. Fore God,they have given mea rouse already. 

Mon. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as 
I am a soldier. 

Iago. Some wine, ho! 

[Sings] And let me the canakin clink, clink; 
And let me the canakin clink: 
A soldier ’s a man ; 
A life’s but a span: 
Why, then, let a soldier drink. 
Some wine, boys! 

Cas. ’Fore God, an excellent song. 

Iago. I learned it in England, where, indeed, they 
are most potent in potting : your Dane, your German, 
and your swag-bellied Hollander — Drink, ho! —are 
nothing to your English. fing ? 

Cas. Is your Englishman so expert in his drink- 

Tago. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your 
Dane dead drunk ; he sweats not to overthrow your 
Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the 
next pottle can be filled. 

Cas. To the health of our general! [tice. 

Mon. I am for it, lieutenant; and Ill do you jus- 

Iago. O sweet England! 

King Stephen was a worthy peer, 
His breeches cost him but a crown; 
He held them sixpence all too dear, 
With that he call’d the tailor lown. 
He was a wight of high renown, 
And thou art but of low degree : 
*T is pride that pulls the country down ; 
Then take thine auld cloak about thee. 
Some wine, ho! [other. 

Cas. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the 

Tago. Will you hear ’t again ? 

Cas. No: for I hold him to be unworthy of his 
place that does those things. Well, God’s above 
all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be 
souls must not be saved. 

Iago. It’s true, good lieutenant. 

Cas. For mine own part,—no offence to the gen- 
eral, nor any man of quality,—I hope to be saved. 

Iago. And so do I too, lieutenant. 

Cas. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the 
Let ’s 
have no more of this; let ’s to our affairs.—Forgive 
us our sins ! — Gentlemen, let ’s look to our business. 
Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is my 
ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left: 
Iam not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and 
speak well enough. 

All. Excellent well. 

Cas. Why, very well then; you must not on 

Exit. 

Mon. To the platform, masters; come, let ’s set 

the watch. 


Ta ES, LZ 
Ee PLLA 
YMG Z 


‘IIT SUSDG “TT 1IOV—"HOINAA AO HOOW AHL ‘O1TTAHLO 


i co INE 
«& 4 


Mi 
\ 
WN 


Wisi 
i 


\ 
i) 


Ta MHI 


) 
\) 


ACT II. 


Iago. You see this fellow that is gone before ; 
He is a soldier fit to stand by Cesar 
And give direction: and do but see his vice; 
°T is to his virtue a just equinox, 
The one as long as the other: ’t is pity of him. 
I fear the trust Othello puts him in, 
On some odd time of his infirmity, 
Will shake this island. 
Mon. But is he often thus ? 
Iago. ’T is evermore the prologue to his sleep: 
Hell watch the horologe a double set, 
If drink rock not his cradle. 
Mon. It were well 
The general were put in mind of it. 
Perhaps he sees it not; or his good nature 
Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, 
And looks not on his evils: is not this true? 


Enter Roderigo. 


Tago. [Aside to him] How now, Roderigo! 
I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. [Hxit Roderigo. 
_ Mon. And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor 
Should hazard such a place as his own second 
With one of an ingraft infirmity: 
it were an honest action to say 
So to the Moor. 

Lago. Not I, for this fair island: 
I do love Cassio well; and would do much 
To cure him of this evil— But, hark! what noise ? 

[Cry within: ‘Help! help!’ 


Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. 


Cas. You rogue! you rascal! 
Mon. What’s the matter, lieutenant ? 
Cas. A knave teach me my duty! 
Ill beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. 
fod. Beat me! 


Cas. Dost thou prate, rogue ? 
[Striking Roderigo. 
Mon. Nay, good lieutenant ; 


[Staying him. 
I pray you, sir, hold your hand. 
‘as. Let me go, sir, 
Or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard. 
Mon. Come, come, you’re drunk. 
Cas. Drunk! [ They fight. 
Iago. [Aside to Roderigo| Away, I say; go out, 
and cry a mutiny. [Hut Roderigo. 
Nay, good lieutenant,— alas, gentlemen ; — 
Help, ho! — Lieutenant ,—sir,— Montano,—sir ;— 
Help, masters !—Here’s a goodly watch indeed ! 
[ Bell rings. 
Who’s that which rings the bell ?— Diablo, ho! 
The town will rise: God’s will, lieutenant, hold! 
You will be shamed for ever. 


Re-enter Othello and Attendants. 


Oth. What is the matter here ? 
Mon. ’Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the 

death. [ Paints. 
Oth. Hold, for your lives! [gentlemen ,— 


Iago. Hold, ho! Lieutenant ,— sir,— Montano,— 
Have you forgot all sense of place and duty ? 
Hold! the general speaks to you; hold, hold, for 

shame! [this ? 

Oth. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth 
Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that 
Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites ? 

For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl: 

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage 

Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. 

Silence that dreadful bell: it frights the isle 

From her propriety. What is the matter, masters ? 

Honest Iago, that look’st dead with grieving, 

Speak, who began this ? on thy love, I charge thee. 
fago. 1 donot know: friends all but now, even 


In quarter, and in terms like brideand groom [now, | 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Devesting them for bed; and then, but now — 
As if some planet had unwitted men — 
Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breast, 
In opposition bloody. I cannot speak 

Any beginning to this peevish odds; 

And would in action glorious I had lost 

Those legs that brought me to a part of it! 

Oth. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot ? 

Cas. I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak. 

Oth. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil; 
The gravity and stillness of your youth 
The world hath noted, and your name is great 
In mouths of wisest censure: what’s the matter, 
That you unlace your reputation thus 
And spend your rich opinion for the name 
Of a night-brawler ? give me answer to it. 

Mon. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger: 
Your officer, lago, can inform you,— {me,— 
While I spare speech, which something now offends 
Of all that I do know: nor know I aught 
By me that’s said or done amiss this night ; 
Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, — 

And to defend ourselves it be a sin 
When violence assails us. 

Oth. Now, by heaven, 
My blood begins my safer guides to rule; 

And passion, having my best judgment collied, 
Assays to lead the way: if I once stir, 

Or do but lift this arm, the best of you 

Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know 
How this foul rout began, who set it on; 

And he that is approved in this offence, 
Though he had twinn’d with me, both at a birth, 
Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, 

Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear, 
To manage private and domestic quarrel, 

In night, and on the court and guard of safety! 
’Tis monstrous. Iago, who began ’t ? 

Mon. If partially affined, or leagued in office, 

Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, 
Thou art no soldier. 

ago. Touch me not so near: 
I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth 
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio; 
Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth 
Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general. 
Montano and myself being in speech, 
There comes a fellow crying out for help; 
And Cassio following him with determined sword, 
To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman 
Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause: 
Myself the crying fellow did pursue, 
Lest by his clamour —as it so fell out — 
The town might fall in fright: he, swift of foot, 
Outran my purpose; and I return’d the rather 
For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, 
And Cassio high in oath; which till to-night 
I ne’er might say before. When I came back — 
For this was brief —I found them close together, 
At blow and thrust; even as again they were 
When you yourself did part them. 
More of this matter cannot I report: 
But men are men; the best sometimes forget : 
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, 
As men in rage strike those that wish them best, 
Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received 
From him that fled some strange indignity, 
Which patience could not pass. 

Oth. I know, lago, 
Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, 
Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee ; 
But never more be officer of mine. 


Re-enter Desdemona, attended. 


Look, if my gentle love be not raised up! 
I’ll make thee an example. | 
Des. What ’s the matter ? 
731 


ROT OVI 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE IITTf, 


Oth. All’s well now, sweeting : come away to bed. 
Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon: 
Lead hiin off. [To Montano, who is led off. 
Iago, look with care about the town, 

And silence those whom this vile brawl] distracted. 
Come, Desdemona: ’tis the soldiers’ life 
To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. 

[| Hxeunt all but Iago and Cassio. 

Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant ? 

Oas. Ay, past all surgery. 

Tago. Marry, heaven forbid! 

Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I 
have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal 
part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My 
reputation, Iago, my reputation! 

Iago. AS 1 am an honest man, I thought you had 
received some bodily wound; there is more sense 
in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle 
and most false imposition: oft got without merit, 
and lost without deserving: you have lost no rep- 
utation at all, unless you repute yourself such a 
loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the 
general again: you are but now cast in his mood, 
a punishment more in policy than in malice; even 
so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright 
an imperious lion: sue to him again, and he’s 
yours. 

Cas. I will rather sue to be despised than to de- 
ceive so good a commander with so slight, so 
drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk ? 
and speak parrot ? and squabble ? swagger ? swear ? 
and discourse fustian with one’s own shadow? O 
thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name 
to be known by, let us call thee devil! ; 

Iago. What was he that you followed with your 
sword? What had he done to you? 

Cas. I know not. 

Lago. Is’t possible ? 

Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing 
distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O 
God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths 
to steal away their brains! that we should, with 
joy, pleasance, revel and applause, transform our- 
selves into beasts! 

lage. Why, but you are now well enough: how 
came you thus recovered ? 

Cas. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to 
give place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness 
shows me another, to make me frankly despise 
myself. 

Tago. Come, you are too severe a moraler: as 
the time, the place, and the condition of this coun- 
try stands, I could heartily wish this had not be- 
fallen; but, since it is as it is, mend it for your 
own good. 

Cas. I will ask him for my place again; he shall 
tell me Tama drunkard! Had I as many mouths 
as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. 
To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and 
presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate 
cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil. 

lago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar 
creature, if it be well used: exclaim no more against 
it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love 
you. 

Cas. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk! 

fago. You or any man living may be drunk at a 
time, man. I’ tell you what you shall do. Our 
general’s wife is now the general: I may say so in 
this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up 
himself to the contemplation, mark, and denote- 
ment of her parts and graces: confess yourself 
freely to her; importune her help to put you in 
your place again: she is of so free, so kind, so apt, 

732 


so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her 
goodness not to do more than she is requested: 
this broken joint between you and her husband en- 
treat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any 
lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow 
stronger than it was before. 

Cas. You advise me well. 

Iago. 1. protest, in the sincerity of love and hon- 
est kindness. 

Cas. I think it freely; and betimes in the morn- 


_ing I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to un- 


dertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes if 
they check me here. 
Jago. You are in the right. Good night, lieu- 
tenant; I must to the watch. 
Cas. Good night, honest Iago. [ Hutt. 
Iago. And what’s he then that says I play the 
When thisadviceisfreeI giveandhonest, [villain ? 
Probal to thinking and indeed the course 
‘Fo win the Moor again? For ’t is most easy 
The inclining Desdemona to subdue 
In any honest suit: she’s framed as fruitful 
As the free elements. And then for her 
To win the Moor — were ’t to renounce his baptism, 
All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, 
His soul is so enfetter’d to her love, 
That she may make, unmake, do what she list, 
Even as her appetite shall play the god 
With his weak function. How am I then a villain 
To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, 
Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! 
When devils will the blackest sins put on, 
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, 
As Ido now: for whiles this honest fool 
Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes 
And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 
Ill pour this pestilence into his ear, 
That she repeals him for her body’s lust; 
And by how much she strives to do him good, 
She shall undo her credit with the Moor. 
So will { turn her virtue into pitch, 
And out of her own goodness make the net 
That shall enmesh them all. 


Re-enter Roderigo. 


How now, Roderigo! 
Rod. I do follow here in the chase, not like a 
hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. 
My money is almost spent; I have been to-night 
exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think the issue 
will be, I shall have so much experience for my 
pains, and so, with no money at all and a little 
more wit, return again to Venice. 
Iago. How poor are they that have not patience! 
What wound did ever heal but by degrees ? 


Thou know’st we work by wit, and not by witch- — 


craft ; 
And wit depends on dilatory time. 
Does ’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, 
And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier’d Cassio: 
Though other things grow fair against the sun, 
Yet fruits that blossom. first will first be ripe: 
Content thyself awhile. By the mass, ’t is morning; 
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. 
Retire thee; go where thou art billeted: 
Away, I say; thou shalt know more hereafter : 
Nay, get thee gone. [Huxit Roderigo.| Two things 
are to be done: 
My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress ; 
I?ll set her on; 
Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, 
And bring him jump when he may Cassio find 
Soliciting his wife: ay, that’s the way: 
Dull not device by coldness and delay. [ Hait. 


: 
: 


ACT III. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


| 


72h ON4 Cieaad Bil (a by 


SCENE I.— Before the castle. 


Enter Cassio and some Musicians. 


Cas. Masters, play here; I will content your pains; 
Something that’s brief; and bid ‘Good Bae 
es Usic. 

Bey Enter Clown. 

Clo. Why, masters, have your instruments been 
in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus? 

First Mus. How, sir, how! 

Clo. Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments ? 

First Mus. Ay, marry, are they, sir. 

Clo. O, thereby hangs a tail. 

First Mus.. Whereby hangs a tale, sir ? 

Clo. Marry, sir, by many a wind-instrument that 
I know. But, masters, here’s money for you: and 
the general so likes your music, that he desires you, 
for love’s sake, to make no more noise with it. 

First Mus. Well, sir, we will not. — 

Clo. If you have any music that may not be heard, 
to’t again: but, as they say, to hear music the gen- 
eral does not greatly care. 

First Mus. We have none such, sir. 

Clo. Then put up your pipes in ps bag, for I’ 
away: go; vanish into air; away! 

| Hxeunt Musicians. 

Cas. Dost thou hear, my honest friend ? 

Clo. No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear 
you. 

Cas. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There ’s a poor 
piece of gold for thee: if the gentlewoman that at- 
tends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there ’s 
one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech : 
wilt thou do this ? 

Clo. She is stirring, sir: if she will stir hither, I 
shall seem to notify unto her. 

Cas. Do, good my friend. [Exit Clown. 


Enter Iago. 


In happy time, Iago. 
Llago. You have not been a-bed, then ? 
Cas. Why, no; the day had broke 
Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, 
To send in to your wife: my suit to her 
Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona 
Procure me some access. 
Lago. I ’ll send her to you presently ; 
And [ll devise a mean to draw the Moor 
Out of the way, that your converse and business 
May be more free. 
Cas. I humbly thank you for ’t. [Hit Iago.] I 
never knew 
A Florentine more kind and honest. 


Enter Emilia. 


Emil. Good morrow, good lieutenant: I am sorry 
For your displeasure; but all will sure be well. 
The general and his wife are talking of it; 
And she speaks for you stoutly: the Moor replies, 
That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus 
And great affinity and that in wholesome wisdom 
He might not but refuse you, but he protests he 

loves you 
And needs no other suitor but his likings 
To take the safest occasion by the front 
To bring you in again. 
as. Yet, I beseech you, 

If you think fit, or that it may be done, 
Give me advantage of some brief discourse 
With Desdemona alone. 

Emil. Pray you, come in: 
I will bestow you where you shall have time 
To speak your bosom freely. 

Cas. I am much bound to you. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— A room in the castle. 


Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen. 


Oth. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot; 

And by him do my duties to the senate: 

That done, I will be walking on the works; 

Repair there to me. 
Iago. Well, my good lord, I ll do’t. 
Oth. This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see ’t ? 
Gent. We’ll wait upon your lordship. [Hxeunt. 


SCHENH IIT. — The garden of the castle. 


Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia. 


Des. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do 
All my abilities in thy behalf. 

Emil. Good madam, do: I warrant it grieves my 

husband, 
As if the case were his. 

Des. O, that’s an honest fellow. Do not doubt, 
But I will have my lord and you again [Cassio, 
As friendly as you were. 

Cas. Bounteous madam, 
Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, 

He’s never any thing but your true servant. 

Des. (know ’t; [thank you. Youdo love my lord: 
You have known him long; and be you well assured 
He shall in strangeness stand no further off 
Than in a politic distance. 

Cas. Ay, but, lady, - 
That policy may either last so long, 

Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, 
Or breed itself so out of circumstance, 
That, I being absent and my place supplied, 
My general will forget my love and service. 

Des. Do not doubt that; before Emilia here 

I give thee warrant of thy place: assure thee, 

If I do vow a friendship, I ll perform it 

To the last article: my lord shall never rest ; 

Ill watch him tame and talk him out of patience; 
His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift ; 

I 11 intermingle every thing he does 

With Cassio’s suit: therefore be merry, Cassio; 
For thy solicitor shall rather die 

Than give thy cause away. 

Emil. Madam, here comes my lord. 

Cas. Madam, I ’ll take my leave. 

Des. Why, stay, and hear me speak. 

Cas. Madam, not now: I am very ill at ease, 
Unfit for mine own purposes. 

Des. Well, do your discretion. 


Enter Othello and Iago. 
Iago. Ha! I like not that. 
Oth 


[Hxit Cassio. 


} What dost thou say ? 
Iago. Nothing, my lord: or if — I know not what. 
Oth. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife ? 
Iago. Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it, 

That he would steal away so guilty-like, 

Seeing you coming. 

Oth. I do believe ’t was he. 
Des. How now, my lord! 
I have been talking with a suitor here, 
A man that languishes in your displeasure. 
Oth. Who is’t you mean ? 
Des. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord, 

If I have any grace or power to move you, 

His present reconciliation take ; 

For if he be not one that truly loves you, 

That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, 

I have no judgment in an honest face: 

I prithee, call him back. 

Oth. Went he hence now ? 
Des. Ay, sooth; so humbled 


733 


AGE LED 

That he hath left part of his grief with me, 

To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. 
Oth. Notnow, sweet Desdemona; some other time. 
Des. But shall ’t be shortly ? 

Oth. The sooner, sweet, for you. 
Des. Shall ’t be to-night at supper ? 

Oth. 

Des. To-morrow dinner, then ? 
Oth. T shall not dine at home; 

I meet the captains at the citadel. [morn ; 
Des. Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday 

On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn: 

T prithee, name the time, but let it not 

Exceed three days: in faith, he’s penitent ; 

And yet his trespass, in our common reason — 

Save that, they say, the wars must make examples 

Out of their best —is not almost a fault 

To incur a private check. When shall he come ? 

Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul, 

What you would ask me, that I should deny, 

Orstand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio, 

That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time, 

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, 

Hath ta’en your part; to have so much to do 

To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much,— 
Oth. Prithee,no more: let him come when he will; 

I will deny thee nothing. 

Des. Why, this is not a boon; 

’T is as I should entreat you wear your gloves, 

Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, 

Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit 

To your own person: nay, when I have a suit 

Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, 

It shall be full of poise and difficult weight 

And fearful to be granted. 

Oth. 

Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, 

To leave me but a little to myself. 

Des. Shall I deny you? no: farewell, my lord. 

Oth. Farewell, my Desdemona: I ’ll come to thee 
straight. 

Des. Emilia, come. Beas your fancies teach you; 

Whate’er you be, I am obedient. 

[| Hxeunt Desdemona and Emilia. 
Oth. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, 

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, 

Chaos is come again. 
fago. My noble lord,— 

Oth. What dost thou say, Iago ? 
Jago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady, 

Know of your love ? 

Oth. He did, from first to last : why dost thou ask ? 
Jago. But for a satisfaction of my thought; 

No further harm. 

Oth. Why of thy thought, Iago ? 

Jago. I did not think he had been acquainted 

with her. 

Oth. O, yes; and went between us very oft. 

Iago. Indeed! [in that ? 

Oth. Indeed! ay, indeed: discern’st thou aught 
Is he not honest ? 

Lago. Honest, my lord! 

Oth. Honest! ay, honest. 

Iago. My lord, for aught I know. 

Oth. What dost thou think ? 

Iago. Think, my lord! 

Oth. Think, my lord! 

By heaven, he echoes me, 

As if there were some monster in his thought 

Too pear to be shown. Thou dost mean some- 

ing: 

[ heard thee say even now, thou likedst not that, 

When Cassio left my wife: what didst not like ? 

And when I told thee he was of my counsel 

In my whole course of wooing,thou ecriedst ‘ Indeed !’ 

And didst contract and purse thy brow together, 

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain 


734 


No, not to-night. | 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE III. 


Some horrible conceit: if thou dost love me, 
Show me thy thought. 

fago. My lord, you know I love you. 

Oth. I think thou dost ; 
And, for I know thou ’rt full of love and honesty, 
And vee thy words before thou givest them 

yreath 
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more: 
For such things in a false disloyal knave 
Are tricks of custom, but in a man that’s just 
They are close delations, working from the heart 
That passion cannot rule. 


Tago. For Michael Cassio, 


I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. 


Tt is the green-eyed monster which doth mock 


Why 
_ Think’st thou I ’ld make a life of jealousy, 


Oth. I think so too. 
Lago. Men should be what they seem ; 
Or those that be not, would they might seem none! 
Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem. 
Iago. Why, then, I think Cassio ’s an honest man. 
Oth. Nay, yet there ’s more in this: 
L prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, 
As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of 
The worst of words. [thoughts 
ago. Good my lord, pardon me: 
Though I am bound to every act of duty, 
Tam not bound to that all slaves are free to. [false ; 
Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and 
As where ’s that palace whereinto foul things 
Sometimes intrude not ? who has a breast so pure, 
But some uncleanly apprehensions 
Keep leets and law-days and in session sit 
With meditations lawful ? 

Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, 
If thou but think’st him wrong’d and makest his ear 


| A stranger to thy thoughts. 
I will deny thee nothing: | 


Lago. I do beseech you — 
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, 
As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague 
To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy 
Shapes faults that are not —that your wisdom yet, 
From one that so imperfectly conceits, 
Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble 
Out of his scattering and unsure observance. 
It were not for your quiet nor your good, | 
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, 
To let you know my thoughts. | 
Oth. What dost thou mean ? . 
Jago. Good name in man and woman, dear my 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls: [lord, 
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, 
nothing ; 
’T was mine, tis his, and has been slave to thou- 
But he that filches from me my good name [sands; 
Robs me of that which not enriches him 
And makes me poor indeed. 
Oth. By heaven, I ’ll know thy thoughts. 
Iago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; 
Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody. 
Oth. Ha! 
Iago. 


4 
; 
, 
j 


O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 


The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives in bliss 
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; 
But, O, what damned minutes tells he o’er 
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! 
Oth. O misery! 
Iago. Poor and content is rich and rich enough, 
But riches fineless is as poor as winter 
To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend 
From jealousy! 
Oth. hy, why is this? 


To follow still the changes of the moon 

With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt 
Is once to be resolved: exchange me for a goat, 
When I shall turn the business of my soul 


AOD Ii, 


To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, [ous 
Matching thy inference. ’T is not to make me Jeal- 
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, 
Is free of speech, sings, plays and dances well; 
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous: 

Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw 

The smallest fear or doubt of her revoit; 

For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago; 

Ill see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; 

And on the proof, there is no more but this,— 
Away at once with love or jealousy ! 

Tago. 1 am glad of it; for now I shall have reason 
To show the love and duty that I bear you 
With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound, 
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. 
Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio ; 
Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure: 

I would not have your free and noble nature, 

Out of self-bounty, be abused; look to ’t: 

1 know our country disposition well; 

In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks 

They dare not show their husbands; their best con- | 
science 

Is not to leave ’t undone, but keep ’t unknown. 

Oth. Dost thou say so ? 

Tago. She did deceive her father, marrying you; 
And when she seem’d to shake and fear your looks, 
She loved them most. 

Oth. And so she did. 

_ Lago. Why, go to then; 
She that, so young, could give out such a seeming, 
To seel her father’s eyes up close as oak — 

He thought ’t was witchcraft —but I am much to 
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon = [blame; 
For too much loving you. 

Oth. I am bound to thee for ever. 

Iago. I see this hath a little dash’d your spirits. 

Oth. Not a jot, not a jot. 

Tago. V’ faith, I fear it has. 
I hope you will consider what is spoke 


OTHELLO. 


Comes from my love. But I do see you’re moved: 
I am to pray you not to strain my speech 
To grosser issues nor to larger reach 
Than to suspicion. ‘ 
Oth. I will not. 
Iago. Should you do so, my lord, 
My speech should fall into such vile success 
As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio ’s my worthy 
My lord, I see you ’re moved. [friend — 

Oth. No, not much moved: 
I do not think but Desdemona’s honest. [think so! 

Jago. Long live she so! and long live you to 

Oth. And yet, how nature erring from itself,— 

Iago. Ay, there’s the point: as—to be bold with 
Not to affect many proposed matches [you— 
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree. 
Whereto we see in all things nature tends — 

Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank, 

Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. 

But pardon me; I do not in position 

Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear 

Her will, recoiling to her better judgment, 

May fall to match you with her country forms 

And happily repent. 
Oth. Farewell, farewell: 

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; 

Set on thy wife to observe: leave me, Iago. 

Lago. [Going] My lord, I take my leave. [doubtless 
Oth. Why did I marry? This honest creature 
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. | 

Iago. [Returning] My lord, I would I might en- 

treat your honour 
To scan this thing no further; leave it to time: 
Though it be fit that Cassio have his place, 
For, sure, he fills it up with great ability, 
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, 
You shall by that perceive him and his means: 


SCENE IIT 


Note, if your lady strain his entertainment 
With any strong or vehement importunity ; 
Much will be seen in that. In the mean time, 
Let me be thought too busy in my fears — 

As worthy cause I have to fear I am — 

And hold her free, I do beseech your honour. 
Oth. Fear not my government. ; 
lago. I once more take my leave. 

Oth. This fellow ’s of exceeding honesty, 

And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, 

Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard, 

Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings, 


_1’ld whistle her off and let her down the wind, 


To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black 

And have not those soft parts of conversation 
That chamberers have, or for I am declined 

Into the vale of years,— yet that’s not much— 
She’s gone. Iam abused; and my relief 

Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, 
That we can call these delicate creatures ours, 
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, 
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, 

Than keep a corner in the thing I love 


| For others’ uses. Yet,’t is the plague of great ones: 


Prerogatived are they less than the base; 
*T is destiny unshunnable, like death: 
Even then this forked plague is fated to us 
When we do quicken. Desdemona comes: 


Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia. 


If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! 
I'll not believe ’t. 

Des. How now, my dear Othello! 
Your dinner, and the generous islanders 
By you invited, do attend your presence. 

Oth. I am to blame. 

Des. Why do you speak so faintly ? 
Are you not well? 

Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead here. 

Des. ’Faith, that’s with watching; ’t will away 
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour [again: 
It will be well. - 

Oth. Your napkin is too little: 

[He puts the handkerchief from him; and tt drops. 
Let it alone. Come, I ll go in with you. 

Des. Iam very sorry that you are not well. 

[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. 

Emil. I am glad I have found this napkin: 

This was her first remembrance from the Moor: 
My wayward husband hath a hundred times 
Woo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the token, 
For he conjured her she should ever keep it, 

That she reserves it evermore about her 

To kiss and talk to. Ill have the work ta’en out, 
And give ’t Iago: what he will do with it 

Heaven knows, not I; 

I nothing but to please his fantasy. 


Re-enter Iago. 


Tago. How now! what do you here alone ? 
Emil. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you. 
Tago. A thing for me ? it is a common thing — 
Emil. Ha! 
Tago. To have a foolish wife. 
Emil. O, is that all? What will you give me now 
For that same handkerchief ? 
What handkerchief ? 


ago. 

Endl, What handkerchief ! 
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona ; 
That which so often you did bid me steal. 

Tago. Hast ston it from her ? ‘ 

Emil. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence, 
And, to the advantage, I, being here, took ’t up. 
Look, here it is. 

Iago. A good wench; give it me. 

Emil. What will you do with’t, that you have been 
To have me filch it ? [so earnest 

730 


ACT IIIf. 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE Iff, 


Tago. [Snatching it} Why, what’s that to you? 

Emil. Uf it be not for some purpose of import, 
Give ’t me again: poor lady, she ll run mad 
When she shall lack it. 

Tayo. Be not acknown on ’t; I have use for it. 
Go, leave me. [ Hait Emilia. 
I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin, 

And let him find it. Trifles light as air 

Are to the jealous confirmations strong 

As proofs of holy writ: this may do something. 
The Moor already changes with my poison: 
Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons, 
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, 
But with a little act upon the blood, 

Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so: 
Look, where he comes! 


Re-enter Othello. 


Not poppy, nor mandragora, | 


Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, 
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
Which thou owedst yesterday. 
Oth. Ha! ha! false to me? 
Iago. Why, how now, general! no more of that. 
Oth. Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the 
I swear ’tis better to be much abused [rack: 
Than but to know’t a little. 
Lago. How now, my lord! 
Oth. What sense had I of her stol’n hours of lust ? 
I saw ’t not, thought it not, it harm’d not me: 
I slept the next night well, was free and merry ; 
I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips: . 
He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stol’n, 
Let him not know ’t, and he’s not robb’d at all. 
Jago. Lam sorry to hear this. 
Oth. I had been happy, if the general camp, 
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body, 
So I had nothing known. O, now, for ever 
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! 
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! 
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, 
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
The royal banner, and all quality, 
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war! 
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit, 
Farewell! Othello’s occupation ’s gone! 
Iago. Ist possible, my lord ? 
Oth. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore, 
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof; 
Or, by the worth of man’s eternal soul, 
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog 
Than answer my waked wrath! 
Tayo. Is ’t come to this ? 
Oth. Make me to see’t; or, at the least, so prove 
‘That the probation bear no hinge nor loop fit, 
To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life! 
lago. My noble lord,— 
Oth. If thou dost slander her and torture me, 
Never pray more; abandon all remorse; 
On horror’s head horrors accumulate ; 
Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed ; 
lor nothing canst thou to damnation add 
Greater than that. 
Iago. O grace! O heaven forgive me! 
Are you a man? have you a soul or sense ? 
God be wi’ you; take mine office. O wretched fool, 
That livest to make thine honesty a vice! 
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, 
To be direct and honest is not safe. 
I thank you for this profit; and from hence 
I ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence. 
Oth. Nay, stay: thou shouldst be honest. . 
Iago. I should be wise, for honesty ’s a fool 
And loses that it works for. 


Oth. By the world, 


736 


I think my wife be honest and think she is not; 

I think that thou are just and think thou art not. 

Ill have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh 

As Dian’s visage, is now begrimed and black 

As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives, 

Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, 

Ill not endure it. Would I were satisfied! 
Iago. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion: 

I do repent me that I put it to you. 

You would be satisfied ? . 
Oth. Would! nay, I will. flord? 
Iago. And may: but, how? how satisfied, my 

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on — 

Behold her topp’d ? 
Oth. Death and damnation! O! 
fago. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, 

To bring them to that prospect: damn them then, 

If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster 

More than theirown! What then? how then? 

What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction ? 

It is impossible you should see this, 

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, 

As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross 

As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say, 

If imputation and strong circumstances, 

Which lead directly to the door of truth, 

Will give you satisfaction, you may have ’t. 
Oth. Give me a living reason she’s disloyal. 
Iago. I do not like the office: 

But, sith I am enter’d in this cause so far, 

Prick’d to ’t by foolish honesty and love, 

I will goon. I lay with Cassio lately; 

And, being troubled with a raging tooth, 

I could not sleep. 

There are a kind of men so loose of soul, 

That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs: 

One of this kind is Cassio: 

In sleep I heard him say ‘Sweet Desdemona, 

Let us be wary, let us hide our loves; ’ 

And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, 

Cry ‘O sweet creature!’ and then kiss me hard, 

As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots 

That grew upon my lips: then laid his leg 

Over my thigh, and sigh’d, and kiss’d; and then 

Cried ‘ Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!’ 
Oth. O monstrous! monstrous! 
Iago. Nay, this was but his dream. 
Oth. But this denoted a foregone conclusion : 

"Tis a Shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. 
lugo. And this may help to thicken other proofs 

eee demonstrate thinly. 

t 


J ’ll tear her all to pieces. . 


Iago. Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done; 
She may be honest yet. Tell me but this, 
Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief 
Spotted with strawberries in your wife’s hand ? 
Oth. I gave her such a one; *t was my first gift. 
Jago. I know not that: but such a handkerehief— 
I am sure it was your wife’s —did I to-day 
See Cassio wipe his beard with. : 
Oth. If it be that,— 
lago. If it be that, or any that was hers, 
It speaks against her with the other proofs. 
Oth. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! 
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. 
Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago; 


_ All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 


*T is gone. 
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! 
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne 
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, 
For ’tis of aspics’ tongues! 

Yet be content. 


ago. 
Oth. O, blood, blood, blood! [change. 
Jago. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may 
Oth. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic sea, 
Whose icy current and compulsive course 


ALE LIL. 


Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 
To the Propontic and the Hellespont, 
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, 
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, 
Till that a capable and wide revenge 
Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven, 
| Kneels] In the due reverence of a sacred vow 
I here engage my words. 
ago. Do not rise yet. 

[ Kneels] Witness, you ever-burning lights above, 
You elements that clip us round about, 
Witness that here Iago doth give up 
The execution of his wit, hands, heart, 
To wrong’d Othello’s service! Let him command, 
And to obey shall be in me remorse, 
What bloody business ever. 

Oth. I greet thy love, 
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance boun- 
And will upon the instant put thee to ’t: —[teous, 
Within these three days let me hear thee say 
That Cassio’s not alive. 

Iago. My friend is dead; tis done at your request: 
But let her live. 

Oth. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! 
Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, 
To furnish me with some swift means of death 
For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. 

Jago. 1 am your own for ever. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Before the castle. 


Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. 


Des. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant 
Cassio lies ? 

Clo. I dare not say he lies any where. 

Des. Why, man? 

Clo. He’s a soldier, and for one to say a soldier 
lies, is stabbing. 

Des. Go to: where lodges he ? 

Clo. To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you 
where I lie. 

Des. Can any thing be made of this ? 

Clo. I know not where he lodges, and for me to 
devise a lodging and say he lies here or he lies 
there, were to lie in mine own throat. 

Des. Can you inquire him out, and" be edified by 
report ? 

Clo. I will catechize the world for him; that is, 
make questions, and by them answer. 

Des. Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I 
have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will 
be well. 

Clo. To do this is within the compass cf man’s 
wit; and therefore I will attempt the doing it. [Hvit. 

Des. Where should I lose that handkerchief, 

Emil. I know not, madam. [Emilia ? 

Des. Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse 
Full of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor 
Is true of mind and made of no such baseness 
As jealous creatures are, it were enough 
To put him to ill thinking. 

Emil. Is he not jealous ? 

Des. Who, he? I think the sun where he was 
Drew all such humours from him. {born 

Emil. Look, where he comes. 

Loe ane not leave him now till Cassio 

1im. 
pasta 30 Enter Othello. 
How is ’t with you, my lord ? 

Oth. Well, my good lady. [Aside] O, hardness 

to dissemble! — 
How do you, Desdemona ? 
Des. Well, my good lord. 
Oth. Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my 


lady. 
Des. It yet hath felt noage nor known no sorrow. 
Oth. This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart: 


47 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE IV. 
Hot, hot, and moist: this hand of yours requires 
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer, 
Much castigation, exercise devout ; 
For here’s a young and sweating devil here, 
That commonly rebels. °T is a good hand, 
A frank one. 
Des. You may, indeed, say so; 
For ’t was that hand that gave away my heart. 
Oth. A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave 
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. [hands; 
Des. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your 
Oth. What promise, chuck ? [promise. 
Des. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with 
ou. 
Oth. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me; 
Lend me thy handkerchief. 


Des. Here, my lord. 

Oth. That which I gave you. 

Des. I have it not about me. 
Oth. Not? 

Des. No, indeed, my lord. 

Oth That is a fault. 


That handkerchief 
Did an Egyptian to my mother give; 
She was a charmer, and could almost read [kept it, 
The thoughts of people: she told her, while she 
*T would make her amiable and subdue my father 
Entirely to her love, but if she lost it 
Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye 
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt 
After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me; 
And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, 
To give it her. I did so: and take heed on ’t; 
Make it a darling like your precious eye; 
To lose ’t or give ’t away were such perdition 
As nothing else could match. 
Des. Is ’t possible ? 
Oth. Tis true: there ’s magic in the web of it: 
A sibyl, that had number’d in the world 
The sun to course two hundred compasses, 
In her prophetic fury sew’d the work; 
The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk; 
And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful 
Conserved of maidens’ hearts. 
Des. Indeed! is ’t true ? 
Oth. Most veritable; therefore look to ’t well. 
Des. Then would to God that I had never seen ’t ! 
Oth. Ha! wherefore ? 
Des. Why do you speak so startingly and rash ? 
Oth. Is’t lost? is’t gone? speak, is it out o’ the 
Des. Heaven bless us! [way ? 
Oth. Say you? 
Des. It is not lost; but what an if it were? 
Oth. How! 
Des. I say, it is not lost. 
Oth. Fetch ’t, let me see ’t. 
Des. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. 
This is a trick to put me from my suit: 
Pray you, let Cassio be received again. 
Oth. Fetch me the handkerchief: my mind mis- 
Des. Come, come ; [gives. 
You ’ll never meet a more sufficient man. 
Oth. The handkerchief ! 
Des. I pray, talk me of Cassio. 
Oth. The handkerchief ! 
Des. A man that all his time 
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, 
Shared dangers with you,— 
Oth. The handkerchief ! 
Des. In sooth, you are to blame. 
Oth. Away! 
Emil. Is not this man jealous ? 
Des. I ne’er saw this before. 
Sure, there ’s some wonder in this handkerchief : 
I am most unhappy in the loss of it. 
Emil. "Tis not a year or two shows us a man: 
They are all but stomachs, and we all but food ; 


eo 
oOo 


[ Exit. 


AGT UD Ys. 


They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, 
They belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband! 


Enter Cassio and Iago. 


Iago. There is no other way; ’tisshe must do’t: 
And, lo, the happiness! go, and importune her. 
Des. How now, good Cassio! what’s the news 
with you? 
Cas. Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you 
That by your virtuous means [ may again 
Exist, and be a member of his love 
Whom I with all the office of my heart 
Entirely honour: I would not be delay’d. 
If my offence be of such mortal kind 
That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, 
Nor purposed merit in futurity, 
Can ransom me into his love again, 
But to know so must be my benefit ; 
So shall I clothe me in a forced content, 
And shut myself up in some other course, 
To fortune’s alms. 
Des. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio! 
My advocation is not now in tune; 
My lord is not my lord; nor should I know hin, 
Were he in favour as in humour alter’d. 
So help me every spirit sanctified, 
As I have spoken for you all my best 
And stood within the blank of his displeasure 
For my free speech! you must awhile be patient: 
What I can do I will; and more I will 
Than for myself I dare: let that suffice you. 
Iago. Is my lord angry ? 
Emil. He went hence but now, 
And certainly in strange unquietness. 
Iago. Can he be angry? Ihaveseen the cannon, 
When it hath blown his ranks into the air, 
And, like the devil, from his very arm 
Puff’d his own brother: —and can he be angry ? 
Something of moment then: I will go meet him: 
There ’s matter in *t indeed, if he be angry. . 
Des. I prithee, do so. | Hait Iago. 
Something, sure, of state, 
Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practice 
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, 
Hath puddled his clear spirit; and in such Gases 
Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things, 
Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so; 
For let our finger ache, and it indues 
Our other healthful members even to that sense 
Of pain: nay, we must think men are not gods, 
Nor of them look for such observances 
As fit the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia 
I was, unhandsome warrior as I am, 
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; 
But now I find I had suborn’d the witness, 
And he’s indicted falsely. 
Emil. Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you 
think, 


ACT 
SCENE I.— Cyprus. Before the castle. 


Enter Othello and Iago. 
fago. Will you think so? 


Oth. Think so, Iago! 

Iago. What, 
To kiss in private ? 

Oth. An unauthorized kiss. 


fugo. Or to be naked with her friend in bed 
An hour or more, not meaning any harm ? 
Oth. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm! 
It is hypocrisy against the devil: 
They that mean virtuously, and yet doso, [heaven. 
The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt 


738 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE TI, 


And no conception nor no jealous toy 
Concerning you. 
Des. Alas the day! I never gave him cause. 
Emil. But jealous souls will not be answer’d so ; 
They are not ever jealous for the cause, 
But jealous for they are jealous: ’t is a monster 
Begot upon itself; born on itself. 
Des. Heaven keep that monster from Othello’s 
Emil. Lady, amen. [mind! 
Des. I willgoseek him. Cassio, walk hereabout: 
If I do find him fit, I 711 move your suit 
And seek to effect it to my uttermost. 
Cas. I humbly thank your ladyship. 
[Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. 


Enter Bianca. 


Bian. Save you, friend Cassio! 
Cas. What make you from home? 
How is it with you, my most fair Bianca ? 

I’ faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. 
bian. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. 
What, keep a week away ? seven days and nights ? 
Eight score eight hours ? and lovers’ absent hours, 

More tedious than the dial eight score times ? 
O weary reckoning! 
as. Pardon me, Bianca: 
Lhave this while with leaden thoughts been press’d ; 
But I shall, in a more continuate time, 
Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, 
[Giving her Desdemona’s handkerchief. 
Take me this work out. 
Bian. O Cassio, whence came this ? 
This is some token from a newer friend: 
To the felt absence now I feel a cause: 
Is ’t come to this? Well, well. 
Cas. Go to, woman! 
Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth, 
From whence you have them. You are jealous now 
That this is from some mistress, some remembrance : 
No, in good troth, Bianca. 
Bian. Why, whose is it ? 
Cas. I know not, sweet: I found it in my cham- 
I like the work well: ere it be demanded— __[ber, 
As like enough it will—I’ld have it copied: 
Take it, and do’t; and leave me for this time. 
Bian. Leave you! wherefore ? 
Cas. I do attend here on the general; 
And think it no addition, nor my wish, 
To have him see me woman’d. 


ian. 
Cas. Not that I love you not. 
Bian. But that you do not love me. 
I pray you, bring me on the way a little, 
And say if I shall see you soon at night. 
Cas. ’T is but a little way that I can bring you; 
For I attend here: but Ill see you soon. 
Bian. ’T is very good; I must be circumstanced. 
[ Hxeunt. 


Why, I pray you? 


i 


fago. So they do nothing, ’t is a venial slip: 
But if I give my wife a handkerchief ,— 

Oth. What then ? 

Iago. Why, then, ’tis hers, my lord; and, being 
She may, I think, bestow ’t on any man. [hers’ 

Oth. She is protectress of her honour too: 

May she give that ? 

Jago. Her honour is an essence that’s not seen; 
They have it very oft that have it not: 

But, for the handkerchief ,— 

Oth. By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot 
Thou said’st — O, it comes o’er my memory, Tit. 
As doth the raven o’er the infected house, 

Boding to all—he had my handkerchief. 


ACT IV. 


Jago. Ay, what of that ? 
Oth. That’s not so good now. 
Lago. What, 
If I had said I had seen him do you wrong ? 
Or heard him say,—as knaves be such abroad, 
Who having, by their own importunate suit, 
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, 
Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose 
But they must blab — 
Oth. Hath he said any thing ? 
fago. He hath, my lord; but be you well assured, 
No more than he ’ll unswear. 
Oth. What hath he said ? 
lago. ’Faith, that he did—I know not what he 


Oth. What? what ? [did. 
Iago. Lie — 

Oth. With her? 

Iago. With her, on her; what you will. 


Oth. Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on 
her, when they belie her. Lie with her! that’s 
fulsome.— Handkerchief — confessions — handker- 
chief! — To confess, and be hanged for his labour; 
—first, to be hanged, and then to confess.—I trem- 
ble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such 
shadowing passion without some instruction. It 
is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, 
ears, and lips.— Is ’t possible ? — Confess — hand- 
kerchief!—O devil! [Falls in a trance. 

Iago. Work on, [caught ; 
My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are 
And many worthy and chaste dames even thus, 
All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord! 
My lord, I say! Othello! 


Enter Cassio. 


How now, Cassio! 

Cas. What’s the matter ? 

Iago. My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy : 
This is his second fit; he had one yesterday. 

Cas. Rub him about the temples. 

Iago. No, forbear ; 
The lethargy must have his quiet course: 
If not, he foams at mouth and by and by 
Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs: 
Do you withdraw yourself a little while, 
He will recover straight: when he is gone, 
I would on great occasion speak with you. 

[ Hxit Cassio. 

How is it, general? have you not hurt your head ? 

Oth. Dost thou mock me ? 

Lago. I mock you! no, by heaven. 
Would you would bear your fortune like a man! 

Oth. A horned man’s a monster and a beast. 

Jago. There ’s many a beast then in a populous 
And many a civil monster. [city, 

Oth. Did he confess it ? 

Tago. Good sir, be a man; 
Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked 
May draw with you: there’s millions now alive 
That nightly lie in those unproper beds [ter. 
Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is bet- 
O, ’t is the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock, 
To lip a wanton in a secure couch, 
And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know; 
And knowing what Iam, I know what she shall be. 

Oth. O, thou art wise; ’tis certain. 

Iago. Stand you awhile apart ; 
Contine yourself but in a patient list. 
Whilst you were here 0’erwhelmed with your grief — 
A passion most unsuiting such a man — 
Cassio came hither: I shifted him away, 
And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy, 
Bade him anon return and here speak with me ; 
The which he promised. Do but encave yourself, 
And mark the fieers, the gibes, and notable scorns, 
That dwell in every region of his face; 
For I will make him tell the tale anew, 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE I, 
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when 
He hath, and is again to cope your wife: 
{ say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience; 
Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen, 
And nothing of a man. 
Oth. Dost thou hear, Iago ? 
I will be found most cunning in my patience; 
But — dost thou hear ?— most bloody. 
That ’s not amiss; 
Will you withdraw ? 
[ Othello retires. 
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, 
A housewife that by selling her desires 
Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature 
That dotes on Cassio; as ’tis the strumpet’s plague 
To beguile many and be beguiled by one: 
He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain 
From the excess of laughter. Here he comes: 


Lago. 
But yet keep time in all. 


Re-enter Cassio. 


As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad; 

And his unbookish jealousy must construe 

Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures and light behaviour, 
Quite inthe wrong. How do you now, lieutenant ? 

Cas. The worser that you give me the addition 
Whose want even kills me. 

Iago. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on ’t. 
[Speaking lower] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s 
How quickly should you speed! [power, 

Cas. Alas, poor caitiff ! 

Oth. Look, how he laughs already ! 

Iago. I never knew woman love man so. [me. 

Cas. Alas, poor rogue! I think, i’ faith, she loves 

Oth. Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out. 

lago. Do you hear, Cassio ? 

Oth. Now he importunes him 
To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said. 

lago. She gives it out that you shall marry her: 
Do you intend it ? 

Cas. Ha, ha, ha! 

Oth. Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph ? 

Cas. I marry her! what? a customer! Prithee, 
bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so 
unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha! 

Oth. So, 80, 80, so: they laugh that win. 

Iago. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry 

Cas. Prithee, say true. [her. 

Iago. I am a very villain else. 

Oth. Have you scored me? Well. 

Cas. This is the monkey’s own giving out: she 
is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love 
and flattery, not out of my promise. 

Oth. Iago beckons me; now he begins the story. 

Cas. She was here even now; she haunts me in 
every place. I was the other day talking on the 
sea-bank with certain Venetians; and thither comes 
the bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus 
about my neck — : 

Oth. Crying ‘O dear Cassio!’ as it were: his ges- 
ture imports it. 

Cas. So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so 
hales, and pulls me: ha, ha, ha! 

Oth. Now he tells how she plucked him to my 
chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that 
dog I shall throw it to. 

Cast Well, I must leave her company. 

Iago. Before me! look, where she comes. 

Oas. “Tis such another fitchew! marry, a per- 
fumed one. : 

Enter Bianca. 
What do you mean by this haunting of me? — 

Bian. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! 
What did you mean by that same handkerchief you 
gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I 
must take out the work ?—A likely piece of work, 
that you should find it in your chamber, and not 
know who left it there! This is some minx’s token, 


739 


AUT: 1V. 


and I must take out the work ? There; give it 
your hobby-horse; wheresoever you had Leas asd tI 
take out no work on ’t. 

Cas. How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! 
how now! 

Oth. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief! 

Bian. An you 1 come to supper to-night, you 
may; an you will not, come when you are next 
prepared for. [ Hit. 

Iago. After her, after her. 

Cas. ’Faith, I must ; she ’1] rail in the street else. 

Tago. Will you sup there ? 

Cas. ’Faith, I intend so. 

Iago. Well, I may chance to see you; for I 
would very fain speak with you. 

Cas. Prithee, come; will you? 

Iago. Go to; say no more. [Exit Cassio. 

Oth. [Advancing] How shall I murder him, Iago ? 

Lago. Did you perceive how he laughed’ at his 

Oth. O Iago! [vice ? 

Iago. And did you see the handkerchief? 

Oth. Was that mine ? 

Jago. Yours, by this hand: and to see how he 
prizes the foolish woman your wife! she gave it 
him, and he hath given it his whore. 

Oth. I would have him nine years a-killing. A 
fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman! 

Iago. Nay, you must forget that. 

Oth. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned 
to-night; for she shall not live: no, my heart is 
turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. 
O,the world hath not a sweeter creature: she might 
lie by an emperor’s side and command him tasks. 

Iago. Nay, that ’s not your way. 

Oth. Hang her! I do but say what she is: so 
delicate with her needle: an admirable musician: 
O! she will sing the savageness out of a bear: of 
so high and plenteous wit and invention :— 

Iago. She’s the worse for all this. 

Oth. O, a thousand thousand times: and then, 
of so gentle a condition! 

Iago. Ay, too gentle. 

Oth. Nay, that’s certain: but yet the pity of it, 
Jago! O Jago, the pity of it, lago! 

lago. lf you are so fond over her iniquity, give her 
patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes 
near nobody. 

Oth. I will chop her into messes: cuckold me! 

Jago. O, tis foul in her. 

Oth. With mine officer! 

lago. That ’s fouler. 

Oth. Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I ll 
not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty 
unprovide my mind again: this night, Iago. 

Iago. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her 
bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. 

be Good, good: the justice of it pleases: very 
good. 

Iago. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker : 
you shall hear more by midnight. 

Oth. Excellent good. eat tr rumepet within.| What 

trumpet is that same ? 

Iago. Something from Venice, sure. ”T is Lodo- 

vico [him. 
Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with 


Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants. 


Lod. Save you, worthy general! 

Oth. With all my heart, sir. 

Lod. The duke and senators of Venice greet you. 

[ Gives him a létter. 

Oth. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. 
[Opens the letter, and reads. 

Des. And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico? 

Iago. I am very glad to see you, signior ; 

Welcome to Cyprus. 
Lod. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio ? 


740 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE I. 


Iago. Lives, sir. {lord 
Des. Cousin, there ’s fall’n between him and my 
An unkind bredch: but you shall make all well. 
Oth. Are you sure of that ? 
Des. My lord ? [will —’ 
Oth. [feads| ‘This fail you not to do, as you 
Lod. He did not call; he’s busy in the paper. 
Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio ? 
Des. A most unhappy one: I would do much 
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. 
Oth. Fire and brimstone! 
Des. My lord ? 
Oth. Are you wise? 
Des. What, is he angry ? 
od. May be the letter moved him; 
For, as I think, they do command him home, 
Deputing Cassio in his government. 
Des. Trust me, I am glad on’t. 


Oth. Indeed! 

Des. My lord? 
Oth. I am glad to see you mad. 

Des. Why, sweet Othello, — 
Oth. [Striking her] Devil! 

Des. I have not deserved this. [Venice, 
Lod. My lord, this would not be believed in 


Though I should swear I saw’t: 
Make her amends; she weeps. 
Oth. O devil, devil ! 
If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears, 
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 
Out of my sight! 
Des. I will not stay to offend you. [Going. 
Lod. Truly, an obedient lady: 
I do beseech your lordship, Gal her back. 
Oth. Mistress! 
My lord? 


Des. 
What would you with her, sir? 


tis very much: 


Oth. 

Lod. Who, I, my lord ? 

Oth. AY ; you did wish that I would make her. 
Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet goon, [turn: 
And turn again; "and she can weep, Sir, weep; 
And she’s obedient, as you Say, obedient, 

Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. 
Concerning this, sir,— O well-painted passion ! — 
Iam commanded home. Get you away; 
I’ll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate, 
And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! 
[ Ewit Desdemona. 

Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, to-night, 
I do entreat that we may sup together: 
You are welcome, sir, to Cyp prus.— Goats and 

monkeys! [ Hxit. 

Lod. Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate 
Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature 
Whom passion could not shake? whose solid vir- 
The shot of accident, nor dart of chance, [tue 
acc neither graze nor pierce ? 

He is much changed. 

Led Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain ? 

tee: ae ’s that he is: I may not breathe my cen- 


What te Tighe be,—if what he might he is not— 
I peuld to heaven he were! 
What, strike his wife! 
oes Faith, that was not so well; yet would I 
moe stroke would prove the worst! [knew 
Is it his use? 
Or did the letters work upon his blood, 
And new-create this fault ? 
Tago. Alas, alas! 
It is not honesty in me to speak 
What I have seen and known. You shall observe 
And his own courses will denote him so [him, 
That I may save my speech: do but go after, 
And mark how he continues. 
Lod. Iam sorry that I am deceived in him. 
[ Exeunt. 


ACT iV. 


SCENE II.— A room in the castle. | 


Enter Othello and Emilia. 


Oth. You have seen nothing then ? 

Emil. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. 

Oth. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she to- 

gether. 
_ Emil. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard 
Each syllable that breath made up between them. 

Oth. What, did they never whisper ? 

Emil. Never, my lord. 

Oth. Nor send you out o’ the way? 

Emil. Never. 

Oth. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor 

Enul. Never, my lord. [nothing ? 

Oth. That ’s strange. 

Emil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, 
Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other, 
Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom. 
If any wretch have put this in your head, 

Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse! 
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true, 

There ’s no man happy; the purest of their wives 
Is foul as slander. 

Oth. Bid her come hither: go. 

[Exit Emilia. 
She says enough; yet she’s a simple bawd 
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, 
A closet lock and key of villanous secrets: 
And yet she ’ll kneel and pray ; I have seen her do’t. 


Enter Desdemona with Emilia. 


Des. My lord, what is your will ? 

Oth. Pray, chuck, come hither. 
Des. What is your pleasure ? 

Oth Let me see your eyes; 


Look in my face. 
es. What horrible fancy ’s this ? 
Oth. [To Envilia] Some of your function, mistress ; 
Leave procreants alone and shut the door; 
Cough, or cry ‘hem,’ if any body come: 
Your mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch. 
[Hutt Hmilia. 
Des. Upon my knees, what doth your speech 
I understand a fury in your words, [import ? 
But not the words. 
Oth. Why, what art thou ? 
Des. Your wife, my lord; your true 
ee wife. 
th. 


Come, swear it, damn thyself; 
Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves 
Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double ; 
Swear thou art honest. [damn’d: 
es. Heaven doth truly know it. 
Oth. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as | 
hell. [I false ? 
Des. To whom, my lord? with whom? how am 
Oth. O Desdemona! away! away! away! 
Des. Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep ? 
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord ? 
If haply you my father do suspect 
An instrument of this your calling back, 
Lay not your blame on me: if you have lost him, 
Why, I have lost him too. 
Oth. Had it pleased heaven 
To try me with affliction; had they rain’d 
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, 
Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips, 
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, 
I should have found in some place of my soul 
A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me - 
A fixed figure for the time of scorn 
To point his slow unmoving finger at! 
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well: 
But there, where I have garner’d up my heart, 
Where either I must live, or bear no life; 
The fountain from the which my current runs, 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE II. 


Or else dries up; to be discarded thence! 
Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads [there, 
To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion 
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin,— 
Ay, there, look grim as hell! 
Des. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. 
Oth. O, ay; as summer flies are in the ‘shambles, 
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, 
Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet 
That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst 
ne’er been born! 
Des. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed ? 
Oth. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book 
Made to write ‘ whore’ upon? What committed | 
Committed! O thou public commoner! 
I should make very forges of my cheeks, 
That would to cinders burn up modesty, 
Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! 
Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks, 
The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets 
Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, 
And will not hear it. What committed! 
Impudent strumpet ! 
Des. By heaven, you do me wrong. 
Oth. Are not you a strumpet ? 
Des. No, as I am a Christian: 
If to preserve this vessel for my lord 
From any other foul unlawful touch 
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. 
Oth. What, not a whore? 
Des. 
Oth. Is’t possible ? 
Des. O, heaven forgive us! 
Oth. I cry you mercy, then: 
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice 
That married with Othello. [Raising his voice] 
You, mistress, 
That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, 
And keep the gate of hell! 


Re-enter Emilia. 
You, you, ay, you! 
We have done our course; there ’s money for your 
pains: 
I pray you, turn the key and keep our ievornt 
wit. 
Emil. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive ? 
How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady ? 
Des. ’Faith, half asleep. 
Emil. Good madam, what ’s the matter with my 
Des. With who? {lord ? 
Emil. Why, with my lord, madam. 
Des. Who is thy lord ? 
Emil. He that is yours, sweet lady. 
Des. I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia; 
I cannot weep; nor answer have I none, 
But what should go by water. Prithee, to-night 
Lay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember ; 
And eall thy husband hither. 
Emit. Here’s a change indeed! [ Hutt. 
Des. ’Tis meet I should be used so, very meet. 
How have I been behaved, that he might stick 
The small’st opinion on my least misuse ? 


Re-enter Emilia with Iago. 
Iago. What is your pleasure, madam? How is’t 
with you ? 
Des. Y cannot tell. Those that do teach young 
Do it with gentle means and easy tasks: —_ [babes 
He might have chid me so; for, in good faith, 


I am a child to chiding. 
Iago. What’s the matter, lady ? 
Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her, | 

Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, 

As true hearts cannot bear. 
Des. Am I that name, Ia 


Lago. 
741 


No, as I shall be saved. 


0? 
What name, fair lady ? 


ACT IV. 


Des. Such as she says my lord did say I was. 
Emil. He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink 
Could not have laid such ferms upon his callat. 
Iago. Why did he so? 
Des. I do not know; I am sure I am none such. 
Iago. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day! 
Emil. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, 
Her father and her country and her friends, 
To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep ? 
Des. It is my wretched fortune. 
Tago. Beshrew him for ’t! 
How comes this trick upon him ? 
Des. Nay, heaven doth know. 
Emil. I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain, 
Some busy and insinuating rogue, 
Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, 
Have not devised this slander; I ’ll be hang’d else. 
Iago. Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible. 
Des. If any such there be, heaven pardon him! 
Emil. A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his 
bones ! [pany ? 
Why should he call her whore ? who keeps her com- 
What place ? what time ? what form ? what likeli- 
hood ? 
The Moor’s abused by some most villanous knave, 
Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. 
O heaven, that such companions thou’ldst unfold, 
And put in every honest hand a whip 
To lash the rascals naked through the world 
Even from the east to the west! 
Lago. Speak within door. 
Emil. O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was 
That turn’d your wit the seamy side without, 
And made you to suspect me with the Moor. 
Iago. You are a fool; go to. 
Des. O good Iago, 
What shall I do to win my lord again ? 
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven, 
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel: 
If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love, 
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, 
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
Delighted them in any other form; 
Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
And ever will —though he do shake me off 
To beggarly divorcement — love him dearly, 
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much; 
And his unkindness may defeat my life, 
But never taint my love. I cannot say ‘ whore:’ 
It does abhor me now I speak the word; 
To do the act that might the addition earn 
Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me. 
lago. I pray you, be content ; ’t is but his humour: 
The business of the state does him offence, 
And he does chide with you. 
Des. If *t were no other,— 
Lago. ’T is but so, I warrant. 
[Trumpets within. 
Hark, how these instruments summon to supper! 
The messengers of Venice stay the meat: 
Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. 
[Hxeunt Desdemona and Emilia. 


Enter Roderigo. 


How now, Roderigo ! 

tod. L do not find that thou dealest justly with me. 

Iago. What in the contrary ? 

Rod. Every day thou daffest me with some de- 
vice, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, 
keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest 
me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed 
no longer endure it, nor am I yet persuaded to put 
up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. 

Iago. Will you hear me, Roderigo ? 

fod. ’Faith, I have heard too much, for your 
words and performances are no kin together. 

Jago. You charge me most unjustly. 


742 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE ITl. 


Rod. With nought but truth. I have wasted 
myself out of my means. The jewels you have 
had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half 
have corrupted a votarist: you have told me she 
hath received them and returned me expectations 
and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, 
but I find none. 

Iago. Well; go to; very well. 

Rod. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; 
nor ’tis not very well: nay, I think it is scurvy. 
and begin to find myself fobbed in it. 

Iago. Very well. 

Rod. I tell you ’tis not very well. I will make 
myself known to Desdemona: if she will return me 
my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my 
unlawful solicitation ; if not, assure yourself I will 
seek satisfaction of you. 

lago. You have said now. 

Rod. Ay, and said nothing but what I protest 
intendment of doing. 

Iago. Why, now I see there ’s mettle in thee, and 
even from this instant do build on thee a better 
opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Rod- 
erigo: thou hast taken against me a most just ex- 
ception; but yet, I protest, I have dealt most di- 
rectly in thy affair. 

Rod. It hath not appeared. 

Jago. I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and 
your suspicion is not without wit and judgment. 
But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, 
which I have greater reason to believe now than 
ever, I mean purpose, courage and valour, this 
night show it: if thou the next night following en- 
joy not Desdemona, take me from this world with 
treachery and devise engines for my life. 

Rod. Well, what is it? is it within reason and 
compass ? ; 

Jago. Sir, there is especial commission come from 
Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place. 

Rod. Is that true ? why, then Othello and Des- 
demona return again to Venice. 

Iago. O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes 
away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode 
be lingered here by some accident: wherein none can 
be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. 

Rod. How do you mean, removing of him ? 

Iago. Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s 
place: knocking out his brains. 

Rod. And that you would have me to do? 

Iago. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit anda 
right. Hesups to-night with a harlotry, and thither 
will I go to him: he knows not yet of his honour- 
able fortune. If you will watch his going thence, 
which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and 
one, you may take him at your pleasure: I will be 
near to second your attempt, and he shall fall be- 
tween us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go 
along with me; I will show you such a necessity in 
his death that you shall think yourself bound to 
put iton him. It is now high supper-time, and the 
night grows to waste: about it. 

Rod. I will hear further reason for this. 

Iago. And you shall be satisfied. [ Exeunt. 


SCENEH III. —Another room in the castle. 


Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, 
and Attendants. 


Lod. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no 
further. 

Oth. O, pardon me; ’t will do me good to walk. 

Lod. Madam, good-night; I humbly thank your 
ladyship. 

Des. Your honour is most welcome. 

Oth. Will you walk, sir? 

O,— Desdemona ,— 
Des. My lord ? 


ACTA V 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE I. 


Oth. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be re- i 


turned forthwith: 
look it be done. 

Des. I will, my lord. 

[ Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants. 

Emil. How goes it now ? he looks gentler than he 

Des. He says he will return incontinent; —[did. 
He hath commanded me to go to bed, 

And bade me to dismiss you. 

Emil. Dismiss me! 

Des. It was his bidding ; therefore, good Emilia, 
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu : 

We must not now displease him. 

Emil. I would you had never seen him! 

Des. So would not I: my love doth so approve him, 
That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns,— 
Prithee, unpin me,— have grace and favour in them. 

Emil. I have laid those sheets you bade me on 
the bed. 

Des. All’s one. Good faith, how foolish are our 
If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me [minds! 
In one of those same sheets. 


dismiss your attendant there: 


mil. Come, come, you talk. 
Des. My mother had a maid call’d Barbara: 
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad 
And did forsake her: she had a song of ‘ willow ;’ 
An old thing ’t was, but it express’d her fortune, 
And she died singing it: that song to-night 
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do, 
But to go hang my head all at one side, 
And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch. 
Emil. Shall I go fetch your night-gown ? 
Des. No, unpin me here. 
This Lodovico is a proper man. 
Emil. A very handsome man. 
Des. He speaks well. 
Enil. I know a lady in Venice would have walked 
barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. 
Des. [Singing] The poor soul sat sighing by a syc- 
amore tree, 
Sing all a green willow; 
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, 
Sing willow, willow, willow; 
The fresh streams ran ‘by her, and pupDU ue 
Sing willow, willow, willow; 
Her salt tears fell from her, ‘and ete he 


Lay by these :— [stones ;— 
[Singing] Sing willow, willow, willow; 
Prithee, hie thee; he ’1l come anon :— [land. 


[Singing] Sing alla green willow must be my gar- 
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve,— 
Nay, that’s not next.—Hark! who is’t that knocks? 

Emil. It’s the wind. 
Des. [Singing] I call’d my love false love; but what 
said he then ? 
Sing willow, willow, willow: 


If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe 

men.— 

So, get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; 

Doth that bode weeping ? 

Emil. *T is neither here nor there. 

Des. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these 

men! 

Dost thou in conscience think,— tell me, Emilia,— 

That there be women do abuse their husbands 

In such gross kind ? 

Emil. There be some such, no question. 

Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the 

Emil. Why, would not you? [world ? 

Des No, by this heavenly light! 

Emil. Nor l neither by this heavenly light; 

I might do’t as well i’ the dark. [Ww orld ? 
Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the 
Emil. The world’s a huge thing: it is a great 

For a small vice. [price 
Des. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. 

Emil. In troth, I think I should; and undo’t 
when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a 
thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, 
nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty 
exhibition; but, for the whole world,—why, who 
would not make her husband a cuckold to make 
him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for ’t. 

Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong 
For the whole world. . 

Emil. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i’ the 
world; and having the world for your labour, ’tis 
a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly 
make it right. 

Des. I do not think there is any such woman. 

Emil. Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage 
as would store the world they played for. 

But I do think it is their husbands’ faults 

If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties, 

And pour our treasures into foreign laps, 

Or else break out in peevish jealousies, 

Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us, 

Or scant our former having in despite; 

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, 

Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know 

Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell 

And have their palates both for sweet and sour, 

As husbands have. What is it that they do 

When they change us for others? Is it sport ? 

I think it is: and doth affection breed it ? 

I think it doth: is ’t frailty that thus errs ? 

It is so too: and have not we affections, 

Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? 

Then let them use us well: else let them know, 

The ills we do, their ills instruct us so. [send, 
Des. Good night, good night: heaven me such uses 

Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! [ Exeunt. 


Fen OS BU ae 


SCENE I.— Cyprus. A street. 


Enter Iago and Roderigo. 
Jago. Here, stand behind this bulk; 
will he come: 
Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home: 
Quick, quick; fear nothing ; ; 1 ’ll be at thy elbow: 
It makes us, or it mars us; think on that, 
And fix most firm thy resolution. 
Rod. Be near at hand; I may miscarry in ’t. 
Iago. Here, at thy hand: be bold, and take thy 
stand. [ Feetires. 
Rod. I have no great devotion to the deed ; 
And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons: 
*T is but a man gone. Forth, my sword: he dies. 


straight 


Iago. I have rubb’d this young quat almost to 

the sense, 

And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill 
Cassio, 

Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, 

Every way makes my gain: live Roderigo, 

He calls me to a restitution large 

Of gold and jewels that I bobb’d from him, 

AS gifts to Desdemona ; 

It must not be: if Cassio do remain, 

He hath a daily beauty in his life 

That makes me ugly; and, besides, the Moor 

May enone me to him; there stand I in much 
peri 


No, he must die. But so: I hear him coming. 


748 


ACT V. 


Enter Cassio. 


Rod. I know his gait, ’tis he. — Villain, thou 
diest ! [Makes a pass at Cassio. 
Cas. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed, 
But that my coat is better than thou know’st: 
I will make proof of thine. 
[Draws, and wounds Itoderigo. 
Rod. O, I am slain! 
Iago ya behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit. 
as. 1am maim/’d for ever. Help, ho! murder! 


! Falls. 
at Oya Gralla 


Oth. The voice of Cassio: Iago keeps his word. 

Rod. O, villain that I am! 

Oth. It is even so. 

Cas. O, help, ho! light! a surgeon! ; 

Oth. "Tis he: —O brave Iago, honest and just, 
That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s wrong ! 
Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead, 
And your unblest fate hies: strumpet, I come. 
Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are 


blotted ; 
Thy bed, lust-stain’d, shall with lust’s blood be 
spotted. [ Hatt. 


Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. 
Cas. What, ho! no watch ? no passage ? murder! 


murder! (ful. 
Gra. *T is some mischance; the cry is very dire- 
Cas. O, help! 
Lod. Hark! 


' Rod. O wretched villain! 

Lod. Two or three groan: it is a heavy night: 
These may be counterfeits: let ’s think ’t unsafe 
To come in to the cry without more help. 

Rod. Nobody come? then shall I bleed to death. 

Lod. Hark! 


Re-enter Iago, with a light. 


Gra. Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light 
and weapons. 
Jago. Whose’s there? whose noise is this that 
cries on murder ? 
Lod. We do not know. 
Iago. 
Cas. Here, here! for heaven’s sake, help me! 
Tago. What ’s the matter ? 
Gra. This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it. 
Lod. The same indeed; a very valiant fellow. 
Jago. What are you here that cry so grievously ? 
Cas. Jago? O, I am spoil’d, undone by villains! 
Give me some help. [this ? 
Jago. O me, lieutenant! what villains have done 
Cas. I think that one of them is hereabout, 
And cannot make away. 
Lago. O treacherous villains! 
What are you there? come in, and give some help. 
[To Lodovico and Gratiano. 
Rod. O, help me here! 
Cas. That’s one of them. 
Iago. O murderous slave! O villain! 
[Stabs Roderigo. 
Rod. O damn’d Iago! O inhuman dog! 
fago. Kill men i’ the dark! — Where be these 
bloody thieves ? — 


How silent is this town !— Ho! murder! murder!— | 


What may you be? are you of good or evil? : 
Lod, As you shall prove us, praise us. 
Lago. Signior Lodovico ? 
Lod. He, sir. 
lago. I cry you mercy. 
Gra. Cassio ! 
lago. How is’t, brother! 
Cas. My leg is cut in two. 
Lago. Marry, heaven forbid! 
Light, gentlemen: I ’ll bind it with my shirt. 
744 


[villains. 
Here ’s Cassio hurt by 


OTHELLO. 


Did not you hear a cry ? | 


SCENE II. 


Enter Bianca. 


Bian. What is the matter, ho? who is ’t that cried ? 
Iago. Who is’t that cried! 
Bian. O my dear Cassio! my sweet Cassio! 
O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! [pect 
Lago. © notable strumpet! Cassio, may you sus- 
Who they should be that have thus mangled you? 
Cas. NG: [seek you. 
Gra. Iam sorry to find you thus: I have beeii io 
Jago. Lend mea garter. So. O, fora chair, 
To bear him easily hence! 
Bian. Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! 
Iago. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash 
To be a party in this injury. 
Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come; 
Lend me a light. Know we this face or no? 
Alas, my friend and my dear countryman 
Roderigo! no:— yes, sure:—O heaven! Roderigo. 
Gra. What, of Venice ? 
Tago. Even he, sir: did you know him ? 
Gra. Know him! ay. 
Iago. Signior Gratiano ? Icry you gentle pardon ; 
These bloody accidents must excuse my manners, 
That so neglected you. 
Gra. Tam 
Iago. How do you, Cassio ? 
Gra. Roderigo! 
Iago. He, he, ’tis he. [A chair brought in.] O, 
that’s well said; the chair. 
Some good man bear him carefully from hence; 
Ill fetch the general’s surgeon. [Zo Bianca]. For 
you, mistress, sio, 
Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, Cas- 
Was my dear friend: what malice was between you ? 
Cas. None in the world; nor do I know the man. 
Iago. [To Bian.] What, look you pale? O, bear 
him out o’ the air. 
| [Cassio and Roderigo are borne off. 
Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress ? 
Do you perceive the gastness of her eye? 
Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon. 
Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her: 
Do you see, gentlemen? nay, guiltiness will speak, 
Though tongues were out of use. 


ae to see you. — 
, a chair, a chair! 


Enter Emilia. 


Emil. ’Las, what’s the matter? ‘what’s the 
matter, husband ? 
Iago. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark 
By Roderigo and fellows that are scaped : 
He’s almost slain, and Roderigo dead. 
Emil. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio! 
Tago. Thisis the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, 
Go know of Cassio where he supp’d to-night. 
[To Bianca] What, do you shake at that ? 
Bian. He supp’d at my house; but I therefore 
shake not. 
Iago. O, did he so? I charge you, go with me. 
Emil. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! 
Bian. Iam no strumpet; but of life as honest 
As you that thus abuse me. 
Emil. As I! foh! fie upon thee! 
Iago. Kind gentlemen, let’s go see poor Cassio 
dress’d. 
Come, mistress, you must tell’s another tale. 
Emilia, run you to the citadel, 
And tell my lord and lady what hath happ‘d. 
Will you go on? I pray. [Aside] This is the night 
That either makes me or fordoes me quite. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE II.—A bedchamber in the castle: Desdemona 
in bed asleep; a light burning. 
Enter Othello. 


Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,— 
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! — 


ACT V. 


It is the cause. Yet I ’ll not shed her blood; 
Nor sear that whiter skin of hers than snow, 
And smooth as monumental alabaster. 
Yet she must die, else she ’ll betray more men. 
Put out the light, and then put out the light: 
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 
I can again thy former light restore, 
Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, 
Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, 
I know not where is that Promethean heat _ [rose, 
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d the 
I cannot give it vital growth again, 
It must needs wither: Ill smell it on the tree. 

[ Kissing her. 
Ah, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
Justice to break her sword! One more, one more. 
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, 
And love thee after. One more, and this the last : 
So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep, 
But they are cruel tears: this sorrow ’s heavenly ; 
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. 

Des. Who’s there? Othello ? 

; Ay, Desdemona. 
Des. Will you come to bed, my lord ? 
Oth. Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona ? 

8. Ay, my lord. 
Oth. If you bethink yourself of any crime 
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, 

Solicit for it straight. 

Des. Alas, my lord, what do you mean by that ? 

Oth. Well, do it, and be brief ; I will walk by: 
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit ; 

No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul. 

Des. Talk you of killing ? 

Oth. Ay, I do. 

Des. 

Have mercy on me! 

Oth 


Then heaven 


: Amen, with all my heart! 
Des. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. 
Oth. Hum! 

Des. And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then 

W hen your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not, 

Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. 
Oth. Think on thy sins. 

es. They are loves I bear to you. 
Oth. Ay, and for that thou diest. 
Des. That death ’s unnatural that kills for loving. 

Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip ? 

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame: 

These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, 

They do not point on me. 

Oth. Peace, and be still! 
Des. I willso. What ’s the matter ? [thee 
Oth. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave 
Thou gavest to Cassio. 
es. No, by my life and soul! 
Send for the man, and ask him. 
th. Sweet soul, take heed, 

Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy death-bed. 
Des. Ay, but not yet to die. 

Oth. Yes, presently : 

Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin; 

For to deny each article with oath 

Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception 

That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. 

Des. Then Lord have mercy on me! 
Oth. I say, amen. 
Des. And have you mercy too! I never did 

Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio 

But with such general warranty of heaven 

As I might love; I never gave him token. 

Oth. By heaven, Isaw my handkerchief in ’s hand. 

O perjured woman! thou dost stone my heart, 

And makest me call what I intend to do 

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice: 

I saw the handkerchief. 

Des. He found it then; 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE II. 


I never gave it him: send for him hither; 
a cae confess a truth. 
t 


Des. What, my lord ? 
Oth. That he hath used thee. 


He hath confess’d. 


Des. How ? unlawfully ? 

Oth. Ay. 
Des. He will not say so. 

Oth No, his mouth is stopp’d; 


Honest Iago hath ta’en order for ’t. 
Des. O! my fear interprets: what, is he dead ? 
Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge 
Had stomach for them all. 
es. Alas! he is betray’d and I undone. [face ? 
. Out, strumpet! weep’st thou for him to my 
. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! 
. Down, strumpet! 


Des. Kill me to-morrow: let me live to-night! 
Oth. Nay, if you strive,— 

Des. But half an hour! 

Oth Being done, there is no pause. 
Des. But while I say one prayer! 

Oth. It is too late. 


[He stifles her. 
Emil. | Within] My lord, my lord! what, ho! my 
lord, my lord! [dead ? 
Oth. What noise is this ? Not dead ? not yet quite 
I that am cruel am yet merciful; 
I would not have thee linger in thy pain: 


So, so. | 
Emil. [Within] What, ho! my lord, my lord! 
Oth. Who’s there ? 
Emil. [Within] O, good my lord, I would speak 
a word with you! 
Oth. Yes: ’tis Emilia. Byand by. She’s dead. 
*T is like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death.— 
The noise was here. Ha! no more moving ? 
Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were ’t good?— 
I think she stirs again: —no. What’s best to do? 
If she come in, she 71] sure speak to my wife: 
My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife. 
O, insupportable! O heavy hour! 
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe 
Should yawn at alteration. 
Emil. | Within] I do beseech you 
That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! 
Oth. I had forgot thee: O, come in, Emilia: 
Soft; by and by. Let me the curtains draw. 
Where art thou ? [ Unlocks the door. 


Enter Emilia. 


What ’s the matter with thee now? 
Emil. O, my good lord, yonder’s foul murders 
Oth. What, now ? [done! 
Emil. But now, my lord. 
Oth. It is the very error of the moon; 
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, 
And makes men mad. 
Emil. Cassio, my lord,hath kill’da young Venetian 
Call’d Roderigo. 


Oth. 
And Cassio kill’d ! 

Emil. No, Cassio is not kill’d. 

Oth. Not Cassio kill’d! then murder ’s out of tune, 
And sweet revenge grows harsh. 

Des. O, falsely, falsely murder’d ! 

Emil. Alas, what cry is that ? 

Oth. That! what ? 

Emil. Out, and alas! that was my lady’s voice. 
Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! 
Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! 

Des. A guiltless death I die. 

Emil. O, who hath done this deed ? 

Des. Nobody; I myself. Farewell: 
Commend me to my kind lord: O, farewell! [D¢es. 

Oth. Why, how should she be murder’d ? 


745 


Roderigo kill’d! 


AIGTEVS 


Emil. Alas, who knows ? 
Oth. You heard her say herself, it was not I. 
Emil. She said so: I must needs report the truth. 
Oth. She’s, like a liar, gone to burning hell: 
"T was I that kill’d her. 
O, the more angel she, 


Emil. 

And you the blacker devil! 
Oth. She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore. 
Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. 
Oth. She was false as water. 

Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say 

That she was false: O, she was heavenly true! 

Oth. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. 

O, I were damn’d beneath all depth in hell, 

But that I did proceed upon just grounds 

To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. 
Emil. My husband! 

Oth. Thy husband. 
Emil. That she was false to wedlock ? 
Oth. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, 

If heaven would make me such another world 

Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, ; 

I ’ld not have sold her for it. 

Hmil. My husband! 
Oth. Ay, ’t was he that told me first: 

An honest man he is, and hates the slime 

That sticks on filthy deeds. 

Emil. My husband ! 

Oth. What needs this iteration, woman? I say 
thy husband. [love! 

Emil. O mistress, villany hath made mocks with 

My husband say that she was false ! 

th. He, woman; 

I say thy husband: dost understand the word ? 

My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. 
Emil. If he say so, may his pernicious soul 

Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart: 

She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. 

Oth. Ha! 
Emil. Do thy worst: 

This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven 

Than thou wast worthy her. 

Oth. Peace, you were best. 
Emil. Thou hast not half that power to do me 

As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! [harm 

As ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed — 

I care not for thy sword; Ill make thee known, 

Though I lost twenty lives.— Help! help, ho! help! 

The Moor hath kill’d my mistress! Murder! murder! 


Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others. 


Mon. What is the matter? How now, general! 
Emil. O,are you come, Iago ? you have done well, 
That men must lay their murders on your neck. 
Gra. What is the matter ? 
Emil. Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man: 
He says thou told’st him that his wife was false: 
1 know thou didst not, thou ’rt not such a villain: 
Speak, for my heart is full. | 
Lago. [told him what I thought, and told no more 
Than what he found himself was apt and true. 
Emil. But did you ever tell him she was false ? 
Iago. I did. 
Hmil. You told a lie; an odious, damned lie: 
Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie. 
She false with Cassio !—did you say with Cassio ? 
ago. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your 
tongue. [to speak : 
Emil. I will not charm my tongue; Iam bound 
My mistress here lies murder’d in her bed,— 
All. O heavens forfend! 
Emil. And your reports have set the murder on. 
Oth. Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed. 
Gra. ’T is a strange truth. 
Mon. O monstrous act! 
Emil. Villany, villany, villany ! 
I think upon ’t, I think: I smell ’t: O villany!— 
746 


OTHELLO. 


| So speaking as I think, I die, I die. 


SCENE ITI, 


I thought so then :—I 71] kill myself for grief :— 

O villany, villany! [home. 
Iago. What, are you mad ? I charge you, get you 
Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak : 

’T is proper I obey him, but not now. 

Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home. 

Oth. O! O! O! [He falls on the bed. 
Emil. Nay, lay thee down and roar; 
For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent 
That e’er did lift up eye. 
Oth. [Rising] O, she was foul! 

I scarce did know you, uncle: there lies your niece, 

Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly 

I know this act shows horrible and grim.  [stopp’d: 
tats at Desdemona! I am glad thy father’s 

ead: 

Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief 

Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, 

This sight would make him do a desperate turn, 

Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 

And fall to reprobation. 

Oth. ’Tis pitiful; but yet lago knows 

That she with Cassio hath the act of shame 

A thousand times committed ; Cassio confess’d it: 

And she did gratify his amorous works 

With that recognizance and pledge of love 

Which I first gave her: I saw it in his hand: 

It was a handkerchief, an antique token 

My father gave my mother. 

Emil. O heaven! O heavenly powers! 
Iago. Come, hold your peace. 
Emil. °T will out, ’t will out: I peace! 

No, I will speak as liberal as the north: 

Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, 

All, all, cry shame against me, yet I ’ll speak. 
Iago. Be wise, and get you home. 


Emil. I will not. 
(Lago offers to stab Emilia. 
Gra. Fie! 


Your sword upon a woman ? [speak’st of 

Emil. O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou 
I found by fortune and did give my husband; 

For often, with a solemn earnestness, 
More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle, 
He begg’d of me to steal it. 
Tago. Villanous whore! 
, mil. She give it Cassio! no, alas! I found it, 
And I did give ’t my husband. 
Lago. Filth, thou liest! 
Emil. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. 
O murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool 
Do with so good a woman ? 
Oth. Are there no stones in heaven 
But what serve for the thunder ?—Precious villain ! 
[He runs at Iago: Lago, from behind, stabs 
Emilia, and exit. 
Gra. ae woman falls; sure, he hath kill’d his 
wife. . 
Emil. Ay, ay: O, lay me by my mistress’ side. 
Gra. He’s gone, but his wife’s kill’d. [weapon, 
Mon. ’Tis a notorious villain. Take you this 
Which I have here recover’d from the Moor: 
Come, guard the door without; let him not pass, 
But kill him rather. Ill after that same villain, 
For *tis a damned slave. | 
[Hxeunt Montano and Gratiano. 
Oth. IT am not valiant neither, 
But every puny whipster gets my sword: 
But why should honour outlive honesty ? 
Let it go all. 

Emil. What did thy song bode, lady ? 
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, 
And die in music. [Singing] Willow, willow, 

willow.— 
Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; 
So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; 
[ Dies. 


AGT. 


Oth. I have another weapon in this chamber ; 
It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook’s temper : — 
O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. [dear : 
Gra. [ Within] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee 
Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. 
Oth. Look in upon me then and speak with me, 
Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. 


Re-enter Gratiano. 


Gra. What is the matter ? 

Oth. Behold, I have a weapon ; 
A better never did itself sustain 
Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day, 
That, with this little arm and this good sword, 
I have made my way through more impediments 
Than twenty times your stop: but, O vain boast! 
Who can control his fate ? *tis not so now. 
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d; 
Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, 
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 
Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear ; 
Man but a rush against Othello’s breast, 
And he retires. Where should Othello go ? 
Now, how dost thoulook now? O ill-starr’d wench ! 
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, 
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, 
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl! 
Even like thy chastity. O cursed slave! 
Whip me, ye devils, 
From the possession of this heavenly sight ! 
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur! 
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! 
O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! 
Oh! Oh! Oh! 


Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a 
chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner. 


Lod. iad ats is this rash and most unfortunate 
man 
Oth. That’s he that was Othello: here I am. 
Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth. 
Oth. I look down towards his feet; but that’s a 
If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee. [fable. 


: [ Wounds Iago. 
Lod. Wrench his sword from him. 
Iago. I bleed sir; but not kill’d. 
Oth. I am not sorry neither; I ’ld have thee live ; 
For, in my sense, ’t is happiness to die. 
Lod. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, 
Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave, 
What shall be said to thee ? 
Oth. . Why, any thing: 
An honourable murderer, if you will; 
_ For nought I did in hate, but all in honour. 
Lod. This wretch hath part confess’d his villany : 
Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death ? 
Oth. Ay. 
Cas. Dear general, I never gave you cause. 
Oth. I do believe it, and I ask you pardon. 
Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil 
Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body ? 
fa Demand me nothing: what you know, you 
now: 
From this time forth I never will speak word. 
Lod. What, not to pray ? 
Gra. Torments will ope your lips. 
Oth. Well, thou dost best. ; 
Lod. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n, 
Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter 
Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo ; 


OTHELLO. 


SCENE II. 


And here another: the one of them imports 
The death of Cassio to be undertook 
By Roderigo. 
Oth. O villain! 
Cas. Most heathenish and most gross! 
Lod. Now here’s another discontented paper, 
Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, 
Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain; 
But that belike Iago in the interim 
Caine in and satisfied him. 
Oth. O the pernicious caitiff! 
How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief 
That was my wife’s ? 
Cas. I found it in my chamber: 
And he himself confess’d but even now 
That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose 
Which wrought to his desire. 
Oth. O fool! fool! fool! 
Cas. There is besides in Roderigo’s letter, 
How he upbraids Iago, that he made him 
Brave me upon the watch; whereon it came 
That I was cast: and even but now he spake, 
After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him, 
Iago set him on. 
Lod. You must forsake this room, and go with us: 
Your power and your command is taken off, 
And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, 
If there be any cunning cruelty 
That can torment him much and hold him long, 
It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, 
Till that the nature of your fault be known 
To the Venetian state. Come, bring him away. 
Oth. Soft you; a word or two before you go. 
I have done the state some service, and they know’t. 
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, 
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, 
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you 


spea 

Of one that loved not wisely but too well; 

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought 

Perplex’d in the extreme; of one whose hand, 

| Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away [eyes, 

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued 

Albeit unused to the melting mood, 

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 

Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; 

And say besides, that in Aleppo once, 

Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk 

Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, 

I took by the throat the circumcised dog, 

And smote him, thus. [Stabs himself. 
Lod. O bloody period! 


Ta. All that’s spoke is marr’d. 
Oth. I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee: no way but 
Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. [this ; 
[Falls on the bed, and dies. 
Cas. This did I fear, but thought he had no 
For he was great of heart. [weapon ; 
od. [To Iago] O Spartan dog 
More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea | 
Look on the tragic loading of this bed ; 
This is thy work: the object poisons sight ; 
Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, 
And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, 
For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor, 
Remains the censure of this hellish villain ; 
The time, the place, the torture: O, enforce it! 
Myself will straight aboard; and to the state 


This heavy act with heavy heart relate. [Heunt. 
747 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4A. 


Mark Antony, 

Octavius Cesar, \ triumvirs. 
M. Amilius Lepidus, 

Sextus Pompeius. 

Domitius Enobarbus, 

Ventidius, 
Eros, 
Scarus, 
Dercetas, 
Demetrius, 
Philo, 
Meceenas, 
Agrippa, 
Dolabella, 
Proculeius, 
Thyreus, 
Gallus, 
Menas, 

Menecrates, friends to Pompey. 
Varrius, 


friends to Antony. 


friends to Ceesar. 


Taurus, lieutenant-general to Cesar. 

Canidius, lieutenant-general to Antony. 

Silius, an officer in Ventidius’s army. 

Euphronius, an ambassador from Antony to Cesar. 
Alexas, 

Mardian, a Eunuch, 
Seleucus, 
Diomedes, 

A Soothsayer. 

A Clown. 
Cleopatra, queen of Egypt. 

Octavia, sister to Cesar and wife to Antony. 
Charmian, 
Iras, 


| attendants on Cleopatra. 


} attendants on Cleopatra. 


Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. 


SCENE — Jn several parts of the Roman empire. 


{ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page Lxvi.] 


Boot 8 Be Os 


SCENE I.— Alexandria. 


A room in Cleopatra’s 
palace. 


Enter Demetrius and Philo. 


Phi. Nay, but this dotage of our general’s 
O’erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes, 
That o’er the files and musters of the war 
Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now turn, 
The office and devotion of their view 
Upon a tawny front: his captain’s heart, » 

Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst 
The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper, 
And is become the bellows and the fan 

To cool a gipsy’s lust. 


Flourish. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, her Ladies, 
the Train, with Hunuchs fanning her. 


Look, where they come: 
Take but good note, and you shall see in him 
The triple pillar of the world transform’d 
Into a strumpet’s fool: behold and see. 
Cleo. If it be love indeed, tell me how much. 
Ant. There’s beggary in the love that can be 
reckon’d. 
Cleo. I 11 set a bourn how far to be beloved. 
Ant. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, 
new earth. 
Enter an Attendant. 
Att. News, my good lord, from Rome. 
Ant. Grates me: the sum. 
Cleo. Nay, hear them, Antony: 
Fulvia perchance is angry; or, who knows 
If the scarce-bearded Czesar have not sent 
His powerful mandate to you, ‘ Do this, or this; 
Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that; 
Perform ’t, or else we damn thee.’ 


748 


Ant. How, my love! 
Cleo. Perchance! nay, and most like: 
You must not stay here longer, your dismission 
Is come from Cesar; therefore hear it, Antony. 
Where ’s eee process ? Ceesar’s I would say ? 
both ¢ 
Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen, 
Thou blushest, Antony; and that blood of thine 
Is Ceesar’s homager: else so thy cheek pays shame 
When Seer ce Fulvia scolds. The messen- 
ers! 

Ant. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch 
Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space. 
Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike 
Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life 
Is to do thus; when such a mutual pair 

[| Hmbracing. 

And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, 
On pain of punishment, the world to weet 
We stand up peerless. 

Cleo. Excellent falsehood ! 
Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her ? 
Ill seem the fool I am not; Antony 
Will be himself. 

Ant. But stirr’d by Cleopatra. 
Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, 
Let ’s not confound the time with conference harsh: 
There ’s not a minute of our lives should stretch 
Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night ? 

Cleo. Hear the ambassadors. 

Ant. Fie, wrangling queen! 
Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh, 

To weep; whose every passion fully strives 

To make itself, in thee, fair and admired ! 

No messenger, but thine; and all alone 

To-night we ’ll wander through the streets and note 


ACT I. 


The qualities of people. Come, my queen; 
Last night you did desire it: speak not to us. 
[Exeunt Ant. and Cleo. with their train. 
Dem. Is Cesar with Antonius prized so slight ? 
Phi. Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony, 
He comes too short of that great property 
Which still should go with Antony. 
Dem. J am full sorry 
That he approves the common liar, who 
Thus speaks of him at Rome: but I will hope 
Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy! 
[| Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. Another room. 


Enter Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and a Sooth- 
sayer. 


Char. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything 
Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the 
soothsayer that you praised so to the queen ? O, that 
I knew this husband, which, you say, must charge 
his horns with garlands! 

Alex. Soothsayer! 

Sooth. Your will? [things ? 

Char. Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know 

Sooth. In nature’s infinite book of secrecy 
A little I can read. 


Alex. Show him your hand. 


Enter Enobarbus. 


Eno. Bring in the banquet quickly ; wine enough 
Cleopatra’s health to drink. 

Char. Good sir, give me good fortune. 

Sooth. I make not, but foresee. 

Char. Pray, then, foresee me one. 

Sooth. You shall be yet far fairer than you are. 

Char. He means in flesh. 

Iras. No, you shall paint when you are old. 

Char. Wrinkles forbid! 

Alex. Vex not his prescience; be attentive. 

Char. Hush! . 

Sooth. You shall be more beloving than beloved. 

Char. I had rather heat my liver with drinking. 

Alex. Nay, hear him. 

Char. Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me 
be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow 
them all: let me havea child at fifty, to whom Herod 
of Jewry may do homage: find me to marry me with 
ees Cesar, and companion me with my mis- 

ress. 

Sooth. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve. 

Char. O excellent! I love long life better than 

gs. [fortune 

Sooth. You have seen and proved a fairer former 
Than that which is to approach. 

Char. Then belike my children shall have no 
names: prithee, how many boys and wenches must 
I have? 

Sooth. If every of your wishes had a womb, 

And fertile every wish, a million. 

Char. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch. 

Alex. You think none but your sheets are privy 
our wishes. 

har. Nay, come, tell Iras hers. 

Alex. We ’ll know all our fortunes. 
Eno. Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, 
shall be — drunk to bed. [else. 

Iras. There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing 

Char. E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth 
famine. 

Tras. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay. 

Ohar. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prog- 
nostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell 
her but a worky-day fortune. 

Sooth. Your fortunes are alike. 

Iras. But how, but how? give me particulars. . 

Sooth. I have said. 


to 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. 


Tras. Am I notan inch of fortune better than she ? 

Char. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune 
better than I, where would you choose it ? 

Iras. Not in my husband’s nose. 

Char. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! 
Alexas,—come, his fortune, his fortune! O, let 
him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I 
beseech thee! and let her die too, and give him a 
worse! and let worse follow worse, till the worst of 
all follow him laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a 
cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though 
thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, 
I beseech thee! 

fras. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of 
the people! for, as it is a heart-breaking to see a 
handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow 
to behold a foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear 
Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly! 

Char. Amen. 

Alex. Lo,now, if it lay in their hands to make me 
a cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but 
they ‘ld do’t! 

Eno. Hush! here comes Antony. 

Char. Not he; the queen. 


SCENE II. 


Enter Cleopatra. 


Cleo. Saw you my lord ? 
Eno. 
Cleo. 
Char. No, madam. 
Clev. He was disposed to mirth ; but on the sudden 
A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus! 
Eno. Madam ? 
Cleo. Seek him, and bring him hither. Where’s 
Alexas ? 

Alex. Here,at your service. My lord approaches. 
Cleo. We will not look upon him: go with us. 

[ Exeunt. 


Enter Antony with a Messenger and Attendants. 


Mess. Fulvia thy wife first came into the field. 
Ant. Against my brother Lucius ? 
Mess. Ay: 
But soon that war had end, and the time ’s state 
Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst 
Ceesar ; ; 
Whose better issue in the war, from Italy, 
Upon the first encounter, drave them. 
Ant. Well, what worst ? 
Mess. The nature of bad news infects the teller. 
Ant. When it concerns the fool or coward. On: 
Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus; 
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, 


No, lady. 
Was he not here ? 


| L hear him as he flatter’d. 


Mess. Labienus — 
This is stiff news— hath, with his Parthian force, 
Extended Asia from Euphrates ; 
His conquering banner shook from Syria 
To Lydia and to Lonia; 


Whilst — 
Ant. Antony, thou wouldst say,— 
Mess. O, my lord! 
Ant. Speak to me home, mince not the general 


tongue: 
Name Cleopatra as she is call’d in Rome; 
Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase; and taunt my faults 
With such full license as both truth and malice 
Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds, 
When our quick minds lie still; and our ills told us 
Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile. 
Mess. At your noble pleasure. [ Heit. 
Ant. From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there! 
First Att. The man from Sicyon,— is there such an 
Sec. Att. He stays upon your will. fone ? 
Ant. Let him appear. 
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, 
Or lose myself in dotage. 


749 


AG TA ES 


Enter another Messenger. 


What are you? 
Sec. Mess. Fulvia thy wife is dead. 
Ant. Where died she ? 
Sec. Mess. In Sicyon: 

Her length of sickness, with what else more serious 
Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives a letter. 
Ant. Forbear me. 

[ Hxit Sec. Messenger. 
There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it: 
What our contempt doth often hurl from us, 
We wish it ours again; the present pleasure, 
By revolution lowering, does become 
The opposite of itself: she’s good, being gone; 
The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on. 
I must from this enchanting queen break off: 
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, 
My idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus! 


fte-enter Enobarbus. 


Eno. What’s your pleasure, sir ? 

Ant. I must with haste from hence. 

Eno. Why, then, we kill all our women: we see 
how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they suffer 
our departure, death ’s the word.: 

Ant. I must be gone. 

Eno. Under a compelling occasion, let women die: 
it were pity to cast them away for nothing ; though, 
between them and a great cause, they should be es- 
teemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least 
noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die 
twenty times upon far poorer moment: I do think 
there is mettle in death, which commits some loy- 
ing act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying. 

Ant. She is cunning past man’s thought. 

Eno. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of 
nothing but the finest part of pure love: we can- 
not call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they 
are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can 
report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she 
makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. 

Ant. Would I had never seen her! 

Eno. O,sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful 
piece of work; which not to have been blest withal 
would have discredited your travel. 

Ant. Fulvia is dead. 

Eno. Sir? 

Ant. Fulvia is dead. 

Eno. Fulvia! 

Ant. Dead. 

Eno. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. 
When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a 
man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the 
earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are 
worn out, there are members to make new. If there 
were no more women but Fulvia, then had you in- 
deed a cut, and the case to be lamented: this grief 
is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings 
forth a new petticoat: and indeed the tears live in 
an onion that should water this sorrow. 

Ant. The business she hath broached in the state 
Cannot endure my absence. 

Hino. And the business you have broached here 
cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopa- 
tra’s, which wholly depends on your abode. 

Ant. No more light answers. Let our officers 
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break 
The cause of our expedience to the queen, 

And get her leave to part. For not alone 
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, 
Do strongly speak to us; but the letters too 
Of many our contriving friends in Rome 
Petition us at home: Sextus Pompeius 
Hath given the dare to Cesar, and commands 
The empire of the sea: our slippery people, 
Whose love is never link’d to the deserver 

750 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


pu 
ee SS SS SS eS eee 


SCENE III. 


Till his deserts are past, begin to throw 
Pompey the Great and all his dignities 
Upon his son; who, high in name and power, 
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up 
For the main soldier: whose quality, going on, 
The sides 0’ the world may danger: much is breeding, 
Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life, 
And not a serpent’s poison. Say,our pleasure, ~ 
To such whose place is under us, requires 
Our quick remove from hence. 

Eno. I shall do ’t. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas. 


Cleo. Where is he? 

Chur. I did not see him since. 

Cleo. See where he is, who’s with him, what he 
I did not send you: if you find him sad, [does : 
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report 
That I am sudden sick: quick, and return. 

[ Hutt Alexas. 

Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him 

You do not hold the method to enforce [dearly, 


The like from him. 
What should I do, I do not ? 


[ Hxeunt. 


Another room. 


Cleo. 
Char. In each thing give him way, cross him in 
nothing. 
Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool; the way to lose him. 
Char. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear: 
In time we hate that which we often fear. 
But here comes Antony. 


Enter Antony. 


Cleo. I am sick and sullen. 
Ant. Iam sorry to give breathing to my purpose,— 
Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall: 
It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature 
Will not sustain it. 
Ant. Now, my dearest queen,— 
Cleo. Pray you, stand farther from me. 
Ant. What’s the matter ? 
Cleo. I know, by that same eye, there’s some 
good news. 
What says the married woman? You may go: 
Would she had never given you leave to come! 
Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here: 
I have no power upon you; hers you are. 
Ant. The gods best know,— 
Cleo. O, never was there queen 
So mightily betray’d! yet at the first 
I saw the treasons planted. 
Ant. Cleopatra,— [true, 
Cleo. Why should I think you can be mine and 
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, 
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, 
Which break themselves in swearing ! 
Ant. Most sweet queen,— 
Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going, 
But bid farewell, and go: when you sued staying, 
Then was the time for words: no going then; 
Eternity was in our lips and eyes, 
Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor, 
But was a race of heaven: they are so still, 
Or thou. the greatest soldier of the world, 
Art turn’d the greatest liar. 
Ant. How now, lady! 
Cleo. lL would [had thy inches; thou shouldst know 
There were a heart in Egypt. 
Ant. Hear me, queen: 
The strong necessity of time commands 
Our services awhile; but my full heart 
Remains in use with you. Our Italy 
Shines o’er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius 
Makes his approaches to the port of Rome: 
Equality of two domestic powers 


ACT T. 


Breed scrupulous faction: the hated, grown to 
strength, 

Are newly grown to love: the condemn’d Pompey, 

Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace 

Into the hearts of such as have not thrived 

Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten ; 

And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge 

By any desperate change: my more particular, 

And that which most with you should safe my going, 

Is Fulvia’s death. [freedom, 

Cleo. Though age from folly could not give me 
It does from childishness: can Fulvia die ? 

Ant. She ’s dead, my queen: 

Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read 
The garboils she awaked; at the last, best : 
See when and where she died. 

Cleo. O most false love! 
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill 
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, 

In Fulvia’s death, how mine received shall be. 

Ant. Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know 
The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, 

As you shall give the advice. By the fire 
That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence 
Thy soldier, servant; making peace or war 
As thou affect’st. 

Cleo. Cut my lace, Charmian, come; 
But let it be: Iam quickly ill, and well, 

So Antony loves. 

Ant. My precious queen, forbear ; 
And give true evidence to his love, which stands 
An honourable trial. 

Cleo. So Fulvia told me. 

I prithee, turn aside and weep for her; 
Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears 
Belong to Egypt: good now, play one scene 
Of excellent dissembling ; and let it look 
Like perfect honour. 

Ant. You ’7ll heat my blood: no more. 

Cleo. You can do better yet; but this is meetly. 

Ant. Now, by my sword,— 

leo. And target. Still he mends; 
But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, 
How this Herculean Roman does become 
The carriage of his chafe. 

Ant. I'll leave you, lady. 

Cleo. Courteous lord, one word. 
Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it: 

Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it; 
That you know well: something it is I would,— 
O, my oblivion is a very Antony, 

And I am all forgotten. 

Ant. But that your royalty 
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you 
For idleness itself. 

Cleo. ’T is sweating labour 
To bear such idleness so near the heart 
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me; 

Since my becomings kill me, when they do not 
Kye well to you: your honour calls you hence ; 
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, 

And all the gods go with you! upon your sword 
Sit laurel victory! and smooth success 
Be strew’d before your feet ! 

Ant. Let us go. 
Our separation so abides, and flies, 
That thou, residing here, go’st yet with me, 

And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. 
Away! [ Hxeunt. 


Come; 


SCENE IV. — Rome. 


Enter Octavius Cesar, reading a letter, Lep- 
idus, and their Train. 
Ces. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth 
It is not Cesar’s natural vice to hate [know, 
Our great competitor: from Alexandria 


Coesar’s house. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE IV. 
This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes 
The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike 
Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy 
More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or 
Vouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall 
A man who is the abstract of all faults [find there 
That all men follow. ’ 
ep. 0s I must not think there are 
Evils enow to darken all his goodness: 
His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, 
More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary, 
Rather than purchased ; what he cannot change, 
Than what he chooses. 

Cees. You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is 
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy; [not 
To give a kingdom for a mirth; to sit 
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave; 

To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet 
With knaves that smell of sweat: say this becomes 
As his composure must be rare indeed [him ,— 
Whom these things cannot blemish,— yet must 
No way excuse his soils, when we do bear [Antony 
So great weight in his lightness. If he fill’d 

His vacancy with his voluptuousness, 

Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones, 

Call on him for ’t: but to confound such time, 
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud 
As his own state and ours,—’tis to be chid 

As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge, 
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure, 
And so rebel to judgment. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Lep. Here ’s more news. 

Mess. Thy biddings have been done; and every 
Most noble Cesar, shalt thou have report —_[hour, 
How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea; 

And it appears he is beloved of those 
That only have fear’d Ceesar: to the ports 
The discontents repair, and men’s reports 
Give him much wrong’d. 

Cees. I should have known no less. 
It hath been taught us from the primal state, 
That he which is was wish’d until he were; _ [love, 
And the ebb’d man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth 
Comes dear’d by being lack’d. This common body, 
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, 

Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, 
To rot itself with motion. 

Mess. Cesar, I bring thee word, 
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, [wound 
Make the sea serve them, which they ear and 
With keels of every kind: many hot inroads 
They make in Italy; the borders maritime 
Lack blood to think on ’t, and flush youth revolt: 
No vessel can peep forth, but ’tis as soon 
Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more 
Than could his war resisted. 

Cees. Antony, 

Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once 
Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st 
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel 
Did famine follow; whom thou fought’st against, 
Though daintily brought up, with patience more 
Than savages could suffer: thou didst drink 
The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle 
Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did 
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge; [deign 
Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets, 
The barks of trees thou browsed’st; on the Alps 
Tt is reported thou didst eat strange flesh, 
Which some did die to look on: and all this— 
It wounds thine honour that I speak it now — 
Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek 
So much as lank’d not. ; 

ep. ’T is pity of him. 

Coes. Let his shames quickly 
751 


ACT II. 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE I. 


EE A Leeds ON SS ein eee ete Seow iene SEN SRA FPO RT ST re Fs Re a 


Drive him to Rome: ’tis time we twain 
Did show ourselves i’ the field; and to that end 
Assemble we immediate council: Pompey 
Thrives in our idleness. 
Lep. To-morrow, Ceesar, 
I shall be furnish’d to inform you rightly 
Both what by sea and land I can be able 
To front this present time. 

Cees. Till which encounter, 
It is my business too. Farewell. 

Lep. Farewell, my lord: what you shall know 
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, [meantime 
To let me be partaker. 

es. Doubt not, sir; 
I knew it for my bond. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Alexandria. Cleopatra’s palace. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian. 


Cleo. Charmian ! 
Char. Madam ? 
Cleo. Ha, ha! 
Give me to drink mandragora. 
Char. Why, madam ? 
Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap of 
My Antony is away. [time 


Char. You think of him too much. 
Cleo. O, ’tis treason! 
Char. Madam, I trust, not so. 


Cleo. Thou, eunuch Mardian! . 
Mar. What ’s your highness’ pleasure ? 
Cleo. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleas- 
In aught an eunuch has: ’t is well for thee, [ure 
That, being unseminar’d, thy freer thoughts 
May not fiy forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections ? 
Mar. Yes, gracious madam. 
Cleo. Indeed! 
Mar. Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing 
But what indeed is honest to be done: 
Yet have I fierce affections, and think 
What Venus did with Mars. 
Cleo. 
Where think’st thou he is now ? 
Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse ? 
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! 
Do bravely, horse! for wot’st thou whom thou 
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm [movest? 
And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, 
Or murmuring ‘ Where’s my serpent of old Nile?’ 
For so he calls me: now I feed myself 
With most delicious poison. Think on me, 
That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black, 
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Cesar, 
When thou wast here above the ground, I was 
A morsel for a monarch: and great Pompey 
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow; 


O Charmian, 
Stands he, or sits 
er 


There would he anchor his aspect and die 
With looking on his life. 


Enter Alexas, from Ceesar. 


Alex. Sovereign of Egypt, hail! 

Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony! 
Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath 
With his tinct gilded thee. 

How goes it with my brave Mark Antony ? 

Alex. Last thing he did, dear queen, 

He kiss’d,— the last of many doubled kisses,— 
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart. 

Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence. 

Alex. ‘Good friend,’ quoth he, 
‘ Say. the firm Roman to great Egypt sends 
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, 

To mend the petty present, I will piece 

Her opulent throne with kingdoms; all the east, 
Say thou, shall call her mistress.’ So he nodded, 
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, 

Who neigh’d so high, that what I would have spoke 
Was beastly dumb’d by him. 

Cleo. What, was he sad or merry ? 
Alex. Like to the time o’ the year between the ex- 
Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry. [tremes 

Cleo. O well-divided disposition! Note him, 
Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note 
He was not sad, for he would shine on those [him: 
That make their looks by his; he was not merry, 
Which seem’d to tell them his remembrance lay 
In Egypt with his joy; but between both: 

O heavenly mingle! Be’st thou sad or merry, 
The violence of either thee becomes, 
So does it no man else. Met’st thou my posts? 

Alex. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers : 
Why do you send so thick ? 

Cleo. Who’s born that day 
When I forget to send to Antony, | 
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. 
Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, 
Ever love Cesar so ? 

Char. O that brave Cesar! 

Cleo. Be choked with such another emphasis! 
Say, the brave Antony. 

Char. The valiant Cesar! 

Cleo. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, 
If thou with Cesar paragon again 
My man of men. 


Char. By your most gracious pardon, 
I sing but after you. 
Cleo. My salad days, 


When I was green in judgment: cold in blood, 
To say as I said then! But, come, away; 

Get me ink and paper: 

He shall have every day a several greeting, 


Or Ill unpeople Egypt. [ Hxeunt. 


om GT 


SCENE I.— Messina. 


Enter Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas, in war- 
like manner. 


Pom. If the great gods be just, they shall assist 
The deeds of justest men. 

Mene. Know, worthy Pompey, 
That what they do delay, they not deny. [cays 

Pom. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, de- 
The thing we sue for. 

Mene. We, ignorant of ourselves, 
Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers 
Deny us for our good; so find we profit 
By losing of our prayers. 

Pom. I shall do well: 

752 


Pompey’s house. 


The people love me, and the sea is mine; 
My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope 
Says it will come to the full. Mark Antony 
In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make 
No wars without doors: Cesar gets money where 
He loses hearts: Lepidus flatters both, 
Of both is flatter’d; but he neither loves, 
Nor either cares for him. 
Men. Ceesar and Lepidus 
Are in the field: a mighty strength they carry. 
Pom. Where have you this? *tis false. 
From Silvius, sir. 
. Hedreams: I know they are in Rome to- 
gether, 
Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, 


ee 


AGT i125 


ANTONY AND. CLEOPATH A. 


SCENE II, 


Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip! 

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both! 
Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts, 

Keep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooks 
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite; 

That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour 
Even till a Lethe’d dulness ! 


Enter Varrius. 


How now, Varrius ? 
Var. This is most certain that I shall deliver: 
Mark Antony is every hour in Rome 
Expected: since he went from Egypt ’tis 
A space for further travel. 
Pom. I could have given less matter 
A better ear. Menas, I did not think 
This amorous surfeiter would have donn’d his helm 
For such a petty war: his soldiership 
Is twice the other twain: but let us rear 
The higher our opinion, that our stirring 
Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck 
The ne’er-lust-wearied Antony. 
Men. I cannot hope 
Cesar and Antony shall well greet together: 
His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Ceesar ; 
His brother warr’d upon him; although, I think, 
Not moved by Antony. 
Pom. I know not, Menas, 
How lesser enmities may give way to greater. 
Were ’t not that we stand up against them all, 
*T were sage they should square between them- 
selves ; 
For they have entertained cause enough 
To draw their swords: but how the fear of us 
May cement their divisions and bind up 
The petty difference, we yet not know. 
Be ’t as our gods will have ’t! It only stands 
Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. 
Come, Menas. [Haxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Rome. The house of Lepidus. 


Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus. 


Lep. Good Enobarbus, ’t is a worthy deed, 
And shall become you well, to entreat your captain 
To soft and gentle speech. 
Eno. I shall entreat him 
To answer like himself: if Czesar move him, 
Let Antony look over Cesar’s head 
And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, 
Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, 
I would not shave ’t to-day. 


Lep. ’T is not a time 
For private stomaching. 
Eno. Every time 


Serves for the matter that is then born in’t. 

Lep. But small to greater matters must give way. 

Eno. Not if the small come first. 

Lep. Your speech is passion: 
But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes 
The noble Antony. 


Enter Antony and Ventidius. 
Eno. And yonder, Cesar. 


Enter Ceesar, Meceenas, and Agrippa. 


Ant. If we compose well here, to Parthia: 
Hark, Ventidius. 
Ces. I do not know, 
Mecenas; ask Agrippa. 
; Noble friends, 


ep. 

That which combined us was most great, and let not 
A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss, 

May it be gently heard: when we debate 

Our trivial difference loud, we do commit 

Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners, 
The rather, for I earnestly beseech, 


48 


Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, 
Nor curstness grow to the matter. 

Ant. T is spoken well. 
Were we before our armies, and to fight, 


I should do thus. { Flourish. 
Coes. Welcome to Rome. 
Ant. Thank you, 
Ces. Sit. 
Ant. Sit, sir. 
Coes Nay, then. 


Ant. I learn, you take things ill which are not so, 
Or being, concern you not. 
Ces. I must be laugh’d at, 
If, or for nothing or a little, I 
Should say myself offended, and with you 
Chiefly i’ the world; more laugh’d at, that I should 
Once name you derogately, when to sound your name 
It not concern’d me. 
Ant. 
What was ’t to you? 
Coes. No more than my residing here at Rome 
Might be to you in Egypt: yet, if you there 
Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt 
Might be my question. 
Ant. How intend you, practised ? 
Cees. You may be pleased to catch at mine intent 
By what did here befal me. Your wife and brother 
Made wars upon me; and their contestation 
Was theme for you, you were the word of war. 
Ant. You do mistake your business; my brother 
Did urge me in his act: I did inquire it; [never 
And have my learning from some true reports, 
That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather 
Discredit my authority with yours: 
And make the wars alike against my stomach, 
Having alike your cause? Of this my letters 
Before did satisfy you. If you ’ll patch a quarrel, 
As matter whole you have not to make it with, 
It must not be with this. 


My being in Egypt, Cesar, 


oes. You praise yourself 
By laying defects of judgment to me; but 
You patch’d up your excuses. 

Ant. Not so, not so; 

I know you could not lack, I am certain on’t, 
Very necessity of this thought, that I, 

Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought, 
Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars 
Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, 
I would you had her spirit in such another: 

The third 0’ the world is yours; which with a snaffle 
You may pace easy, but not such a wife. 

Eno. Would we had all such wives, that the men 
might go to wars with the women! 

Ant. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Cesar, 
Made out of her impatience, which not wanted 
Shrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant 
Did you too much disquiet: for that you must 
But say, I could not help it. 

Cees. I wrote to you 
When rioting in Alexandria; you 
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts 
Did gibe my missive out of audience. __ 

Ant. Sir, 

He fell upon me ere admitted: then _ 

Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want 
Of what I was i’ the morning: but next day 

I told him of myself; which was as much 

As to have ask’d him pardon. Let this fellow 
Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, 

Out of our question wipe him. 

Ces. You have broken 
The article of your oath; which you shall never 
Have tongue to charge me with. 

| Lep. Soft, Czesar ! 
Ant. No, 
| Lepidus, let him speak : 
The honour is sacred which he talks on now, 
753 


ACT TT 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE II. 


Supposing that I lack’d it. 
The article of my oath. 
Oces. To lend me arms and aid when I required 
The which you both denied. [them ; 
Ant. Neglected, rather ; 
And then when poison’d hours had bound me up 
From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may, 
Ill play the penitent to you: but mine honesty 
Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power 
Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia, 
To have me out of Egypt, made wars here; 
For which myself, the ignorant motive, do 
So far ask pardon as befits mine honour 
To stoop in such a case. 
Lep. ’T is noble spoken. 
Mec. If it might please you, to enforce no further 
The griefs between ye: to forget them quite 
Were to remember that the present need 
Speaks to atone you. 
Lep. Worthily spoken, Meczenas. 
Eno. Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the | 
instant, you may, when you hear no more words of 
Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to | 
wrangle in when you have nothing else to do. 
Ant. Thou art a soldier only: speak no more. 
Eno. That truth should be silent I had almost 
forgot. [no more. 
Ant. You wrong this presence; therefore speak 
Eno. Go to, then; your considerate stone. 
Ces. I do not much dislike the matter, but 
The manner of his speech; for ’t cannot be 
We shall remain in friendship, our conditions 
So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew 
What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to 
O’ the world I would pursue it. [edge | 
Agr. Give me leave, Ceesar,— 
Ces. Speak, Agrippa. 
Agr. Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side, 
Admired Octavia: great Mark Antony 
Is now a widower. 
Cees. Say not so, Agrippa: 
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof 
Were well deserved of rashness. 
Ant. Iam not married, Cesar: let me hear 
Agrippa further speak. 
Agr. To hold you in perpetual amity, 
To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts 
With an unslipping knot, take Antony 
Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims 
No worse a husband than the best of men; 
W hose virtue and whose general graces speak 
That which none else can utter. By this marriage, 
All little jealousies, which now seem great, 
And all great fears, which now import their dangers, 
Would then be nothing: truths would be tales, 
Where now half tales be truths: her love to both 
W ould, each to other and all loves to both, 
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke; 
For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, 
By duty ruminated. 
: Will Ceesar speak ? 
Coes. Not till he hears how Antony is touch’d | 
With what is spoke already. ) 
nt. What power is in Agrippa, | 
If I would say, ‘ Agrippa, be it so,’ | 
To make this good ? | 


But, on, Ceesar; 


Ces. The power of Cesar, and 
His power unto Octavia. | 
Ant. May I never | 


To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, | 

Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand: | 

Further this act of grace: and from this hour | 

The heart of brothers govern in our loves 

ae Sway our great designs! | 
ces 


A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother 
Did ever love so dearly: let her live | 


704 


There is my hand. | 


| Would we had spoke together! 


' As amorous of their strokes. 


To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never 
Fly off our loves again! 

Lep. Happily, amen! 

Ant. I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst 

Pompey; 

For he hath laid strange courtesies and great 
Of late upon me: I must thank him only, 
Lest my remembrance suffer ill report ; 
At heel of that, defy him. 

Lep. Time calls upon ’s: 
Of us must Pompey presently be sought, 
Or else he seeks out us. 

Ant. Where lies he? 

Ces. About the mount Misenum. 

Ant. What is his strength by land ? 

Ces. Great and increasing: but by sea 
He is an absolute master. 

Ant. So is the fame. 
Haste we for it: 
Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we 
The business we have talk’d of. 

Cees. With most gladness; 
And do invite you to my sister’s view, 


| Whither straight Ill lead you. 


Ant. Let us, Lepidus, 
Not lack your company. 
ep. Noble Antony, 
Not sickness should detain me. | 
(Flourish. Hxeunt Cesar, Antony, wid 
Lepidus. 
Mec. Welcome from Egypt, sir. 
Eno. Half the heart of Cesar, worthy Meczenas ! 


| My honourable friend, Agrippa! 


Agr. Good Enobarbus ! 

Mec. We have cause to be glad that matters are 
so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in Egypt. 

Eno. Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of counte- 


| nance, and made the night light with drinking. 


Mec. Kight wild-boars roasted whole at a break- 
fast, and but twelve persons there ; is this true ? 

kino. This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had 
much more monstrous matter of feast, which wor- 
thily deserved noting. 

Mec. She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be 
square to her. 

Eno. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed 


| up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus. 


Agr. There she appeared indeed; or my reporter 
devised well for her. 

Eno. I will tell you. 
The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, 
Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold; 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that [silver, 
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
The water which they beat to follow faster, 
For her own person, 
It beggar’d all description: she did lie 
In her pavilion — cloth-of-gold of tissue — 
O’er-picturing that Venus where we see 


| The fancy outwork nature: on each side her 


Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem 
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, 
And what they undid did. 
Agr. O, rare for Antony! 
Eno. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i’ the eyes, 
And made their bends adornings: at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 
That yarely frame the office. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
Her people out upon her; and Antony, 
Enthroned i’ the market-place, did sit alone, 
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, 


eng jw, SE Ee = 


ANTONY AND 


Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too 
And made a gap in nature. 


ACT II. 


Agr. Rare Egyptian! 
Eno. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, 


Invited her to supper: she replied, 
It should be better he became her guest ; 
Which she entreated: our courteous Antony, 
Whom ne’er the word of ‘No’ woman heard speak, 
Being barber’d ten times o’er, goes to the feast, 
And for his ordinary pays his heart 
For what his eyes eat only. 

Agr. Royal wench! 
She made great Ceesar lay his sword to bed: 
He plough’d her, and she cropp’d. 

Eno. I saw her once 
Hop forty paces through the public street ; 
And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted, 
That she did make defect perfection, 
And, breathless, power breathe forth. 

Mec. Now Antony must leave her utterly. 

Eno. Never; he will not: 
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 
Her infinite variety: other women cloy 
The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry 
Where most she satisfies: for vilest things 
Become themselves in her; that the holy priests 
Bless her when she is riggish. 

Mec. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle 
The heart of Antony, Octavia is 
A blessed lottery to him. 


Agr. Let us go. 
Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest 
Whilst you abide here. 

Eno. Humbly, sir, I thank you. [Hzeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter Antony, Cesar, Octavia between them, 
and Attendants. 


Ant. The world and my great office will some- 
Divide me from your bosom. [times 
Octa. All which time 
Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers 
To them for you. 
Ante t: Good night, sir.. My Octavia, 
Read not my blemishes in the world’s report: 
I have not kept my square; but that to come 
Shall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady. 
Good night, sir. 
Ces. Good night. 


Ceesar’s house. 


[Hxeunt Cesar and Octavia. 


Enter Soothsayer. 


Ant. Now, sirrah; you do wish yourself in Egypt ? 
Sooth. Would I had never come from thence, nor 
Thither ! [you | 

Ant. If you can, your reason ? 

Sooth. I see it in 
My motion, have it not in my tongue: but yet 
Hie you to Egypt again. 

Ant. Say to me, 

Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Czesar’s or mine ? 

Sooth. Ceesar’s. 

Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side: 

Thy demon, that’s thy spirit which keeps thee, is 
Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, 

Where Cesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel 
Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: therefore 
Make space enough between you. 

Ant. Speak this no more. 

Sooth. To none but thee; no more, but when to 
If thou dost play with him at any game, [thee. 
Thou art sure to lose; and, of that natural luck, 
He beats thee ’gainst the odds: thy lustre thickens, 
When he shines by: I say again, thy spirit 
Is all afraid to govern thee near him; 

Be he away, ’tis noble. 
nt. 


Get thee gone: 


CLLO RAT BA, 


Say to Ventidius I would speak with him: 

[Lait Soothsayer 
He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap, 
He hath spoken true: the very dice obey him; 
And in our sports my better cunning faints 
Under his chance: if we draw lots, he speeds ; 
His cocks do win the battle still of mine, 
When it is all to nought; and his quails ever 
Beat mine, inhoop’d, at odds. I will to Egypt: 
And though I make this marriage for my peace, 
I’ the east my pleasure lies. 


Enter Ventidius. 
O, come, Ventidius, 
You must to Parthia: your commission ’s ready ; 
Follow me, and receive ’t. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— The same. A street. 


Enter Lepidus, Meceenas, and Agrippa. 


Lep. Trouble yourselves no further: pray you, 
Your generals after. [hasten 
Agr. Sir, Mark Antony 
Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we 711 follow. 
Lep. Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress, 
Which will become you both, farewell. 
We shall, 


SCENE V. 


Mec. 
As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount 
Before you, Lepidus. 

Lep. Your way is shorter ; 
My purposes do draw me much about: 

You ’ll win two days upon me. 


roe Sir, good success! 
Lep. Farewell. [ Hxeunt. 
SCENE V.—Alezandria. Cleopatra’s palace. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas. 


Cleo. Give me some music; music, moody food 
Of us that trade in love. 


Attend. The music, ho! 


Enter Mardian, the Hunuch. 


Cleo. Let it alone; let’s to billiards: come, 
Charmian. 

Char. My arm is sore; best play with Mardian. 
Cleo. AS well a woman with an eunuch play’d 
As with awoman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir? 

Mar. As well as I can, madam. 

Cleo. And when good will is show’d, though ’t 

come too short, 

The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now: 
Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river: there, 
My music playing far off, I will betray 
Tawny-finn’d fishes ; my bended hook shall pieree 
Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up, 


| Ill think them every one an Antony, 


And say ‘Ah, ha! you’re caught.’ 

Char. °T was merry when 
You wager’d on your angling ; when your diver 
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he 
With fervency drew up. 

Cleo. That time,—O times !— 
I laugh’d him out of patience; and that night 
I laugh’d him into patience: and next morn, 

Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed; 
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst 
I wore his sword Philippan. 


Enter a Messenger. 
O, from Italy! 
Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears! 


That long time have been barren. 
Mess. Madam, madam,— 
Cleo. Antonius dead!—If thou say so, villain, 
Thou kill’st thy mistress: but well and free, 


755 


ACT II. 


If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings 
Have lipp’d, and trembled kissing. 

Mess. First, madam, he is well. 

Cleo. Why, there ’s more gold. 
But, sirrah, mark, we use 
To say the dead are well: bring it to that, 

The gold I give thee will I melt and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. 

Mess. Good madam, hear me. 

Cleo. Well, go to, I will; 
But there ’s no goodness in thy face: if Antony 
Be free and healthful,—so tart a favour 
To trumpet such good tidings! If not well, 

Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown’d with 
Not like a formal man. [snakes, 

Mess. Will ’t please you hear me? 

Cleo. Lhave a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st: 
Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well, 

Or friends with Cesar, or not captive to him, 
Il] set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

Mess. Madam, he’s well. 

Cleo. Well said. 

Mess. And friends with Cesar. 

Cleo. Thou ’rt an honest man. 

Mess. Cesar and he are greater friends than ever. 

Cleo. Make thee a fortune from me. 

Mess. But yet, madam,— 

Cleo. I do not like ‘ But yet,’ it does allay 
The good precedence ; fie upon ‘ But yet’! 

‘But yet’ is as a gaoler to bring forth 

Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, 
Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, [Cesar; 
The good and bad together: he’s friends with 
In state of health thou say’st; and thou say’st free. 

Mess. Free,madam! no; I made no such report: 
He’s bound unto Octavia. 

Cleo. For what good turn ? 

Mess. For the best turn i’ the bed. 

Cleo. Iam pale, Charmian. 

Mess. Madam, he’s married to Octavia. 

Cleo. The most infectious pestilence upon thee! 

[Strikes him down. 

Mess. Good madam, patience. 

Cleo. What say you? Hence, 

[Strikes him again. 

Horrible villain! or Ill spurn thine eyes 
Like balls before me: I ’ll unhair thy head: 

[She hales him up and down. 
Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire,and stew’d in brine, 
Smarting in lingering pickle. 

Mess. Gracious madam, 

I that do bring the news made not the match. 

Cleo. Say “tis not so, a province I will give thee, 
And make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst 
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage; 

And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
Thy modesty can beg. 

Mess. He’s married, madam. 

Cleo. Rogue, thou hast lived too long. 

[Draws a knife. 

Mess. Nay, then Ill run. 
What mean you, madam? I have made no an 

Tit. 

Char. Good madam, keep yourself within your- 
The man is innocent. [self : 

Cleo. Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt. 
Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures 
Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again: 
Though I am mad, I will not bite him: call. 

Ohar. He is afeard to come. 

Cleo. I will not hurt him. 

| Hxit Charmian. 
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike 
A meaner than myself; since I myself 
Have given myself the cause. 


706 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE VI. 


Kte-enter Charmian and Messenger. 


Come hither, sir. 
Though it be honest, it is never good 
To bring bad news: give to a gracious message 
An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell 
Themselves when they be felt. 
Mess. I have done my duty. 
Cleo. Is he married ? 
I cannot hate thee worser than I do, 
If thou again say ‘ Yes.’ 
Mess. He’s married, madam. 
Cleo. The gods confound thee! dost thou hold 
there still ? 
Mess. Should I lie, madam ? 
Cleo. O, I would thou didst, 
So half my Egypt were submerged and made 
A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence: 
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me 
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married ? 
Mess. I crave your highness’ pardon. 
Cleo. He is married ? 
Mess. Takeno offence that I would not offend you : 
To punish me for what you make me do 
Seems much unequal: he’s married to Octavia. 
Cleo. O, that his fault should makea knave of thee, 
That art not what thou ’rt sure of! Get thee hence: 
The merchandise which thou hast brought from 
Rome 
Are all too dear for me: lie they upon thy hand, 
And be undone by ’em. [ Huit Messenger. 
Char. Good your highness, patience. 
Cleo. In praising Antony, I have dispraised Ceesar. 
Char. Many times, madam. 
Cleo. 
Lead me from hence; 
I faint: O Iras, Charmian! ’t is no matter. 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him 
Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 
Her inclination, let him not leave out 
The colour of her hair: bring me word quickly. 
[ Exit Alexas. 
Let him for ever go:—let him not —Charmian, 
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, 
The other way ’s a Mars. Bid you Alexas . 
[To Mardian. 
Bring me word howtall she is. Pity me, Charmian, 
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. 
| Hxeunt. 
SCENE VI.— Near Misenum. 


Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one door, with 
drum and trumpet: at another, Ceesar, Antony, Lepi- 
dus, Enobarbus, Meczenas, with Soldiers marching. 


Pom. Your hostages I have, so have you mine; 
And we shall talk before we fight. 

Ces. Most meet 
That first we come to words; and therefore have we 
Our written purposes before us sent; 

Which, if thou hast consider’d, let us know 
Tf ’t will tie up thy discontented sword, 
And carry back to Sicily much tall youth 
That else must perish here. 

Pom. To you all three, 
The senators alone of this great world, 

Chief factors for the gods, I do not know 
Wherefore my father should revengers want, 
Having a son and friends; since Julius Cesar, 
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted, 
There saw you labouring for him. What was’t 
That moved pale Cassius to conspire; and what 
Made the all-honour’d, honest Roman, Brutus, 
With the arm’d rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, 
To drench the Capitol; but that they would 
Have one man buta man? And that is it 
Hath made me rig my navy; at whose burthen 
The anger’d ocean foams; with which I meant 


I am paid for ’t now. 


ACT IT. 


To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome 
Cast on my noble father. 

Ces. Take your time. 

Ant. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy 


Sails ; 
We'll speak with thee at sea: at land, thou know’st 
How much we do o’er-count thee. 

Pom. At land, indeed, 
Thou dost o’er-count me of my father’s house: 
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself, 
Remain in ’t as thou mayst. 

Lep. Be pleased to tell us— 
For this is from the present— how you take 
The offers we have sent you. 

Ces. There ’s the point. 

Ant. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh 
What it is worth embraced. 


Oes. And what may follow, 
To try a larger fortune. 
Pom. You have made me offer 


Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must 
Rid all the sea of pirates; then, to send 
Measures of wheat to Rome; this ’greed upon, 
To part with unhack’d edges, and bear back 
Our targes undinted. 
Ces. Ant. Lep. That ’s our offer. 
Pom. Know, then, 
I came before you here a man prepared 
To take this offer: but Mark Antony 
Put me to some impatience: though I lose 
The praise of it by telling, you must know, 
When Cesar and your brother were at blows, 
Your mother came to Sicily and did find 
Her welcome friendly. 
Ant. J have heard it, Pompey ; 
And am well studied for a liberal thanks 
Which I do owe you. 
Pom. Let me have your hand: 
I did not think, sir, to have met you here. [you, 
Ant. The beds i’ the east are soft; and thanks to 
That call’d me timelier than my purpose hither ; 
For I have gain’d by’t. 


Ces. Since I saw you last, 
There is a change upon you. 
Pom. Well, I know not 


What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face; 
But in my bosom shall she never come, 
To make my heart her vassal. 

Well met here. 


ep. 
Pom. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed : 
I crave our composition may be written, 
And seal’d between us. 
Ces. That ’s the next to do. 
Pom. We’ll feast each other ere we part; and 
Draw lots who shall begin. [let ’s 
Ant. That will I, Pompey. 
Pom. No, Antony, take the lot: but, first 
Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery 
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius 
Grew fat with feasting there. [Ceesar 
Ant. You have heard much. 
Pom. I have fair meanings, sir. 
Ant. And fair words to them. 
Pom. Then so much have I heard: 
And I have heard, Apollodorus carried — 
Eno. No more of that: he did so. 
Pom. What, I pray you? 
ino. A certain queen to Cesar in a mattress. 
Pom. I know thee now: how farest thou, soldier ? 
NO. Well; 
And well am like to do; for, I perceive, 
Four feasts are toward. 
Pom. Let me shake thy hand ; 
I never hated thee: I have seen thee fight, 
hte I have envied thy behaviour. 
no. 


ir, 
I never loved you much; but I ha’ praised ye, 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. - SCENE VII. 


When you have well deserved ten times as much 
As I have said you did. 

Pom. Enjoy thy plainness, 
It nothing ill becomes thee. 

Aboard my galley I invite you all: 
Will you lead, lords ? 

Ces. Ant. Lep. Show us the way, sir. 

Pom. Come. 
[Hxeunt all but Menas and Enobarbus. 

Men. [Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne’exr 
have made this treaty.— You and I have known, 

Eno. At sea, I think. [sir. 

Men. We have, sir. 

Hino. You have done well by water. 

Men. And you by land. 

ino. I will praise any man that will praise me; 
though it cannot be denied what I have done by 

Men. Nor what I have done by water. land. 

Eno. Yes, something you can deny for your own 
safety: you have been a great thief by sea. 

Men. And you by land. 

Eno. There I deny my land service. But give 
me your hand, Menas: if our eyes had authority, 
here they might take two thieves kissing. 

Men. All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er 
their hands are. 

Eno. But there is never a fair woman has a true 

Men. No slander; they steal hearts. [face. 

Eno. We came hither to fight with you. 

Men. For my part, Iam sorry it is turned to a 
drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away his 
fortune. 

Fino. If he do, sure, he cannot weep ’t back again. 

Men. You’ve said, sir. We looked not for Mark 
Antony here: pray you, is he married to Cleopatra ? 

Ceesar’s sister is called Octavia. [cellus. 
. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Mar- 
. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius. 
. Pray ye, sir? 
eis, UU, 

. Then is Ceesar and he for ever knit together. 

Eno. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I 
would not prophesy so. 

Men. I think the policy of that purpose made 
more in the marriage than the love of the parties. 

tino. I think so too. But you shall find, the 
band that seems to tie their friendship together wiil 
be the very strangler of their amity: Octavia is of 
a holy, cold, and still conversation. 

Men. Who would not have his wife so ? 

Eno. Not he that himself is not so; which is 
Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again: 
then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in 
Cesar; and, as I said before, that which is the 
strength of their amity shall prove the immediate 
author of their variance. Antony will use his 
affection where it is: he married but his occasion 
here. 

Men. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you 
aboard? I havea health for you. [in Egypt. 

Eno. T shall take it, sir: we have used our throats 

Men. Come, let ’s away. [ Exeunt. 


SCENE VII.—On board Pompey’s galley, off 
Misenum. 


Music plays. Enter two or three Servants with a banquet. 


First Serv. Here they ’ll be, man. Some 0’ their 
plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ the 
world will blow them down. 

Sec. Serv. Lepidus is high-coloured. 

First Serv. They have made him drink alms-drink, 

Sec. Serv. As they pinch one another by the dis- 
position, he cries out ‘No more;’ reconciles them 
to his entreaty, and himself to the drink. 

First Serv. But it raises the greater war between 
him and his discretion. 


707 


ACT II. 


Sec. Serv. Why, this it is to have a name in great 
men’s fellowship: I had as lief have a reed that will 
do me no service as a partisan I could not heave. 

First Serv. To be called into a huge sphere, and 
not to be seen to move in ’t, are the holes where eyes 
should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks. 


A sennet sounded. Enter Ceesar, Antony, Lepidus, 
Pompey, Agrippa, Meczenas, Enobarbus, Menas, 
with other cuptains. 


Ant. [To Cesar] Thus do they, sir: they take the | 


flow o’ the Nile 
By certain scales i’ the pyramid; they know, 
By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth 
Or foison follow: the higher Nilus swells, 
The more it promises: as it ebbs, the seedsman 
Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, 
And shortly comes to harvest. 
Lep. You’ve strange serpents there. 
Ant. Ay, Lepidus. 
Lep. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your 
mud by the operation of your sun: so is your croco- 
Ant. They are so. [dile. 
Pom. Sit,— and some wine! A health to Lepidus! 
Lep. Lam not so well as I should be, but I’ ne’er 


out. 

Eno. Not till you have slept; I fear me you’li be 
in till then. 

Lep. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ 
pyramises are very goodly things; without contra- 
diction, I have heard that. 

Men. [Aside to Pom.} Pompey, a word. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] Say in 

mine ear: what is’t? 

Men. [Aside to Pom.] Forsake thy seat, I do 

beseech thee, captain, 
And hear me speak a word. 

Pom. [ Aside to Men.] Forbear me till anon. 
This wine for Lepidus! 

Lep. What manner o’ thing is your crocodile ? 

Ant. It is shaped, sir, like itself; and it is as broad 
as it hath breadth: it is just so high as it is, and 
moves with it own organs: it lives by that which 
nourisheth it; and the elements once out of it, 
it transmigrates. 

Lep. What colour is it of ? 

Ant. Of it own colour too. 

Lep. ’T is a strange serpent. 

Ant. ’Tisso. And the tears of it are wet. 

Ces. Will this description satisfy him ? 

Ant. With the health that Pompey gives him, else 
he is a very epicure. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell 

me of that ? away! 
Do as I bid you. Where’s this cup I eall’d for ? 

Men. [ Aside to Pom.] If for the sake of merit thou 

wilt hear me, 
Rise from thy stool. 

Pom. [Aside to Men.] I think thou’rt mad. The 

matter ? | fises, and walks aside. 

Men. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes. 

Pom. Thou hast served me with much faith. 

What ’s else to say ? 
Be jolly, lords. - 

Ant. These quick-sands, Lepidus, 

Keep off them, for you sink. 

Men. Wilt thou be lord of all the world ? 

Pom. What say’st thou ? 

Men. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world ? 

That ’s twice. 

Pom. How should that be ? 

Men. But entertain it, 
And, though thou think me poor, I am the man 
Will give thee all the world. 

Pom. Hast thou drunk well ? 

Men. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup. 
Thou art, if thou darest be, the earthly Jove: 


758 


ANDLONY AWD 


CLEOPATRA. 


Whate’er the ocean pales, or sky inclips, 
Is thine, if thou wilt ha ’t. 

Pom. Show me which way. 

Men. These three world-sharers, these competi- 
Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable; [tors, 
And, when we are put off, fall to their throats: 
All there is thine. 

Pom. Ah, this thou shouldst have done, 
And not have spoke on’t! In me ’tis villany ; 
_ In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know, 
’T is not my profit that does lead mine honour; 
Mine honour, it. Repent that e’er thy tongue 
Hath so betray’d thine act: being done unknown, 


SCENE VITI- 


| I should have found it afterwards well done; 


But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink. 
Men. | Aside] For this, 

Ill never follow thy pall’d fortunes more. 

Who seeks, and will not take when once ’t is offer’d, 


Shall never find it more. 

Pom. This health to Lepidus! 

Ant. Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, 

Eno. Here’s to thee, Menas! [Pompey. 

Men. Enobarbus, welcome! 

Pom. Fill till the cup be hid. 

Eno. There’s a strong fellow, Menas. 

[Pointing to the Attendant who carries off 
Lepidus. 
Why? [see’st not ? 

Eno. A’ bears the third part of the world, man; 

Men. The third part, then, is drunk: would it 
That it might go on wheels! [were all, 

Eno. Drink thou; increase the reels. 

Men. Come. 

Pom. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast. 

Ant. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho! 
Here is to Cesar! 

Cees. I could well forbear ’t. 

It ’s monstrous labour, when I wash my brain, 
And it grows fouler. 
Ant. Be a child o’ the time. 
Coes. Possess it, Ill make answer: 
But I had rather fast from all four days 
Than drink so much in one. 

Eno. Ha, my brave emperor! [To Antony. 
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals, 
And celebrate our drink ? 

Pom. Let ’s ha ’t, good soldier. 

Ant. Come, let’s all take hands, 

Till that the conquering wine hath steep’d our sense 
In soft and delicate Lethe. 

Eno. All take hands. 

Make battery to our ears with the loud music: 
The while I ’ll place you: then the boy shall sing; 
The holding every man shall bear as loud 
As his strong sides can volley. 

[Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand 


in hand. 
THE SONG. 


Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne! 

In thy fats our cares be drown’d, 
With thy grapes our hairs be crown’d: 
Cup us, till the world go round, 

Cup us, till the world go round! 


Men. 


Ces. What would you more? Pompey, good 
night. Good brother, 
Let me request you off: our graver business 
Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let’s part ; 
You see we have burnt our cheeks: strong Enobarb 
Is weaker than the wine; and mine own tongue 
Splits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath almost 
| Antick’d us all. What needs more words? Good 
Good Antony, your hand. [night. 
Pom. Ill try you on the shore. 
Ant. And shall, sir: give’s your hand. 
Pom. O Antony, 


ACT III. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. SCENE II, 


You have my father’s house,— But, what? we are | These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what! 


Come, down into the boat. [friends. | Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell 
Eno. Take heed you fall not. | To these great fellows: sound and be hang’d, sound 
[Hxzeunt all but Enobarbus and Menas. out ! [Sound a flourish, with drums. 
Menas, I'll not on shore. Eno. Ho! says a’. There’s my cap. 
Men. No, to my cabin. Men. Ho! Noble captain, come. [ Hxeunt. 
eee OLY dks 
SCENE I.—A plain in Syria. Eno. Spake you of Cesar? How! the nonpareil! 


Agr. O Antony! O thou Arabian bird! 
Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius, and Eno. Would you praise Cesar, say ‘Ceesar:’ go 


other Romans, Officers, and Soldiers ; the dead body no further. [praises. 
of Pacorus borne before him. Agr. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent 
Ven. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck; and Eno. But he loves Cesar best; yet he loves An- 
now tony: [cannot 
Pleased fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death Ho! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, 


Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body 


Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho! 
Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, 


His love to Antony. But as for Cesar, 


Pays this for Marcus Crassus. Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder. 

Sil. Noble Ventidius, Agr. Both he loves. 
Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm, Eno. They are his shards, and he their beetle. 
The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media, [Trumpets within.] So; 

Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa. 

The routed fly: so thy grand captain Antony Agr. Good fortune, worthy soldier; and farewell. 
Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and ; 4 
Put garlands on thy head. Enter Ceesar, Antony, Lepidus, and Octavia. 

Ven. O Silius, Silius, Ant. No further, sir. 

I have done enough; a lower place, note well, Ces. You take from me a great part of myself ; 
May make too great an act: for learn this, Silius; | Use me wellin’t. Sister, prove such a wife 
Better to leave undone, than by our deed As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band 
Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away. | Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, 
Cesar and Antony have ever won Let not the piece of virtue, which is set 

More in their officer than person: Sossius, Betwixt us as the cement of our love, 

One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, To keep it builded, be the ram to batter 

For quick accumulation of renown, The fortress of it; for better might we 

Which he achieved by the minute, lost his favour. | Have loved without this mean, if on both parts 
Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can This be not cherish’d. 

Becomes his captain’s captain: and ambition, nt. Make me not offended 

The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss, In your distrust. 

Than gain which darkens him. Cees. T have said. 

I could do more to do Antonius good, Ant. You shall not find, 
But ’t would offend him; and in his offence Though you be therein curious, the least cause 
Should my performance perish. For what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you, 

Sil. Thou hast, Ventidius, that | And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends! 
Without the which a soldier, and his sword, [tony ? | We will here part. 

Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to An- Ces. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well: 

Ven. Ill humbly signify what in his name, The elements be kind to thee, and make 
That magical word of war, we have effected ; Thy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well. 

How, with his banners and his well-paid ranks, Oct. My noble brother ! ap 
The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia Ant. The April ’s in her eyes: it is love’s spring, 
We have jaded out o’ the field. And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. 
Sil. Where is he now ? Oct. Sir, look well to my husband’s house; and— 
Ven. He purposeth to Athens: whither, with Cees. What, 
what haste Octavia ? 
The weight we must convey with ’s will permit, Oct. I'll tell you in your ear. 
We shall appear before him. On, there; pass| 4”¢. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can 
along ! [EHxeunt. | Her Sake inform her tongue,—the swan’s down- 
eather, 
SCENE II.— Rome. An ante-chamber in Cosar’s | That stands upon the swell at full of tide, 
house. And neither way inclines. 


; Eno. [Aside to Agr.] Will Ceesar weep ? 
Enter Agrippa at one door, Enobarbus at another. Agr. | Aside to Eno.| He has a cloud in ’s face. 


Agr. What, are the brothers parted ? [gone; Eno. [Aside to Agr.] He were the worse for that, 


Eno. They have dispatch’d with Pompey, he is __ _ were he a horse ; 
The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps So is he, being a man. 
To part from Rome; Cesar is sad; and Lepidus, Agr. [Aside to Eno.] Why, Enobarbus, 
Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled | When Antony found Julius Cesar dead, 
With the green sickness. He cried almost to roaring ; and he wept 
Agr. ’T is a noble Lepidus. When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. 
Eno. A very fine one: O, how he loves Cesar! Eno. [Aside to Agr.| That year, indeed, he was 
Agr. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! troubled with a rheum ; a 
Eno. Cesar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men. What willingly he did confound he wail’d, 
Agr. What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter. Believe ’t, till [ wept too. 


759 


WOT GTi, 


Ces. No, sweet Octavia, 
You shall hear from me still; the time shall not 
Out-go my thinking on you. 

Ant. Come, sir, come; 
I ll wrestle with you in my strength of love: 
Look, here I have you; thus I let you go, 

And give you to the gods. 

Coes Adieu; be happy! 

Lep. Let all the number of the stars give light 
To thy fair way ! 

Cees. Farewell, farewell! [Kisses Octavia. 

Ant. Farewell! 

[Trunpets sound. Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Alexandria. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas. 
Cleo. Where is the fellow ? 
Al 


ex. 
Cleo. Go to, go to. 


Enter the Messenger as before. 


Come hither, sir. 

Alex. Good majesty, 
Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you 
But when you are well pleased. 

Cleo. That Herod’s head 
Ill have: but how, when Antony is gone __[near. 
Through whom I might command it? Come thou 

Mess. Most gracious majesty ,— 

Cleo. Didst thou behold Octavia ? 

Mess. Ay, dread queen. 

Cleo. Where ? 

Mess. Madam, in Rome; 

I look’d her in the face, and saw her led 
Between her brother and Mark Antony. 

Cleo. Is she as tall as me ? 

Mess. She is not, madam. 

Cleo. Didst hear her speak ? is she shrill-tongued 

or low? 

Mess. Madam, I heard her speak ; she is low-voiced. 

Oleo. That’s not so good: he cannot like her long. 

Char. Like her! O Isis! ’t is impossible. 

Cleo. I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue, and 

dwarfish ! 
What majesty is in her gait? Remember, 
If e’er thou look’dst on majesty. 
Mess. She creeps: 
Her motion and her station are as one; 
She shows a body rather than a life, 
A statue than a breather. 
Cleo. Is this certain ? 
Mess. Or I have no observance. 


Cleopatra’s palace. 


Half afeard to come. 


Char. Three in Egypt 
Cannot make better note. 
Cleo. He’s very knowing ; 


I do perceive ’t: there ’s nothing in her yet: 
The fellow has good judgment. 


Char. Excellent. 

Cleo. Guess at her years, I prithee. 

Mess. Madam, 
She was a widow,— 

Cleo. Widow! Charmian, hark. 


Mess. And I do think she’s thirty. [round ? 
Cleo. Bear’st thou her face in mind ? is ’t long or 
Mess. Round even to faultiness. 
Cleo. For the most part, too, they are foolish that 
are SO. 
Her hair, what colour ? 
Mess. Brown, madam: and her forehead 
As low as she would wish it. 
Cleo. There ’s gold for thee. 
Thou must not take my former sharpness ill: 
I will employ thee back again; I find thee 
Most fit for business: go make thee ready ; 
Our letters are prepared. | Hxit Messenger. 
Char. A proper man. 


760 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE V. 


Cleo. Indeed, he is so: I repent me much 
That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him, 
This creature ’s no such thing. 
Char. Nothing, madam. 
Cleo. The man hath seen some majesty, and 
should know. 
Char. Hath he seen majesty ? Isis else defend, 
And serving you so long! [Charmian : 
Cleo. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good 
But ’tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to te 
Where I will write. All may be well enou 
Char. I warrant you, madam. Feng 


SCENE IV.—Athens. 


Enter Antony and Octavia. 


Ant. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,— 
That were excusable, that, and thousands more 
Of semblable import,—but he hath waged {it | 
New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read 
To public ear: 
Spoke seantly of me: when perforce he could not 
But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly 
He vented them ; most narrow measure lent me : 
When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t, 
Or did it from his teeth. 

Oct. O my good lord, 
Believe not all; or, if you must believe, 
Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, 
If this division chance, ne’er stood between, 
Praying for both parts: 
The good gods will mock me presently, 
When I shall pray, ‘ O, bless my lord and husband!’ 
Undo that prayer, by erying out as loud, 
‘O, bless my brother!’ ‘Husband win, win brother, 
Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway 
*Twixt these extremes at. all. 

Ant. Gentle Octavia, 

Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks 
Best to preserve it: if I lose mine honour, 

I lose myself: better I were not yours 

Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, 
Yourself shall go between ’s: the mean time, lady, 
I ’ll raise the preparation of a war 

Shall stain your brother: make your soonest haste; 
So your desires are yours. 

Oct. Thanks to my lord. 
The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak, 
Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be 
As if the world should cleave, and that slain men’ 
Should solder up the rift. 

Ant. When it appears to you where this begins, 
Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults 
Can never be so equal, that your love 
Can equally move with them. Provide your going; 
Choose your own company, and command what cost 
Your heart has mind to. [| Kxeunt. 


SCENE V.—The same. 


Enter Enobarbus and Eros, meeting. 


Eno. How now, friend Eros ! 

Eros. There ’s strange news come, sir. 

Eno. What, man ? 

Eros. Cesar and Lepidus have made wars upon 
Pompey. 

Dino. This is old: what is the success ? 

Eros. Ceesar, having made use of him in the wars 
*gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality: 
ein not let him partake in the glory of the ac- 
tion: and not resting here, accuses him of letters 
he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own 
appeal, seizes him: so the poor third is up, till death 
enlarge his confine. [more ; 

Eno. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no 
And throw between them all the food thou hast, 
They *ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony ? 


A room in Antony’s house. 


Another room, 


Eros. He’s walking in the garden—thus; 
spurns 
The rush that lies before him; cries, ‘ Fool Lepidus! ’ 
And threats the throat of that his officer 
aa Fath SN i Pompey. 
Our great navy’s rigg’d. 
Brox For Italy and Cesar. More, Domitius ; 
My lord desires you presently : my news 
I might have told hereafter. 
EF ’T will be naught: 


no. 
But let it be. Bring me to Antony. 
Eros. Come, sir. 


SCENE VI.— Rome. 


Enter Ceesar, Agrippa, and Meczenas. 


Ocs. Contemning Rome, he has done all this, and 
In Alexandria: here ’s the manner of ’t: [more, 
I’ the market-place, on a tribunal silver’d, 
Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold 
Were publicly enthroned: at the feet sat 
Czsarion, whom they call my father’s son, 

And all the unlawful issue that their lust 
Since then hath made between them. Unto her 
He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her 
Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, 
pe queen. 
This in the public eye? __[ercise. 

Cees, I’ the common show-place, where they ex- 
His sons he there proclaim ’d the kings of kings: 
Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia, 

He gave to Alexander ; to Ptolemy he assign’d 
Syria, Cilicia, and Pheenicia : she 

In the habiliments of the goddess Isis 

That day appear’d; and oft before gave audience, 
As ’tis reported, 50. 

Mec. Let Rome be thus 
Inform ’d. 

Agr. Who, queasy with his insolence 
Already, will their good thoughts call from him. 

Ces. The people know it; and have now received 
His accusations. 

Agr. Who does he accuse ? 

Cue Cesar: and that, having in Sicily 
Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we had not rated him 
His part 0’ the isle: then does he say, he lent me 
Some shipping unrestored: lastly, he frets 
That Lepidus of the triumvirate 
Should be deposed; and, being, that we detain 
All his revenue. 

Agr. Sir, this should be answer’d. 

Ces. "Tis done already, and the messenger gone. 
I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel; 
That he his high authority abused, [quer vee 
And did deserve his change: for what I have con- 
I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia, 

‘And other of his ‘conquer’d ‘kingdoms, I 
Demand the like. 
Mec. He ’Il never yield to that. 
Coes. Nor must not then be yielded to in this. 


[ Exeunt. 


Ceesar’s house. 


Enter Octavia with her train. 


Oct. Hail, Cesar, and my lord! hail, most dear 
Cesar! 

Ces. That ever I should call thee castaway! 

Oct. You have not call’d me so, nor have you cause. 

Cees. Why have you stol’n upon us thus? You 
Like Cesar’s sister: the wife of Antony [come not 
Should have an army for an usher, and 
The neighs of horse to tell of her approach 
Long ere she did appear; the trees by the way 
Should have borne men; and expectation fainted, 
Longing for what it had not; nay, the dust 
Should have ascended to the roof of heaven, 
Raised by your populous troops: but you are come 
A market-maid to Rome; and have prevented 
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, 


and 


ANTONY AND 


| That noises it against us. 
t 


CLEOPATRA. 


Ts often left unloved: we should have met you 
By sea and land; supplying every stage 
bie an augmented greeting. 


SCENE VII. 


- Good my lord, 
To come thus was I not constrain’d, But did 
On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, 
Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted 
My grieved ear withal; whereon, fe begg’d 
His pardon for return. 

Cees. Which soon he granted, 
Being an obstruct ’tween his lust and him. 

Oct. Do not say so, my lord. 

Ces. I have eyes upon him, 
And his affairs come to me on the wind. 
Where is he now ? 


Oct. My lord, in Athens. 
Ces. No, my most wronged sister; Cleopatra 
Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire 


Up toa whore ; who now are levying 

The kings 0’ the earth for war: he hath assembled 
Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus, 

Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king 

Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas; 
King Malchus of Arabia; King of Pont ; 

Herod of Jewry ; Mithridates, king 

Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas, 

The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, 

With a more larger list of sceptres. 

Oct. Ay me, most wretched, 
That have my heart Fecokhe betwixt two friends 
That do afflict each other! 

Cees. Welcome hither: 
Your letters did withhold our breaking forth ; 
Till we perceived, both how you were wrong led, 
And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart: 
Be you not troubled with the time, which drives 
O’er your content these strong necessities ; 

But let determined things to destiny 

Hold unbewail’d their way. Welcome to Rome; 
Nothing more dear to me. You are abused 
Beyond the mark of thought: and the high gods, 
To do you justice, make them ministers 

Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort ; 
‘And ever welcome to us. 

Agr. Welcome, lady. 

Mec. Welcome, dear madam. 

Each heart in Rome does love and pity you: 
Only the adulterous Antony, most large 

In his abominations, turns you off; 

And gives his potent regiment to a trull, 


ct. Is it so, sir? 
Ces. Most certain. Sister, welcome: pray you, 
Be ever known to patience: my dear’st sister ! 

[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE VII.— Near Actium. 


Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus. 


Cleo. I will be even with thee, doubt it not. 

Eno. But why, why, why? 

Cleo. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars, 
And say’st it is not fit. 

En Well, is it, is it? 


0. 
Cleo. If not denounced against us, why should 
not we 
| Be there in person ? 
Eno. [Aside] Well, I could reply: 
If we should serve with horse and mares together, 
The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear 
A. soldier and his horse. 
Cleo. What is ’t you say ? 
Eno. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony ; 
Take from his heart, take from his brain, from ’s 
time 
What should not then be spared. He is already 
Traduced for levity ; and ’tis said in Rome 


761 


Antony’s camp. 


AW TONY ADD 


That Photinus an eunuch and your maids 
Manage this war. 

Cleo. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot 
That speak against us! A charge we beari’ the war, 
And, as the president of my kingdom, will 
Appear there fora man. Speak not against it; 

I will not stay behind. 

Eno. Nay, I have done. 

Here comes the emperor. 


ACT Iiit 


Enter Antony and Canidius. 
Ant. Is it not strange, Canidius, 
That from Tarentum and Brundusium 
He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea, 
And take in Toryne? You have heard on’t, sweet ? 
Cleo. Celerity is never more admired 
Than by the negligent. 
Ant. A good rebuke, 
Which might have well becomed the best of men, 
To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we 
eT fight with him by sea. 


€0. By sea! what else ? 

Can. Why will my lord do so ? 

Ant. For that he dares us to ’t. 
Eno. So hath my lord dared him to single fight. 
Can. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia, 

Where Cesar fought with Pompey: but these offers, 

Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off; 

And so should you. 

Eno. Your ships are not well mann’d; 
Your mariners are muleters, reapers, people 
Ingross’d by swift impress; in Cesar’s fleet 
Are those that often have ’gainst Pompey fought: 
Their ships are yare; yours, heavy: no disgrace 
Shall fall you for refusing him at sea, 

Being prepared for land. 

Ant. By sea, by sea. 

Eno. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away 
The absolute soldiership you have by land; 
Distract your army, which doth most consist 
Of war-mark’d footmen; leave unexecuted 
Your own renowned knowledge; quite forego 
The way which promises assurance; and 
Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard, 
From firm security. 

I'll fight at sea. 


Ant. 
Cleo. I have sixty sails, Ceesar none better. 
Ant. Our overplus of shipping will we burn; 
And, with the rest full-mann’d, from the head of 
Actium 
Beat the approaching Cesar. But if we fail, 
We then can do ’t at land. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Thy business ? 
_ Mess. The news is true, my lord; he is descried ; 
Cesar has taken Toryne. 
_ Ant. Can he be there in person ? ’t is impossible ; 
Strange that his power should be. Canidius, 
Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land, 
And our twelve thousand horse. Well to our ship: 
Away, my Thetis! 


Enter a Soldier. 


How now, worthy soldier! 
Sold. O noble emperor, do not fight by sea; 
Trust not to rotten planks: do you misdoubt 
This sword and these my wounds? Let the Egyp- 
And the Pheenicians go a-ducking: we [tians 
Have used to conquer, standing on the earth, 
cap fighting foot to foot. 
Ant. 


Well, well; away! | 
[Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus. 
Sold. By Hercules, I think I am i’ the right. 
Can. Soldier, thou art: but his whole action 
Not in the power on ’t: so our leader’s led, [grows 
And we are women’s men. | 


762 


CLEOPATRA. 


Sold. You Keep by land 
The legions and the horse whole, do you not ? 
Can. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius, 
Publicola, and Celius, are for sea: 
But we keep whole by land. This speed of Czesar’s 
Sita beyond belief. 
So 


SCENE X. 


: While he was yet in Rome, 
His power went out in such distractions as 
Beguiled all spies. 

Can. Who’s his lieutenant, hear you ? 

Sold. They say, one Taurus. 

Can. Well I know the man. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. The emperor calls Canidius. 
Can. With news the time’s with labour, and 
throes forth, 
Each minute, some. [ Heeunt. 


SCENE VIII.—A plain near Actium. 


Enter Ceesar, and Taurus, with his army, march- 


ing. 
Ces. Taurus! 
Taur. My lord ? (not battle, 
Coes. Strike not by land; keep whole: provoke 
Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed 
The prescript of this scroll: our fortune lies 
Upon this jump. [ Hereunt. 


SCENE IX.— Another part of the plain. 


Enter Antony and Enobarbus. 


Ant. Set we our squadrons on yond side 0’ the hill, 
In eye of Cesar’s battle; from which place 
We may the number of the ships behold, 
And so proceed accordingly. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE X.— Another part of the plain. 


Canidius marcheth with his land army one way over the 
stage; and Taurus, the lieutenant of Ceesar, the other 
way. After their going in, is heard the noise of a sea- 


Sight. 
Alarum. Enter Enobarbus. 


Eno. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold 
The Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, [no longer: 
With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder: 

To see ’*t mine eyes are blasted. 


Enter Scarus. 


Scar. Gods and goddesses, 
All the whole synod of them! 
Eno. What’s thy passion ? 


Scar. The greater cantle of the world is lost 
With very ignorance; we have kiss’d away 
Kingdoms and provinces. 

Eno. How appears the fight ? 

Scar. On our side like the token’d pestilence, 
Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of 


gypt,— 
Whom leprosy o’ertake!—i’ the midst 0’ the fight, 
When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d, 
Both as the same, or rather ours the elder, 
The breese upon her, like a cow in June, 
Hoists sails and flies. 
Eno. That I beheld: 
Mine eyes did sicken at the sight, and could not 
Endure a further view. 
Scar. She once being loof’d, 
The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, 
Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard, 
Leaving the fight in height, flies after her: 
I never saw an action of such shame; 
Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before o 
Did violate so itself. ; 
Eno. Alack, alack ! : 


ACT III. 


Enter Canidius. 


Can. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath, 
And sinks most lamentably. Had our general 
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well: 
O, he has given example for our flight, 

Most grossly, by his own! 

Eno. Ay, are you thereabouts ? 
Why, then, good night indeed. 

Can. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled. 

Scar. ’Tis easy to’t; and there I will attend 
What further comes. 

Can. To Cesar will I render 
My legions and my horse: six kings already 
Show me the way of yielding. 

Eno. IH yet follow 
The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason 
Sits in the wind against me. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE X1.—Alexandria. Cleopatra’s palace. 


Enter Antony with Attendants. 


Ant. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon ’t; 
It is ashamed to bear me! Friends, come hither: 
I am so lated in the world, that I 
Have lost my way for ever: I have a ship 
Laden with gold; take that, divide it; fly, 
And make your peace with Cesar. 

All. Fly! not we. 

Ant. I have fled myself; and have instructed 

cowards 
To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone; 
I have myself resolved upon a course 
Which has no need of you; be gone: 
My treasure’s in the harbour, take it. O, 
I follow’d that I blush to look upon: 
My very hairs do mutiny; for the white 
Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them 
For fear and doting. Friends, be gone: you shall 
Have letters from me to some friends that will 
Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad, 
Nor make replies of loathness: take the hint 
Which my despair proclaims; let that be left 
Which leaves itself: to the sea-side straightway : 
I will possess you of that ship and treasure. 
Leave me, I pray, a little: pray you now: 
Nay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command, 
Therefore I pray you: Ill see you by and by. 
[Sits down. 


Enter Cleopatra led by Charmian and Iras; 
Eros following. 


Eros. Nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort him. 
Tras. Do, most dear queen. 
Char. Do! why: what else ? 
Cleo. Let me sit down. O Juno! 
Ant. No, no, no, no, no. 
Eros. See you here, sir ? 
Ant. O fie, fie, fie! 
Char. Madam! 
Tras. Madam, O good empress! 
Eros. Sir, sir,— 
Ant. Yes, my lord, yes; he at Philippi kept 
His sword e’en like a dancer; while I struck 
The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’t was I 
That the mad Brutus ended: he alone 
Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had 
In the brave squares of war: yet now— No matter. 
Cleo. Ah, stand by. 
Eros. The queen, my lord, the queen. 
Tras. Go to him, madam, speak to him: 
He is unqualitied with very shame. 
Cleo. Well then, sustain me: O! 
Eros. Most noble sir, arise: the queen approaches : 
Her head’s declined, and death will seize her, but 
Your comfort makes the rescue. 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. 


Ant. I have offended reputation, 
A most unnoble swerving. 
Eros. - Sir, the queen. 
Ant. O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See, 


SCENE XII. 


| How I convey my shame out of thine eyes 


By looking back what I have left behind 
*Stroy’d in dishonour. , 
Cleo. O my lord, my lord, 
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought 
You would have follow’d. 
Ant. Egypt, thou knew’st too well 


| My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings, 


And thou shouldst tow me after: o’er my spirit 
Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that 
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods 
Command me. 
Cleo. 
Ant. 


O, my pardon! 
Now I must 


| To the young man send humble treaties, dodge 


And palter in the shifts of lowness; who 
With half the bulk o’ the world play’d as I pleased, 
Making and marring fortunes. You did know 
How much you were my conqueror; and that 
My sword, made weak by my affection, would 
Obey it on all cause. 

Cleo. Pardon, pardon ! 

Ant. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates 


| All that is won and lost: give me a kiss; 


Even this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster; 
Is he come back? Love, I am full of lead. [knows 
Some wine, within there, and our viands! Fortune 


| We scorn her most when most she offers blows. 


[ Hveunt. 
SCENE XII.— Hogypt. 


Enter Ceesar, Dolabella, Thyreus, with others. 


Cees. Let him appear that ’s come from Antony. 
Know you him? 
Dol. Ceesar, ’t is his schoolmaster : 
An argument that he is pluck’d, when hither 
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, 
Which had superfluous kings for messengers 
Not many moons gone by. 


Cesar’s camp. 


Enter Buphronius, ambassador from Antony. 


Cees. Approach, and speak. 
Euph. Such as Iam, I come from Antony: 
I was of late as petty to his ends 
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf 
To his grand sea. 
(es. Be ’t so: declare thine office. 
Ewph. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and 
Requires to live in Egypt: which not granted, 
He lessens his requests; and to thee sues 
To let him breathe between the heavens and earth, 
A private man in Athens: this for him. 
Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness ; 
Submits her to thy might; and of thee craves 
The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, 
Now hazarded to thy grace. 
Ces. For Antony, 
I have no ears to his request. The queen 
Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she 
From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, 
Or take his life there: this if she perform, 
She shall not sue unheard. So to them both. 
Euph. Fortune pursue thee ! 
Ces. Bring him through the bands. 
[Hxit Huphronius. 
[To Thyreus] To try thy eloquence, now ’tis time: 
dispatch ; 
From Antony win Cleopatra: promise, 
And in our name, what she requires; add more, 
From thine invention, offers: women are not | 
In their best fortunes strong ; but want will perjure 
The ne’er-touch’d vestal: try thy cunning, Thyreus; 


763 


ACT iftl. 


Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we 
Will answer as a law. 

Thyr. Cesar, I go. 

Ces. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, 
And what thou think’st his very action speaks 
In every power that moves. 


Thyr. Cesar, I shall. [Exeunt. 
SCENE XIII.— Alexandria. Cleopatra’s palace. 
Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, and 


Iras. 


What shall we do, Enobarbus ? 
Think, and die. 

Cleo. Is Antony or we in fault for this ? 

Eno. Antony only, that would make his will 
Lord of his reason. What though you fled 
From that great face of war, whose several ranges 
Frighted each other ? why should he follow ? 
The itch of his affection should not then 
Have nick’d his captainship; at such a point, 
When half to half the world opposed, he being 
The meered question: ’t was a shame no less 
Than was his loss, to course your flying flags, 
aa leave his navy gazing. 

€0. 


Cleo. 
Eno. 


Prithee, peace. 


Enter Antony with Huphronius, the Ambassador. 


Ant. Is that his answer ? 
EHuph. Ay, my lord. 
Ant. The queen nail then have courtesy, so she 
Will yield us up. 
EHuph. . 
Ant. Let her know ’t. 
To the boy Cesar send this grizzled head, 
And he will fill thy wishes to the brim 
With principalities. 
Cleo. That head, my lord ? 
Ant. To him again: tell him he wears the rose 
Of youth upon him; from which the world should 
note 
Something particular: his coin, ships, legions, 
May be a coward’s; whose ministers would prevail 
Under the service of a child as soon 
As i’ the command of Cesar: I dare him therefore 
To lay his gay comparisons apart, 
And answer me declined, sword against sword, 
Ourselves alone. Ill write it: follow me. 
[Hxeunt Antony and Euphronius. 
Eno. Laide] Yes, like enough, high-battled Czesar 
wi 
Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show, 
Against a sworder! I see men’s judgments are 
A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward 
Do draw the inward quality after them, 
To suffer all alike. That he should dream, 
Knowing all measures, the full Ceesar will 
Answer his emptiness ! Ceesar, thou hast subdued 
His judgment too. 


He says so. 


Enter an Attendant. 


Ait. A messenger from Cesar. 
Cleo. What, no more ceremony ? ‘See, my women! 
Against the blown rose may they stop their nose 
That kneel’d unto the buds. Admit him, sir. 
[ Heit Attendant. 
Eno. | Aside] Mine honesty and I begin to square. 
The loyalty well held to fools does make 
Our faith mere folly: yet he that can endure 
To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord 
Does conquer him that did his master conquer, 
And earns a place i’ the story. 


Enter Thyreus. 
Cleo. Ceesar’s will ? 
Tha yr. Hear it apart. 
Cleo None but friends: say boldly. 


764 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATEA. 


SCENE XIII. 


Thyr. So, haply, are they friends to Antony. 

Eno. He needs as many, sir, as Cesar has, 

Or needs not us. If Cesar please, our master 
Will leap to be his friend: for us, you know 
Whose he is we are, and that is, Ceesar’s. 

Thyr. 0. 
Thus Tio thou most renown’d: Ceesar entreats, 
Not to consider in what case thou stand’st, 
Further than he is Cesar. 

Cleo. Go on: right royal. 

Thyr. He knows that you embrace not Antony 
re! you did love, but as you fear’d him. 

leo. ! 

Thyr. The scars upon your honour, therefore, he 
Does pity, as constrained blemishes, 

Not as deserved. 


Cleo. He is a god, and knows 


| What is most right: mine honour was not yielded, 


| But conquer’d merely. 


Eno. [ Aside] To be sure of that, 


| I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky, 


That we must leave thee to ‘thy sinking, for 
Thy dearest quit thee. 

Thyr. Shall I say to Cesar 
What you require of him? for he partly begs 
To be desired to give. It much would please him, 
That of his fortunes you should make a staff 
To lean upon: but it would warm his spirits, 


[ Hxit. 


| To hear from me you had left Antony, 


And put yourself under his shrowd, 
The universal landlord. 
Cleo. What ’s your name ? 
Thyr. My name is Thyreus. 
Cleo. Most kind messenger, 
Say to great Cesar this: in deputation 
I kiss his conquering hand: tell him, I am prompt 
To lay my crown at ’s feet, and there to kneel: 
Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear 
The doom of Egypt. 
Thyr. *T is your noblest course. 
Wisdoih and fortune combating together, 
If that the former dare but what it can, 
No chance may shake it. Give me erace to lay 
My duty on your hand. 
Cleo. Your Cesar’s father oft, 
When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in, 
Bestow’d his lips on that unworthy place, 
As it rain’d kisses. 


Re-enter Antony and Enobarbus. 


Ant Favours, by Jove that thunders! 

Wat art thou, fellow ? 
One that but performs 

The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest 
To have command obey’d. 

Eno. [ Aside] You will be whipp’d. 

Ant. Approach, there! Ah, you kite! Now, gods 

and devils! [‘ Ho!? 

Authority melts from me:: of late, when I cried 
Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth, 
And cry ‘ Your will ? ” Have you no ears? Iam 
Antony yet. 

Enter Attendants. 
Take hence this Jack, and whip him. 

Eno. [Aside] ’T is better playing with a lion’s 
Than with an old one dying. [whelp 

Ant. Moon and stars! 
Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tribu- 

taries 
That do Byline pied Cesar, should I find them 
So saucy with the hand of she here,— what ’s her 
name, 

Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows, 
Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face, 
And whine aloud for mercy: take him hence. 

Thyr. Mark Antony! 

Ant. Tug him away: being whipp’d, 


AGT IV. 


Bring him again: this Jack of Cesar’s shall 
Bear us an errand to him. 
[Hxeunt Attendants with Thyreus. 

You were half blasted ere I knew you: ha! 
Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome, 
Forborne the getting of a lawful race, 
And by a gem of women, to be abused 
By one that looks on feeders ? 

Cleo. Good my lord,— 

Ant. You have been a boggler ever: 
But when we in our viciousness grow hard — 
O misery on ’t !—the wise gods seel our eyes; [us 
In our own filth drop our clear judgments; make 
Adore our errors; laugh at ’s, while we strut 
To our confusion. 

Cleo. O, is ’t come to this ? 

Ant. I found you as a morsel cold upon 
Dead Cesar’s trencher; nay, you were a fragment 
Of Cneius Pompey’s; besides what hotter hours, 
Unregister’d in vulgar fame, you have 
Luxuriously pick’d out: for, I am sure, 
Though you can guess what temperance should be, 
You know not what it is. 

€0. Wherefore is this ? 

Ant. To let a fellow that will take rewards 
And say ‘God quit you!’ be familiar with 
My playfellow, your hand; this kingly seal 
And plighter of high hearts! O, that I were 
Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar 
The horned herd! for I have savage cause ; 
And to proclaim it civilly, were like 
A halter’d neck which does the hangman thank 
For being yare about him. 


Re-enter Attendants with Thyreus. 


Is he whipp’d ? 

First Att. Soundly, my lord. 

Ant. Cried he ? and begg’d a’ pardon ? 

First Att. He did ask favour. 

Ant. If that thy father live, let him repent 
Thou wast not made his daughter ; and be thou sorry 
To follow Ceesar in his triumph, since 
Thou hast been whipp’d for following him: hence- 


orth 
The white hand of a lady fever thee, 
Shake thou to look on ’t. Get thee back to Cesar, 
Tell him thy entertainment: look, thou say 
He makes me angry with him; for he seems 
Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, 
Not what he knew I was: he makes me angry ; 
And at this time most easy ’t is to do ’t, 
When my good stars, that were my former guides, 
Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires 
Into the abysm of hell. If he mislike 
My speech and what is done, tell him he has 
Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom 
He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, 
As he shall like, to quit me: urge it thou: 
Hence with thy stripes, begone [Hait Thyreus. 


ANTONY AND 


OLE ORAL RA, 


Cleo. Have you done yet ? 
Ant. Alack, our terrene moon 
Is now eclipsed; and it portends alone 
The fall of Antony! 
Cleo. I must stay his time. 
Ant. To flatter Cesar, would you mingle eyes 
With one that ties his points ? F 
Cleo. Not know me yet? 
Ant. Cold-hearted toward me ? 
€0. Ah, dear, if I be so, 
From my cold heart let heaven engender hail, 
And poison it in the source; and the first stone 
Drop in my neck: as it determines, so 
Dissolve my life! The next Cesarion smite! 
Till by degrees the memory of my womb, 
Together with my brave Egyptians all, 
By the discandying of this pelleted storm, 
Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile 
Have buried them for prey! 
Ant. I am satisfied. 
Cesar sits down in Alexandria; where 
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land 
Hath nobly held; our sever’d navy too 
Have knit again, and fleet, threatening most sealike. 
Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, 
If from the field I shall return once more _ [lady? 
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood; 
I and my sword will earn our chronicle: 
There ’s hope in ’t yet. 
Cleo. That ’s my brave lord! 
Ant. I will be treble-sinew’d, hearted, breathed, 


SCENE f, 


| And fight maliciously: for when mine hours 


Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives 
Of me for jests; but now I ’ll set my teeth, 


| And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, 


Let ’s have one other gaudy night: call to me 
All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more; 
Let’s mock the midnight bell. 
€0. It is my birth-day : 
Thad thought to have held it poor; but, since my lord 
Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. 
Ant. We will yet do well. 
Cleo. Call all his noble captains to my lord. 
Ant. Do so, well speak to them; and to-night 
Ill force 
The wine peep through their scars. 
queen ; 
There ’s sap in ’t yet. The next time I do fight, 
I ’ll make death love me; for I will contend 
Even with his pestilent scythe. 
[Hxeunt all but Hnobarbus. 
Fino. Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be 
furious, . 
Is to be frighted out of fear; and in that mood 
The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still, 
A diminution in our captain’s brain 
Restores his heart: when valour preys on reason, 
It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek 
Some way to leave him. 


Come on, my 


Exit. 


ALOT Die 


SCENE I.—Before Alexandria. 


Enter Cesar, Agrippa, and Meczenas, with his 
Army; Ceesar reading a letter. 


Ces. He calls me boy; and chides, as he had power 
To beat me out of Egypt; my messenger 
He hath whipp’d with rods; dares me to personal 
combat, 
Cesar to Antony: let the old ruffian know 
I have many other ways to die; meantime 
oR re at his challenge. 
ec. 


Ceesar’s camp. 


Cesar must think, 


And they have earn’d the waste. 


When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted 

Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now 

Make boot of his distraction: never anger 

Made good guard for itself. 
Ces. Let our best heads 

Know, that to-morrow the last of many battles 

We mean to fight: within our files there are, 

Of those that served Mark Antony but late, 

Enough to fetch him in. See it done: 

And feast the army; we have store to do ’t, 

Poor Antony! 

[| Hxeunt 


765 


ACT IV. 


SCENE II.— Alexandria. 


Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Char- | 
mian, Iras, Alexas, with others. | 

| 

| 


OCleopatra’s palace. 


Ant. He will not fight with me, Domitius. 
Eno. No. 
Ant. Why should he not ? [tune, | 
Eno. He thinks, being twenty times of better for- | 
He is twenty men to one. 
Ant. To-morrow, soldier, 
By sea and land I’ fight: or I will live, 
Or bathe my dying honour in the blood 
Shall make it live again. Woo ’t thou fight well? | 
Eno. I’) strike, and cry ‘ Take all.’ | 
Ant. Well said; come on. | 
Call forth my household servants: let ’s to-night 
Be bounteous at our meal. 


Enter three or four Servitors. 


Give me thy hand, 
Thou hast been rightly honest ;— so hast thou ;— 
Thou,— and thou,— and thou :— you have served me 
And kings have been your fellows. [well, 
Cleo. anit to Eno.] What means this ? 
Eno. [Aside to Cleo.] ’T is one of those odd tricks 
which sorrow shoots 
Out of the mind. 


nt. And thou art honest too. 
I wish I could be made so many men, 
And all of you clapp’d up together in 
An Antony, that I might do you service 
So good as you have done. 
é The gods forbid! 


he . 

Ant. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night: 
Scant not my cups; and make as much of me 
As when mine empire was your fellow too, 

And suffer’d my command. 

Cleo. [Aside to Eno.] What does he mean ? 

Eno. [Aside to Cleo.] To make his followers weep. 

Ant. Tend me to-night ; 

May be it is the period of your duty: 

Haply you shall not see me more; or if, 

A mangled shadow: perchance to-morrow 

You ll serve another master. I look on you 

As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends, 
I turn you not away; but, like a master 

Married to your good service, stay till death : 
Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more, 

And the gods yield you for ’t! 

Eno. What mean you, sir, 
To give them this discomfort ? Look, they weep; 
And I, an ass, am onion-eyed: for shame, 
Transform us not to women. 

Ant. Ho, ho, ho! 

Now the witch take me, if I meant it thus! 

Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty 
friends, 

You take me in too dolorous a sense; 

For I spake to you for your comfort; did desire you 

To burn this night with torches: know, my hearts, 

J hope well of to-morrow ; and will lead you 

Where rather I ’ll expect victorious life 

Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come, 

And drown consideration. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— The same. 


Enter two Soldiers to their guard. 


First Sold. Brother, good night: to-morrow is 
the day. 

Sec. Bie It will determine one way: fare you 
well. 

Heard you of nothing strange about the streets ? 
First Sold. Nothing. What news ? 
Sec. Sold. Belike ’t is but a rumour. 

to you. 
First Sold. Well, sir, good night. 
766 


Before the palace. 


Good night | 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE IV- 


Einter two other Soldiers, 


Sec. Sold. Soldiers, have careful watch. 
Third Sold. And you. Good night, good night. 
[They place themselves in every corner of the stage. 
Fourth Sold. Here we: and if to-morrow 

Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope 

Our landmen will stand up. 


Third Sold. ’T is a brave army, 


_ ind full of purpose. 


| Music of the hautboys as under the stage. 
Fourth Sold. Peace! what noise ? 


First Sold. List, list! 
Sec. Sold. Hark! 

First Sold. Music i? the air. 

Third Sold. Under the earth. 


Fourth Sold. It signs well, does it not ? 

Third Sold. No. 

First Sold. Peace, I say ! 
What should this mean ? [loved, 

Sec. Sold. "Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony 
Now leaves him. 

First Sold. Walk; let ’s see if other watchmen 
Do hear what we do? [They advance to another post. 

Sec. Sold How now, masters! 

: [Speaking together] How now! 

How now! do you hear this ? 

First Sold. Ay; is ’t not strange ? 

Third Sold. Do you hear, masters ? do you hear ? 

First Sold. Follow the noise so far as we have 
Let ’s see how it will give off. [quarter ; 

All. Content. ’Tis strange. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV .—The same. A room in the palace. 


Enter Antony and Cleopatra, Charmian, and 


others attending. 


Ant. Eros! mine armour, Eros! ; 
Cleo. Sleep a little. 
Ant. No, my chuck. Eros, come; mine armour, 
Eros! 
Enter Eros with armour. 

Come, good fellow, put mine iron on: 

If fortune be not ours to-day, it is 

Because we brave her: come. 


Cleo. Nay, Ill help too. 
What ’s this for ? 
Ant. Ah, let be, let be! thou art 


The armourer of my heart: false, false; this, this. 

Cleo. Sooth, la, Ill help: thus it must be. 

Ant. Well, well; 
We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow ? 
Go put on thy defences. 

Eos. Briefly, sir. 

Cleo. Is not this buckled well ? 

nt. Rarely, rarely: 
He that unbuckles this, till we do please 
To daff ’t for our repose, shall hear a storm. 
Thou fumblest, Eros; and my queen ’s a squire 
More tight at this than thou: dispatch. O love, 
That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew’st 
The royal occupation! thou shouldst see 
A. workman in ’t. 


Enter an armed Soldier. 


Good morrow to thee; welcome: 
Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge: 
To business that we love we rise betime, 
And go to ’t with delight. 

Sold. A thousand, sir, 
Early though ’t be, have on their riveted trim, 
And at the port expect you. 
[ Shout. 


Enter Captains and Soldiers. 


Capt. The morn is fair. Good morrow, general. 
All. Good morrow, general. 


Trumpets flourish, 


er, 


ACT IV. 


Ani. *T is well blown, lads: 
This morning, like the spirit of a youth 
That means to be of note, begins betimes. 

So, so; come, give me that: this way; well said. 
Fare thee well, dame, whate’er becomes of me: 
This is a soldier’s kiss: rebukeable [ Kisses her. 
And worthy shameful check it were, to stand 
On more mechanic compliment; I ’ll leave thee 
Now, like a man of steel. You that will fight, 
Follow me close; I ’ll bring you to’t. Adieu. 
[Hxeunt Antony, Hros, Captains, and Soldiers. 

Char. Please you, retire to your chamber. 

Cleo. Lead me. 
He goes forth gallantly. That he and Cesar might 
Determine this great war in single fight! 
Then, Antony,— but now—Well, on. 


SCENE V.—Alexandria. 


Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros; a 
Soldier meeting them. 


Sold. The gods make this a happy day to Antony! 
Ant. Would thou and those thy scars had once 
prevail’d 
To make me fight at land! 
Sold. Hadst thou done so, 
The kings that have revolted, and the soldier 
That has this morning left thee, would have still 
Follow’d thy heels. 
Ant. 
Sold. 
One ever near thee: call for Enobarbus, 
He shall not hear thee; or from Cesar’s camp 
Say ‘I am none of thine.’ 
Ant. What say’st thou ? 
Sold. Sir, 
Tie is with Ceesar. 
Eros. Sir, his chests and treasure 
He has not with him. 
Ant. Is he gone? 
Sold. Most certain. 
Ant. Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it; 
Detain no jot, I charge thee: write to him— 
I will subscribe — gentle adieus and greetings ; 
Say that I wish he never find more cause 
To change a master. O, my fortunes have 
Corrupted honest men! Dispatch, Enobarbus! 
[ Exeunt. 


[ Hxeunt. 


Antony’s camp. 


Who’s gone this morning ? 
Who! 


SCENE VI1.— Alexandria. 


Flourish. Enter Cesar, Agrippa, with Bnobar- 
bus, and others. 

Ces. Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight: 
Our will is Antony be took alive; 
Make it so known. 

Agr. Cesar, I shall. [ Exit. 

Ces. The time of universal peace is near: 

Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook’d world 
Shall bear the olive freely. 


Cesar’s camp. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. Antony 

Is come into the field. 
(eS. Go charge Agrippa 

Plant those that have revolted in the van, 
That Antony may seem to spend his fury | 
Upon himself. [Exeunt all but Hnobarbus. 

Eno. Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on 
Affairs of Antony; there did persuade 
Great Herod to incline himself to Cesar, 
And leave his master Antony: for this pains 
Cesar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the rest 
That fell away have entertainment, but 
No honourable trust. I have done ill; 
Of which I do accuse myself:.so sorely, 
That I will joy no more. 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE VIIf. 


Enter a Soldier of Czesar’s. 


Sold. Enobarbus, Antony 
Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with 
His bounty overplus: the messenger 
Came on my guard; and at thy tent is now 
Unloading of his mules. , 
tino. I give it you. 
Sold. Mock not, Enobarbus. 
I tell you true: best you safed the bringer 
Out of the host; I must attend mine office, 
Or would have done ’t myself. Your emperor 
Continues still a Jove. [| Hait. 
Eno. Iam alone the villain of the earth, 
And feel I am so most. O Antony, 
Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid 
My better service, when my turpitude 
Thou ae so crown with gold! This blows my 
eart : 
If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean. 
Shall outstrike thought: but thought will do’t, I 
I fight against thee! No: I will go seek feel: 
Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits 
My latter part of life. | Hatt. 


SCENE VII.— Field of battle between the camps. 


Alarum. Drums and trumpets. 


and others. 


Agr. Retire, we have engaged ourselves too far: 
Ceesar himself has work, and our oppression 
Exceeds what we expected. [ Hxeunt. 


Alarums. Enter Antony, and Scarus wounded. 


Scar. O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed ! 
Had -we done so at first, we had droven them home 
With clouts about their heads. 

Ant. Thou bleed’st apace. 

Scar. I had a wound here that was like a T, 

But now *tis made an H. 

Ant. They do retire. 

Scar. We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes: I have yet 
Room for six scotches more. 


Enter Agrippa 


Enter Bros. 


Eros. They are beaten, sir; and our advantage 
For a fair victory. [serves 
Scar. Let us score their backs, 
And snatch ’em up, as we take hares, behind: 
*T is sport to maul a runner. 
Ant. I will reward thee 
Once for thy spritely comfort, and ten-fold 
For thy good valour. Come thee on. 
Scvpunes: I'll halt after. [Exeunt. 


SCENE VIII.— Under the walls of Alexandria. 


Enter Antony, ina march; Scarus, 
with others. 


Ant. We have beat him to his camp: run one 

before, 

And let the queen know of our gests. ‘To-morrow. 

Before the sun shall see ’s, we ’Il spill the blood 

That has to-day escaped. I thank you all; 

For doughty-handed are you, and have fought 

Not as you served the cause, but as ’t had been 

Each man’s like mine; you have shown all Hectors. 

Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, 

Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears 

Wash the congealment from your, wounds, and kiss 

The honour’d gashes whole. [To Scarus] Give me 
thy hand; . 


Enter Cleopatra, attended. 


To this great fairy I 711 commend thy acts, 
Make her thanks bless thee. [Zo Cleo.] O thou day 
o’ the world, 


Alarum, 


767 


ACT IV. 


Chain mine arm’d neck; leap thou, attire and all, 
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there 
Ride on the pants triumphing ? 

Cleo. Lord of lords! 

O infinite virtue, comest thou smiling from 
The world’s great snare uncaught ? 

Ant. My nightingale 

We have beat them to their beds. What, girl 
though grey 

Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet 

A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can [ha’ we 

Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man; 

Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand: 

Kiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day 

As if a god, in hate of mankind, had 

Destroy’d in such a shape. 

Cleo. Ill give thee, friend, 
An armour all of gold; it was a king’s. 

Ant. He has deserved it, were it carbuncled 
Like holy Phceebus’ car. Give me thy hand; 
Through Alexandria make a jolly march; 

Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe 

Had our great palace the capacity [them : 

To camp this host, we all would sup together, 

And drink carouses to the next day’s fate, 

Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters, 

With brazen din blast you the city’s ear; 

Make mingle with our rattling tabourines; 

That heaven and earth may strike their sounds 
together, 

Applauding our approach. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE IX.— Ceesar’s camp. 


Sentinels at their post. 


First Sold. If we be not relieved within this hour, 
We must return to the court of guard: the night 
Is shiny; and they say we shall embattle 
By the second hour i’ the morn. 

Sec. Sold 
A shrewd one to’s. 


This last day was 


Enter Enobarbus. 


Eno. O, bear me witness, night,— 

Third Sold. What man is this? 

Sec. Sold. Stand close, and list him. 

Eno. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, 
When men revolted shall upon record 
Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 
Before thy face repent ! 

First Sold. Enobarbus! 

Third Sold. 

Hark further. 

Hno. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy, 
The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, 
That life, a very rebel to my will, 

May hang no longer on me: throw my heart 
Against the flint and hardness of my fault; 
Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder, 
And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony, 

Nobler than my revolt is infamous, 

Forgive me in thine own particular; 

But let the world rank me in register 

A master-leaver and a fugitive: 

O Antony! O Antony! 

Sec. Sold. 

To him. 

First Sold. Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks 
May concern Cesar. 

Third Sold. y Let ’s do so. But he sleeps. 

First Sold. Swoons rather; for so bad a prayer as 
Was never yet for sleep. [his 

Sec. Sold. Go we to him. 

Third Sold. Awake, sir, awake; speak to us. 

Sec. Sold. Hear you, sir? 


Peace! 


[ Dies. 
Let ’s speak 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE XIL 


—_———— 


Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him 
To the court of guard; he is of note: our hour 
Is fully out. 
Third Sold. Come on, then; 
He may recover yet. [Hxeunt with the body. 


SCENE X.— Between the two camps. 


Enter Antony and Scarus, with their army. 
Ans. Their preparation is to-day by sea ; 
We please them not by land. 
Sear. For both, my lord. 
Ant. I would they ’ld fight i’ the fire or i’ the air; 
We ‘ld fight there too. But this it is; our foot 
Upon the hills adjoining to the city 
Shall stay with us: order for sea is given; 
They have put forth the haven... 
Where their appointment we may best discover, 
And look on their endeavour. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE XI.— Another part of the same. 


Enter Ceesar, and his army. 


Ces. But being charged, we will be still by land, 
Which, as I take ’t, we shall; for his best force 
Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales, 
And hold our best advantage. ' [Hexeunt. 


SCENE XII.— Another part of the same, 


Enter Antony and Scarus. 


Ant. Yet they are not join’d: where yond pine 
does stand, 
I shall discover all: I ’ll bring thee word 
Straight, how ’tis like to go. [ Katt. 
Scar. Swallows have built 
In Cleopatra’s sails their nests: the augurers 
Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly, 
And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony 
Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts, 
His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear, 
Of what he has, and has not. 
[Alarum. afar off, as at a sea-fight. 


Re-enter Antony. 


Ant. All is lost; 

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me: 
My fleet hath yielded to the foe ; and yonder 
They cast their caps up and carouse together 
Like friends long lost. Triple-turn’d whore! *tis 
Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart [thou 
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; 
For when I am revenged upon my charm, 
1 have done all. Bid them all fly; begone. 

EHxit Scarus. 
O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more: 
Fortune and Antony part here; even here 
Do we shake hands. All come to this ? The hearts 
That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave 
Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets 
On blossoming Ceesar; and this pine is bark’d, 
That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d I am: 
O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm ,— 
Whose eye beck’d forth my wars, and call’d them 

home; 

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,— 
Like a right gypsy, hath, at fast and loose, 
Beguiled me to the very heart of loss. 
What, Eros, Eros! 


Enter Cleopatra. 
Ah, thou spell! Avaunt! 
Cleo. Why is my lord enraged against his love? 
Ant. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving, 
And blemish Czesar’s triumph. Let him take thee, 


First Sold. The hand of death hath raught him. | And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians: 


[Drums afar off.] Hark! the drums 
768 


| Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot 


ee 


ACT IV. 


Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE XIV, 


Between her heart and lips: she render’d life, 


For poor’st diminutives, for doits; and let 

Patient Octavia plough thy visage up 

With her prepared nails. [Hxit Cleopatra. 
*T is well thou ’rt gone, 

If it be well to live; but better ’t were 

Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death 

Might have prevented many. Eros, ho! 

The shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me, 

Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage: 

Let me lodge Lichas on the horns 0’ the moon; 

And with thosehands, that grasp’d the heaviestclub, 

Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die: 

To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall 

Under this plot; she dies for’t. Eros, ho! [Hait. 


SCENE XIII.— Alexandria. Cleopatra’s } palace. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian. 


Cleo. Help me, my women! O, he is more mad 
Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly 
Was never so emboss’d. 

Char. To the monument ! 
There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead. 
The soul and body rive not more in parting 
Than greatness going off. 

Cleo. To the monument; 
Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself: 

Say, that the last I spoke was ‘Antony,’ 

And word it, prithee, piteously: hence, Mardian, 

And bring me how he takes my death. To the 
monument ! [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE XIV.— The same. 


Enter Antony and Eros. 


Ant. Eros, thou yet behold’st me ? 
Evos. Ay, noble lor& 
Ant. Sometime we see a cloud that ’s dragonish ; 
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, 
A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock, 
A forked mountain, or blue promontory 
With trees upon ’t, that nod unto the world, 
And mock our eyes with air; thou hast seen these 


Another room. 


They are black vesper’s pageants. [signs ; 
Eros. Ay, my lord. 
Ant. That which is now a horse, even with a 

thought 


The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct, 
As water is in water. 

Eros. It does, my lord, 

Ant. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is 
Even such a body.: here Iam Antony; 
Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave. 
i made these wars for Egypt; and the queen,— 
Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine; 
Which whilst it was mine had annex’d unto ’t 
A million more, now lost,—she, Eros, has 
Pack’d cards with Cesar, and false-play’d my glory 
Unto an enemy’s triumph. 
Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us 
Ourselves to end ourselves. 


Enter Mardian. 
O, thy vile lady! 
She has robb’d me of my sword. 

Mar. No, Antony ; 
My mistress loved thee, and her fortunes mingled 
With thine entirely. 

Ant. Hence, saucy eunuch ; peace! 
She hath betray’d me and shall die the death. 

Mar. Death of one person can be paid but once, 
And that she has discharged : what thou wouldst do 
Is done unto thy hand; the last she spake 
Was ‘Antony! most noble Antony!’ 

Then in the midst a tearing groan did break 
The name of Antony; it was divided 


49 


Thy name so buried in her. 
Ant. Dead, then ? 

Mar. Dead. 
Ant. Unarm, Eros: the long day’s task is done, 
And we must sleep. [Zo Mar.] That thou depart’st 

hence safe, ; 
Does pay thy labour richly; go. [Exit Mardian. 
Off, pluck off: 
The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep 
The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides! 
Heart, once be stronger than thy continent, 
Crack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace. 
No more a soldier: bruised pieces, go; 
You have been nobly borne. From me awhile. 


[Hxit Hros. 
I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and 
Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now 
All length is torture: since the torch is out, 
Lie down, and stray no farther: now all labour 
Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles 
Itself with strength: seal then, and all is done. 
Eros! —I come, my queen :— Eros! —Stay for me: 
Where souls do couch on flowers, we ’Il hand in hand, 
And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze: 
Dido and her Atneas shall want troops, 
And all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros, Eros! 


Re-enter Eros. 


Eros. What would my lord ? 

Ant. Since Cleopatra died, 
I have lived in such dishonour, that the gods 
Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword 
Quarter’d the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back 
With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack 
The courage of a woman; less noble mind 
Than she which by her death our Cesar tells 

I am conqueror of myself.’ Thou art sworn, Eros, 
That, when the exigent should come, which now 
Is come indeed, when I should see behind me 
The inevitable prosecution of 
Disgrace and horror, that, on my command, 

Thou then wouldst kill me: do’t; the time is come: 
Thou strikest not me, ’t is Cesar thou defeat’st. 
Put colour in thy cheek. 

Eros. The gods withhold me! 
Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, 
Though enemy, lost aim, and could not ? i 

ros, 


nt. 
W ouldst thou be window’d in great Rome and see 


Thy master thus with pleach’d arms, bending down 
His corrigible neck, his face subdued 
To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel’d seat 
Of fortunate Cesar, drawn before him, branded 
His baseness that ensued ? 
Eros. I would not see ’t. 
Ant. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cured. 
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn 
Most useful for thy country. 
Eros. O, sir, pardon me! 
Ant. When I did make thee free, sworest thou 
not then 
To do this wien I bade thee? Do it at once; 
Or thy precedent services are all 
But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come. 
Eros. Turn from me, then, that noble countenance, 
Wherein the worship of the whole world lies. 
Ant. Lo thee! [Turning from him. 
Eros. My sword is drawn. 
Ant. Then let it do at once 
The thing why thou hast drawn it. 
Eros. My dear master, 
My captain, and my emperor, let me say, 
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell. 
Ant. "Tis said, man; and farewell. 
Eros. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now ? 
Ant. Now, Eros. 


769 


ACTIN: 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE XYV. 


Eros. Why, there then: thus I doescape the sorrow | All strange and terrible events are welcome, 


Of Antony’s death. 
Ant. Thrice-nobler than myself! 
Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what 
T should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros 
Have by their brave instruction got upon me 
A nobleness in record: but I will be 
A bridegroom in my death, and run into ’t 
As to a lover’s bed. Come, then; and, Eros, 
Thy master dies thy scholar: to do thus 
[Falling on his sword. 
How! not dead ? not dead ? 
O, dispatch me! 


I learn’d of thee. 
The guard, ho! 


Enter Dercetas and Guard. 


First Guard. What ’s the noise ? 

Ant. I have done my work ill, friends: O, make 
Of what I have begun. [an end 

Sec. Guard. The star is fall’n. 

First Guard. And time is at his period. 

All. Alas, and woe! 

Ant. Let him that loves me strike me dead. 

First Guard. Not I. 

Sec. Guard. Nor I. 

Third Guard. Nor any one. [Hxeunt Guard. 

Der. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly. 
This sword but shown to Cesar, with this tidings, 
Shall enter me with him. 


Enter Diomedes. 


Dio. Where ’s Antony ? 

Der. There, Diomed there. 
Dio. Lives he? 

Wilt thou not answer, man ? [Hxit Dercetas. 
Ant. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword, 

and give me 

Sufficing strokes for death. 

Dio. Most absolute lord, 

My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee. 

Ant. When did she send thee ? 

Dio. Now, my lord. 

Ant. Where is she? 

Dio. Lock’d in her monument. She had a proph- 
esying fear 

Of what hath come to pass: for when she saw — 

Which never shall be found—you did suspect 

She had disposed with Cesar, and that your rage 

Would not be purged,she sent you word she was dead; 

But, fearing since how it might work, hath sent 

Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come, 

I dread, too late. [prithee. 
Ant. Too late, good Diomed: call my guard, I 
Dio. What, ho, the emperor’s guard! The guard, 

Come, your lord calls! [what, ho! 


Enter four or jive of the Guard of Antony. 


Ant. Bear me, good friends,where Cleopatra bides; 
*T is the last service that I shall command you. 
First Guard. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not 
live to wear 
All your true followers out. 
All. Most heavy day! 
Ant. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate 
To grace it with your sorrows: bid that weleome 
Which comes to punish us, and we punish it 
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up: 
I have led you oft: carry me now, good friends, 
And have my thanks for all. 


[Haeunt, bearing Antony. 
SCENE XV.— The same. 


Enter Cleopatra, and her maids aloft, with Char- 
mian and Iras. 
Cleo. O Charmian, I will never go from hence. 
Char. Be comforted, dear madam. 
Cleo. No, I will not: 


A monument. 


770 


Kills himself. | But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow, 


Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great 
As that which makes it. 


Enter, below, Diomedes. 


How now! is he dead ? 
Dio. His death ’s upon him, but not dead. 
Look out 0’ the other side your monument; 
His guard have brought him thither. 


Enter, below, Antony, borne by the Guard 


Cleo. O sun, 
Burn the great spherethou movest in! darkling stand 
The varying shore 0’ the world. O Antony, 
Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Ivas, help: 
Help, friends below; let ’s draw him hither. 

Ant. Peace ! 
Not Cesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony, 

But Antony’s hath triumphed on itself. 

Cleo. So it should be, that none but Antony 
Should conquer Antony; but woe ’tis sol 

Ant. Iam dying, Egypt, dying; only 
T here importune death awhile, until 
Of many thousand kisses the poor last 
I lay upon thy lips. 

Cleo. I dare not, dear,— 

Dear my lord, pardon,—I dare not, 

Lest I be taken: not the imperious show 

Of the full-fortuned Cesar ever shall 

Be brooch’d with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have 
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe: 

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes 

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour 
Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,— 
Help me, my women,— we must draw thee up: 
Assist, good friends. 

Ant. O, quick, or I am gone. 

Cleo. Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs 
Our strength is all gone into heaviness, [my lord! 
That makes the weight: had I great Juno’s power, 
The strong-wing’d Mercury should fetch thee up, 
And set, thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little, 
Wishers were ever fools,— O, come, come, come ; 

[ They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra. 


| And welcome, welcome! die where thou hast lived: 


Quicken with kissing: had my lips that power, 

Thus would I wear them out. 
All. A heavy sight! 
Ant. Tam dying, Egypt, dying: 

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little. 

Cleo. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high, 
That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel. 
Provoked by my offence. 

Ant. One word, sweet queen: 
Of Ceesar seek your honour, with your safety. O! 

Cleo. They do not go together. 

Ant. Gentle, hear me: 
None about Cesar trust but Proculeius. 

Cleo. My resolution and my hands I ’ll trust; 
None about Ceesar. 

Ant. The miserable change now at my end 
Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts 
In feeding them with those my former fortunes 
Wherein [ lived, the greatest prince o’ the world, 
The noblest; and do now not basely die, 

Not cowardly put off my helmet to 

My countryman,—a Roman by a Roman 
Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going; 
I can no more. 

Cleo. Noblest of men, woo ’t die ? 
Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide 
In this dull world, which in thy absence is 
No better than a sty? O, see, my women, 

[Antony dies 
The crown 0’ the earth doth melt. My lord! 
O, wither’d is the garland of the war, 


AGT V. 


The soldier’s pole is fall’n: young boys and girls 
Are level now with men; the odds is gone, 
And there is nothing left remarkable 


Beneath the visiting moon. [Faints. 


Char. O, quietness, lady ! 

Iras, She is dead too, our sovereign. 

Char. Lady! 

Tras. Madam! 

Char. O madam, madam, madam! 

Tras. Royal Egypt, 
Empress! 

Char. Peace, peace, Tras! [manded 


Cleo. No more, but e’en a woman, and com- 
By such poor passion as the maid that milks 
And does the meanest chares. It were for me 
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods; 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPALT INA: 


To tell them that this world did equal theirs 
Till they had stol’n our jewel. All’s but naught; 
Patience is sottish, and impatience does 
Become a dog that’s mad: then is it sin 
To rush into the secret house of death, 
Ere death dare come tous? Howdo you, women ? 
What, what! pced cheer! Why, how now, Char- 
My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look, imian! 
Our lamp is spent, it’sout! Good sirs, take heart : 
We’ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what’s 
Let ’s do it after the high Roman fashion, [noble, 
And make death proud to take us. Come, away: 
This case of that Bee Spirit now is cold: 
Ah, women, women! come; we have no friend 
But resolution, and the briefest end. 

[ Hxeunt ; those above bearing off Antony’s body. 


SCENE II. 


NOT Vv. 


SCENE I.— Alexandria. 


Enter Cesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Meczenas, Gallus, 
Proculeius, and others, his council of war. 


Ces. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield; 
Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks 


The pauses that he makes. 
Dol. Ceesar, I shall. [Hvit. 


Enter Dercetas, with the sword of Antony. 


Ocs. Wherefore is that ? and what art thou that 
Appear thus to us ? [darest 
Der. IT am call’d Dercetas ; 
Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy 
Best to be served : whilst he stood up and spoke, 
He was my master; and I wore my life 
To spend upon his haters. If thou please 
To take me to thee, as I was to him 
I ll be to Cesar; if thou pleasest not, 


I yield thee up my life. 
Coes What is ’t thou say’st ? 
Derk I say, O Cesar, Antony is dead. 
Coes. The breaking of so great a thing should make 
A greater crack: the round world 
Should have shook lions into civil streets, 
And citizens to their dens: the death of Antony 
Is not a single doom; in the name lay 
A moiety of the world. 
Der. He is dead, Ceesar ; 
Not by a public minister of justice, 
Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand, 
Which writ his honour in the acts it did, 
Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it, 
Splitted the heart. This is his sword; 
I robb’d his wound of it; behold it stain’d 
With his most noble blood. 
Cees. Look you sad, friends ? 
The eods rebuke me, but it is tidings 
To wash the eyes of kings. 
Agr. And strange it is, 
That nature must compel us to lament 
Our most persisted deeds. 


Ceesar’s camp. 


ec. His taints and honours 
Waged equal with him. 
Agr. A rarer spirit never 
Did steer humanity: but you, gods, will give us 
Some faults to make us men. ‘Caesar is touch’d. 
Mec. When such a spacious mirror’s set before 
He oe must see himself. [him, 
O Antony! 
I iid follow’d thee to this; but we do lance 
Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce 
Have shown to thee such a declining day, 
Or look on thine; we could not stall together 
In the whole world: but yet let me lament, 


With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts, 
That thou, my brother, my competitor 

In top of all design, my mate in empire, 

Friend and companion in the front of war, 

The arm of mine own body, and the heart 

Where mine his thoughts did kindle ,—that our stars, 
Unreconciliable, should divide 

Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends,— 
But I will tell you at some meeter season: 


Enter an Egyptian. 


The business of this man looks out of him; 
We'll hear him what he says. Whence are you? 
Egyp. A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mis- 
Confined in all she has, her monument, [tress, 
Of thy intents desires instruction, 
That she preparedly may frame herself 
To the way she’s forced to. 
Nees. Bid her have good heart! 
She soon shall know of us, by some of ours, 
How honourable and how ‘kindly we 
Determine for her; for Cesar cannot live 
To be ungentle. 
Egyp. So the gods preserve thee! [Hzit. 
Coes. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say, 
We purpose her no shame: give her what comforts 
The quality of her passion shall require, 
Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke 
She do defeat us; for her life in pre 
Would be eternal in our tr iumph: 
And with your speediest bring us wit she says, 
aes pee you find of her. 
Ceesar, I shall. [ Hott. 


OS Gallus, go you along. [ Exit Gallus.| Where ’s 
To second Proculeius ? [Dolabella, 
Bl Dolabella ! 


Ocs. Let him alone, for I remember now 
How he’s employ’d: he shall in time be ready. 
Go with me to my tent; where you shall see 
How hardly I was drawn into this war; : 
How calm and gentle I proceeded still 
In all my writings : go with me, and see 
What I can show in this. [ Hxeunt 


SCENE II.— Alexandria. A room in the monument. 


Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, and Iras. 


Cleo. My desolation does begin to make 
A better life. °T'is paltry to be Cesar; 
Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’ 8 knave, 
‘A minister of her will: and it is great 
To do that thing that ends all other deeds ; 
Which shackles accidents and bolts up change; 
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dug, 
The beggar’s nurse and Ceesar’s. 


7H ORR 


ACT V. 


Enter, to the gates of the monument, Proculeius, 
Gallus, and Soldiers. 


Pro. Cesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt; 
And bids thee study on what fair demands 
Thou mean’st to have him grant thee. 

Cleo. What’s thy name ? 

Pro. My name is Proculeius. 

e0. Antony 
Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but 
I do not greatly care to be deceived, 

That have no use for trusting. If your master 
Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him, 
That majesty, to keep decorum, must 

No less beg than a kingdom: if he please 

To give me conquer’d Egypt for my son, 

He gives me so much of mine own, as I 

Will kneel to him with thanks. 

TO. Be of good cheer ; 
You ’re fall’n into a princely hand, fear nothing: 
Make your full reference freely to my lord, 

Who is so full of grace, that it flows over 

On all that need: let me report to him 

Your sweet dependency; and you shall find 

A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness, 
Where he for grace is kneel’d to. 

Cleo. Pray you, tell him 
I am his fortune’s vassal, and I send him 
The greatness he has got. I hourly learn 
A doctrine of obedience; and would gladly 
Look him i’ the face. 

Pro. This Ill report, dear lady. 
Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied 
Of him that caused it. 

Gal. You see how easily she may be surprised : 

[Here Proculeius and two of the Guard ascend 
the monument by a ladder placed against a 
window, and, having descended, come behind 
Cleopatra. Some of the Guard unbar and 
open the gates. 

[Zo Proculeius and the Guard] Guard her till 

Ceesar come. [ Heit. 

Ivras. Royal queen! 

Char. O Cleopatra! thou art taken, queen. 

Cleo. Quick, quick, good hands. 

[Drawing a dagger. 

Pro. Hold, worthy lady, hold: 

[Seizes and disarms her. 
Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this 
Relieved, but not betray’d. 

Cleo. What, of death too, 
That rids our dogs of languish ? 

ro. Cleopatra, 
Do not abuse my master’s bounty by 
The undoing of yourself: let the world see 
His nobleness well acted, which your death 
Will never let come forth. 

Cleo. Where art thou, death ? 
Come hither, come! come, come, and take a queen 
Worth many babes and beggars ! 

Pro. O, temperance, lady! 

Cleo. Sir, I will eat no meat, Ill not drink, sir: 
If idle talk will once be necessary, 

Ill not sleep neither: this mortal house I ’ll ruin, 
Do Cesar what he can. Know, sir, that I 

Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court; 
Nor once be chastised with the sober eye 

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up 

And show me to the shouting varletry 

Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt 
Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus’ mud 
Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies 
Blow me into abhorring! rather make 

My country’s high pyramides my gibbet, 

And hang me up in chains! 

Pro. You do extend 
These thoughts of horror further than you shall 
Find cause in Cesar. 


772 


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 


SCENE If: 


Enter Dolabella. 


Dol. Proculeius, 
What thou hast done thy master Ceesar knows, 
And he hath sent for thee: for the queen, 

I’ll take her to my guard. 
So, Dolabella, 


ro. 
It shall content me best: be gentle to her. [please 
[Zo Cleo.] To Cesar I will speak what you shall 
If you ’ll employ me to him. 
Cleo. Say, I would die. 
[Hxeunt Proculeius and Soldiers. 
Dol. Most noble empress, you have heard of me ? 
leo. I cannot tell. 
Dol. Assuredly you know me. 
Cleo. No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. 
You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams; 
Is ’t not your trick ? 
Dol. I understand not, madam. 
Cleo. I dream’d there was an Emperor Antony: 
O, such another sleep, that I might see 
But such another man! 
Dol. If it might please ye,— 
Cleo. His face was as the heavens; andtherein stuck 
A sun and moon, which kept their course, and 
The little O, the earth. [lighted 
Dol. Most sovereign creature,— 
Cleo. His legs bestrid the ocean: his rear’d arm 
Crested the world: his voice was propertied 
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; 
But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, 
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, 
There was no winter in ’t; an autumn ’t was 
That grew the more by reaping: his delights 
Were dolphin-like; they show’d his back above 
The element they lived in: in his livery [were 
Walk’d crowns and crownets; realms and islands 
As plates dropp’d from his pocket. 
Dol. Cleopatra ! 
Cleo. Think you there was, or might be, such aman 
As this I dream’d of ? 
Dol. Gentle madam, no. 
Cleo. You lie, up to the hearing of the gods. 
But, if there be, or ever were, one such, 
It ’s past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff 
To vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to imagine 
An Antony, were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy, 
Condemning shadows quite. 
Dol. Hear me, good madam. 
Your loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it 
As answering to the weight: would I might never 
O’ertake pursued success, but I do feel, 
By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites 
My very heart at root. 
Cleo. I thank you, sir. 
Know you what Cesar means to do with me? 
Dol. Iam loath to tell you what I would you knew. 
Cleo. Nay, pray you, sir,— 
Dol. Though he be honourable,— 
Cleo. He’ll lead me, then, in triumph ? 
Dol. Madam, he will; I know’t. [Ceesar!” 
[Flourish and shout within, ‘Make way there: 


Enter Ceesar, Gallus, Proculeius, Mecznas, 
Seleucus, and others of his Train. 
Ces. Which is the Queen of Egypt ? 
Dol. It isthe emperor, madam. [Cleopatra kneels. 
Ces. Arise, you shall not kneel: 
I ay you, rise; rise, Egypt. 
€0. 


Sir, the gods 
Will have it thus; my master and my lord 
I must obey. 
Ces. Take to you no hard thoughts: 


The record of what injuries you did us, 
Though written in our flesh, we shall remember 
As things but done by chance. 


Cleo. Sole sir o’ the world. 


| I cannot project mine own cause so well 


ACT Ve. 


ANTONY AND 


To make it clear; but do-confess I have 
Been laden with like frailties which before 
Have often shamed our sex. 

Oes. Cleopatra, know, 

We will extenuate rather than enforce: 

If you apply yourself to our intents, 

Which towards you are most gentle, you shall find 

A benefit in this change ; but if you seek 

To lay on me a cruelty, by taking 

Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself 

Of my good purposes, and put your children 

To that destruction which I ’l guard them from, 

If thereon yourely. I’ll take my leave. [and we, 
Cleo. And may, through all the world: ’t is yours; 

Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall 

Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord. 
Coes. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra. 
Cleo. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels, 

I am possess’d of: ’tis exactly valued; 

Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus ? 
Sel. Here, madam. [lord, 
Cleo. This is my treasurer: let him speak, my 

Upon his peril, that I have reserved 

To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus. 
Sel. Madam, 

I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril, 

Speak that which is not. 

Cleo. What have I kept back ? 

Sel. Enough to purchase what you have made 

known. 

Ces. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve 
Your wisdom in the deed. 

Cleo. See, Ceesar! O, behold, 
How pomp is follow’d! mine will now be yours; 
And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine. 
The ingratitude of this Seleucus does 
Even make me wild: O slave, of no more trust 
Than love that’s hired! What, goest thou back ? 

thou shalt 

Go back, I warrant thee; but I ’ll catch thine eyes 

Though they had wings: slave, soulless villain, dog 

O rarely base! 

Cees. Good queen, let us entreat you. 

Cleo. O Cesar, what a wounding shame is this, 
That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me, 

Doing the honour of thy lordliness 

To one so meek, that mine own servant should 

Parcel the sum of my disgraces by 

Addition of his envy! Say, good Cesar, 

That I some lady trifles have reserved, 

Immoment toys, things of such dignity 

As we greet modern friends withal; and say, 

Some nobler token I have kept apart 

For Livia and Octavia, to induce 

Their mediation; must I be unfolded [me 

With one that I have bred? The gods! it smites 

Beneath the fall I have. [To Selewcus] Prithee, go 

Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits _[hence; 

Through the ashes of my chance: wert thou aman, 

Thou wouldst have mercy on me. 

Ces. Forbear, Seleucus. 

| Hat Seleucus. 

Cleo. Be it known, that we, the greatest, are 

misthought 

For things that others do; and, when we fall, 

We answer others’ merits in our name, 

Are therefore to be pitied. 

Ces. Cleopatra, [edged, 
Not what you have reserved, nor what acknowl- 
Put we i’ the roll of conquest: still be ’t yours, 
Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe, 

Ceesar ’s no merchant, to make prize with you 

Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer’d; 

Make not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear 

For we intend so to dispose you as [queen ; 

Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep: 

Our care and pity is so much upon you, 

That we remain your friend; and so, adieu. 


CLEOPATRA. SCENE II. 
Cleo. My master, and my lord! 
Ces. Not so. Adieu. 


[Flourish. Exeunt Cesar and his train. 
Cleo. He words me, girls, he words me, that I 
should not 
Be noble to myself: but, hark thee, Charmian. 
oy Whispers Charmian. 
Jvas. Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, 
And we are for the dark. 
Cleo. Hie thee again: 
I have spoke already, and it is provided ; 
Go put it to the haste. 


Char. Madam, I will. 


Re-enter Dolabella. 


Dol. Where is the queen ? 
Char. Behold, sir.  [vit. 
Cleo. Dolabella! 
Dol. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command, 
Which my love makes religion to obey, 
I tell you this: Cesar through Syria 
Intends his journey; and within three days 
You with your children will he send before: 
Make your best use of this: I have perform’d 
Your pleasure and my promise. 
Cleo. Dolabella, 
I shall remain your debtor. 
Dol. I your servant. 
Adieu, good queen; I must attend on Cesar. 
Cleo. Farewell, and thanks. [Exit Dolabella. 
Now, Iras, what think’st thou? 
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown 
In Rome, as well as I: mechanic slaves 
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall 
Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths, 
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, 
And forced to drink their vapour. 
Tras. The gods forbid! 
Cleo. Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors 
Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers 
Ballad us out o’ tune: the quick comedians, 
Extemporally will stage us, and present 
Our Alexandrian revels; Anton 
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see 
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness 
I’ the posture of a whore. 
Tras. O the good gods! 
Cleo. Nay, that’s certain. 
Tras. Ill never see ’t; for, I am sure, my nails 
Are stronger than mine eyes. 
Cleo. Why, that’s the way 
To fool their preparation, and to conquer 
Their most absurd intents. 


Re-enter Charmian. 


Now, Charmian! 
Show me, my women, like a queen: go fetch 
My best attires: I am again for Cydnus, 
To meet Mark Antony: sirrah Iras, go. 
Now, noble Charmian, we’ll dispatch indeed; [leave 
And, when thou hast done this chare, I Il give thee 
To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all. 
Wherefore ’s this noise ? [Hxzt Iras. A noise within. 


Enter a Guardsman. 


Guard. Here is a rural fellow 
That will not be denied your highness’ presence: 
He brings you figs. 

Cleo. Let him come in. [Hxit Guardsman. 
What poor an instrument 
May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty. 

My resolution’s placed, and I have nothing 
Of woman in me: now from head to foot 

T am marble-constant ; now the fleeting moon 
No planet is of mine. 


Re-enter Guardsman, with Clown bringing in a basket. 
Guard. This is the man. 
773 


BOD Ve 


Cleo. Avoid,and leave him.  [EKzxit Guardsman. 
Hast thou the ‘pretty worm of Nilus there, 

That kills and pains not ? 

Clown. Truly, I have him: but I would not be 
the party that should desire you to touch him, for 
his biting is immortal; those that do die of it do 
seldom or never recover. 

Cleo. Rememberest thou any that have died on ’t ? 

Clown. Very many, men and women too. I heard 
of one of them no longer than yesterday: a very 
honest woman, but something given to lie; as a 
woman should not do, but in the way of honesty: 
how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt: 
truly, she makes a very good report o’ the worm; 
but he that will believe all that they say, shall never 
be saved by half that they do: but this is most fal- 
lible, the worm’s an odd worm. 

Cleo. Get thee hence; farewell. 

Clown. I wish you all j joy of the worm. 

[Setting down his basket. 

Cleo. Farewell. 

Clown. You must think this, look you, that the 
worm will do his kind. 

Cleo. Ay, ay; farewell. 

Clown. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted 
but in the keeping of wise people; for, indeed, there 
is no goodness in the worm. 

Cleo. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded. 

Clown. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, 
_for it is not worth the feeding. 

Cleo. Will it eat me? 

Clown. You must not think I am so simple but I 
know the devil himself will not eat a woman: I 
know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the 
devildress her not. But, truly, these same whoreson 
devils do the gods great ‘harm in their women; for 
in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. 

Cleo. Well, get thee gone; farewell. 

Clown. Yes, forsooth: I wish you joy o’ the worm. 

1) 
Re-enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c. ey 

Cleo. Give me my robe, put on my crown; -I have 
Immortal longings in me: now no more 
The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip: 
Yare, yare, good [ras; quick. Methinks I hear 
Antony call ; I see him rouse himself 
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock 
The luck of Cesar, which the gods give men 
To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come: 
Now to that name my courage prove my title! 

{ am fire and air; my other elements 
I give to baser life. So; have you done ? 
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. 
Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell. 
[ Kisses them. Tras falls and dies. 
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? 
If thou and nature can so gently part, 
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, 
Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still ? 
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world 
Lt is not worth leave-taking. [say, 

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that 1 may 
The gods themselves do weep! 

Cleo. This proves me base: 
If she first meet the curled Antony, 

He ’Il1 make demand of her, and spend that kiss 
Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal 
wretch, 

[Zo an asp, which she applies to her breast. 
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate 
Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool, 
Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou ‘speak, 
That I might hear thee call ‘great Ceesar ass 
Unpolicied ! ! 

Char. 

Cleo. Peace, peace! 
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? 


774 


O eastern star! 


ANTONY AND 


CLEOPATRA. 


Char. O, break! O, break! 
Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,— 
O Antony !— Nay, I will take thee too: 
[Applying another asp to her arm. 
What should I stay,— [ Dies. 
Char. In this vile world ? So, fare thee well. 
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies 
A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close; 
And golden Phebus never be beheld 
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry; 
I’ mend it, and then play. 


SCENE II. 


Enter the Guard, rushing in. 


First Guard. Where is the queen ? 
Char. Speak softly, wake her not. 
First Guard. Cesar hath sent— 
Char. Too slow a messenger. 
[Applies an asp. 
O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee. 
First Guard. Approach, ho! All’s not well: 
Ceesar ’s beguiled. [call him. 
Sec. Guard. There’s Dolabella sent from Cesar ; 
First Guard. What work is here! Charmian, 
is this well done? 
Char. It is well done, and fitting for a princess 
Descended of so many royal kings. 


Ah, soldier! Dies. 
at dens Re-enter Dolabella. aoe 
Dol. How goes it here ? 
Sec. Guard. All dead. 
Do Cesar, thy thoughts 


Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming 
To see perform’d the dreaded act which thou 
So sought’st to hinder. 
[ Within ‘ A way there, a way for Cesar!’ 


Re-enter Ceesar and all his train, marching. 


Dol. O sir, you are too sure an augurer; 

ue on} did fear is done. 
Bravest at the last, 
She aevell’d at our purposes, and, being royal, 
Took her own way. The manner of their deaths ? 
I do Bey see them bleed. 
Who was last with them ? 

First Guard. A simple countryman, that brought 

eae ns his basket. [her figs: 


Poison’d, then. 

First Guard. O Cesar, 
This Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake: 
I found her trimming up the diadem 
On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood 
Res ae the sudden dropp’d. 

O noble weakness! 
Tf they had swallow’d poison, ’t would appear 
By external swelling; but she looks like sleep, 
‘As she would catch another Antony 
In her strong toil of grace. 

Dol. Here, on her breast, 
There is a vent of blood and something blown: 
The like is on her arm. 

First Guard. This is an aspic’s trail: and these 

fig-leaves 
Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves 
an the caves of Nile. 
Most probable 
That: so she died; for her physician tells me 
She hath pursued conclusions infinite 
Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed; 
And bear her women from the monument : 
She shall be buried by her Antony: 
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it 
A pair so famous. High events as these 
Strike those that make them; and their story is 
No less in pity than his elory which 
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall 
In solemn show attend this funeral ; 
And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see 


High order in this great solemnity. [ Exeunt, 


CYMBELINE. 


DRAMATIS PERSON. 


Cymbeline, King of Britain. 
Cloten, son to the Queen by a former husband. 
Posthumus Leonatus, a gentleman, husband to 
Imogen. 
Belarius, a banished lord, disguised under the 
name of Morgan. 
sons to Cymbeline, disguised under 
the names of Polydore and Cadwal, 
Philario, friend to Posthumus, 


supposed sons to Morgan. 
Iachimo, friend to Philario, ! Italians. 
Caius Lucius, general of the Roman forces. 
Pisanio, servant to Posthumus. 


Cornelius, a physician. 
A Roman Captain. 


Guiderius, 
Arviragus, 


Two British Captains. 

A Frenchman, friend to Philario. 

Two Lords of Cymbeline’s Court. 

Two Gentlemen of the same. 

Two Gaolers. 

Queen, wife to Cymbeline. 

Imogen, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen. 
Helen, a lady attending on Imogen. 


Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Soothsayer, 
A Dutchman, a Spaniard, Musicians, Officers, Cap- 
tains, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants, 


Apparitions. 
| SCENE — Britain; Rome. 


[For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page Lxvil.] 


AC'T' I. 


SCENE I.— Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s 


palace. 
Enter Two Gentlemen. 


First Gent. You do not meet a man but frowns: 
our bloods 
No more obey the heavens than our courtiers 
Still seem as does the king. 
Sec. Gent. But what ’s the matter ? 
First Gent. His daughter, and the heir of ’s king- 
dom, whom 
He purposed to his wife’s sole son—a widow 
That late he married —hath referr’d herself 
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman: she’s wedded; 
Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d: all 
Is outward sorrow; though I think the king 
Be touch’d at very heart. 
Sec. Gent. None but the king ? 
First Gent. He that hath lost her too: so is the 


ueen, 
That most desired the match; but not a courtier, 
Although they wear their faces to the bent 
Of the king’s looks, hath a heart that is not 
Glad at the thing they scowl at. 
Sec. Gent. And why so? [thing 
First Gent. He that hath miss’d the princess is a 
Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her— 
I mean, that married her, alack, good man! 
And therefore banish’d—is a creature such 
As, to seek through the regions of the earth 
For one his like, there would be something failing 
In him that should compare. I do not think 
So fair an outward and such stuff within 
Endows a man but he. 
Sec. Gent. You speak him far. 
First Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself, 
Crush him together rather than unfold 
His measure duly. 
Sec. Gent. What ’s his name and birth ? 
Bs oe I cannot delve him to the root: his 
ather 


Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour 
Against the Romans with Cassibelan, 
But had his titles by Tenantius whom 
He served with glory and admired success, 
So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus ; 
And had, besides this gentleman in question, 
Two other sons, who in the wars 0’ the time 
Died with their swords in hand; for which their 
father, 
Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow 
That he quit being, and his gentle lady, 
Big of this gentleman our theme, deceased 
As he was born. The king he takes the babe 
To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, 
Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, 
Puts to him all the learnings that his time 
Could make him the receiver of; which he took, 
As we do air, fast as ’t was minister’d, 
And in’s spring became a harvest, lived in court — 
Which rare it is to do—most praised, most loved, 
A sample to the youngest, to the more mature 
A glass that feated them, and to the graver 
A child that guided dotards; to his mistress, 
For whom he now is banish’d, her own price 
Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue; 
By her election may be truly read 
What kind of man he is. 
Sec. Gent. T honour him 
Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, 
‘Is she sole child to the king ? 
First Gent. His only child. 
He had two sons: if this be worth your hearing, 
Mark it: the eldest of them at three years old, 
I’ the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery 
Were stol’n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge 
Which way they went. 
Sec. Gent. How long is this ago ?: 
First Gent. Some twenty years. [convey’d, 
Sec. Gent. That a king’s children should be so 
‘So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, 
That could not trace them! 


775 


ACT I. 


First Gent. Howsoe’er ’t is strange, 
Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, 
Yet is it true, sir. 

Sec. Gent. I do well believe you. 

First Gent. We must forbear: here comes the 

gentleman, 


The queen, and princess. [ Hxeunt. 


Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen. 


Queen. No, be assured you shall not find me, 
After the slander of most stepmothers, [daughter, 
Evil-eyed unto you: you ’re my prisoner, but 
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys 
That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, 
So soon as I can win the offended king, 

I will be known your advocate: marry, yet 

The fire of rage is in him, and ’t were good 

You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience 
Your wisdom may inform you. 


Post. Please your highness, 
I will from hence to-day. 
Queen. You know the peril. 


Ill fetch a turn about the garden, pitying 

The pangs of barr’d affections, though the king 

eae charged you should not speak together. ori 
mo 


Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant 
Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, 
I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing— 
Always reserved my holy duty — what 
His rage can do on me: you must be gone; 
And I shall here abide the hourly shot 
Of angry eyes, not comforted to live, 
But that there is this jewel in the world 
That I may see again. 
Post. My queen! my mistress! 
O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause 
To be suspected of more tenderness 
Than doth become aman. _ I will remain 
The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth: 
My residence in Rome at one Philario’s, 
Who to my father was a friend, to me 
Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, 
And with mine eyes I ll drink the words you send, 
Though ink be made of gall. 


Re-enter Queen. 


Queen. Be brief, I pray you: 
If the king come, I shall incur I know not 
How eyes: of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I’ll move 
rim 
To walk this way: I never do him wrong, 
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends ; 
Pays dear for my offences. (Exit. 
Post. Should we be taking leave 
As long a term as yet we have to live, 
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! 
Imo. Nay, stay a little: 
Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love; 
This diamond was my mother’s: take it, heart ; 
But keep it till you woo another wife, 
When Imogen is dead. . 
Post. How, how! another ? 
You gentle gods, give me but this I have, 
And sear up my embracements from a next 
With bonds of death! [Putting on the ring.] Remain, 
remain thou here 
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, 
As I my poor self did exchange for you, 
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 
I still win of you: for my sake wear this; 
It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it 
Upon this fairest prisoner. 
[Putting a bracelet upon her arm. 
Imo. the gods! 
When shall we see again ? 


776 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE I, 


Enter Cymbeline and Lords. 


Post. Alack, the king! 
Cym. oe basest thing, avoid! hence, from my 
sight ! 
If after this command thou fraught the court 
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: away! 
Thou ’rt poison to my blood. 


Post. The gods protect you! 
And bless the good remainders of the court! 
I am gone. [ Hatt. 


Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death 
More sharp than this is. 
Cym. O disloyal thing, 
That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st 
A year’s age on me. 
Imo. I beseech you, sir, 
Harm not yourself with your vexation: 
I am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
Subdues all pangs, all fears. 
Cym. - Past grace ? obedience ? 
Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past 
grace. [queen ! 
Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of my 
Imo. O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle, 
And did avoid a puttock. [my throne 
Cym. Thou took’st a beggar ; wouldst have made 


A seat for baseness. 
Imo. No; I rather added 
A lustre to it. 
Cym. O thou vile one! 
Imo. Sir, 
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus: 
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
A man worth any woman, overbuys me 


Almost the sum-he pays. 
What, art thou mad ? 


Cym. 
Imo. Almost, sir: heaven restore me! Would I 
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus __[were 


Our neighbour shepherd’s son ! 
Thou foolish thing! 


Cym. 
Re-enter Queen. 


They were again together: you have done 
Not after our command. Away with her, 
And pen her up. 
ween. Beseech your patience. Peace, 
Dear lady daughter, peace! Sweet ppb bies 
Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some 
Out of your best advice. [comfort 
Cym. Nay, let her languish 
A drop of blood a day; and, being mine 
Die of this folly! [Hxeunt Cymbeline and Lords. 
Queen. Fie! you must give way. 


Enter Pisanio. 


Here is your servant. Hownow, sir! What news? 
Pis. My lord your son drew on my master. 


Queen. Ha! 
No harm, I trust, is done? 
ais; There might have been, 


But that my master rather play’d than fought 
And had no help of anger: they were parted 
By gentlemen at hand. 

ween. I am very glad on ’t. 

mo. Your son’s my father’s friend ; he takes his 
To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! [part. 
I would they were in Afric both together ; 
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick 
The goer-back. Why came you from your master ? 

Pis. On his command: he would not suffer me 
To bring him to the haven; left these notes 
Of what commands I should be subject to, 
When ’t pleased you to employ me. 
This hath been 


Queen. 
Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour 
He will remain so. 


ACT I. 


ts: I humbly thank your highness. 
Queen. Pray, walk awhile. 
Imo. About some half-hour hence, 
{ pray you, speak with me: you shall at least 
Go see my lord aboard: for this time leave me. 
[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— The same. A public place. 


Enter Cloten and two Lords. 


First Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a 
shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek 
as a sacrifice: where air comes out, air comes in: 
there ’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. 

Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. 
Have I hurt him ? 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as 
his patience. 

First Lord. Hurt him! his body’s a passable car- 
cass, if he be not hurt: it isa throughfare for steel, 
if it be not hurt. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went 
0’ the backside the town. 

Clo. The villain would not stand me. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, 
toward your face. 

First Lord. Stand you! You have land enough 
of your own: but he added to your having; gave 
you some ground. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] As many inches as you have 
oceans. Puppies! 

Clo. I would they had not come between us. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] So would I, till you had meas- 
ured how long a fool you were upon the ground. 

Clo. And that she should love this fellow and re- 
fuse me! 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true 
election, she is damned. 

First Lord. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty 
and her brain go not together: she’s a good sign, 
but I have seen small reflection of her wit. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest 
the reflection should hurt her. 

Clo. Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there 
had been some hurt done! 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had 
been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. 

Clo. You’ll go with us ? 

First Lord. 1’ll attend your lordship. 

Clo. Nay, come, let’s go together. 

Sec. Lord. Well, my lord. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.—A room in Cymbeline’s palace. 


Enter Imogen and Pisanio. 


Imo. I would thou grew’st unto the shores 0’ the 
haven, 
And question’dst every sail: if he should write, 
And I not have it, ’t were a paper lost, 
As offer’d mercy is. What was the last 
That he spake to thee ? 
Pis. It was his queen, his queen! 
Imo. Then waved his handkerchief ? 
is. And kiss’d it, madam. 
Imo. Senseless linen! happier therein than I! 
And that was all? 
rs No, madam ; for so long 
As he could make me with this eye or ear 
Distinguish him from others, he did keep 
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, 
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of ’s mind 
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on, 
How swift his ship. 
Imo. Thou shouldst have made him 
As little as a crow, or less, ere left 


To atter-eye him. 
ige Madam, so I did. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE IV. 


Imo. I would have broke mine eye-strings ; crack’d 
To look upon him, till the diminution [them, but 
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle, 
Nay, follow’d him, till he had melted from 
The smallness of a gnat to air, and then 
Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, 
When shall we hear from him ? 

Pis. Be assured, madam, 
With his next vantage. 

Imo. I did not take my leave of him, but had 
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him 
How I would think on him at certain hours 
Such thoughts and such, or I could make him swear 
The shes of Italy should not betray 
Mine interest and his honour, or have charged him, 
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
To encounter me with orisons, for then 
I am in heaven for him; or ere I could 
Give him that parting kiss which I had set 
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father 
And like the tyrannous breathing of the north 
Shakes all our buds from growing. 


Enter a Lady. 


Lady. The queen, madam, 
Desires your highness’ company. [patch’d. 
Imo. Those things I bid you do, get them dis- 


I will attend the queen. 
Madam, I shall. [Hveunt. 


Pis. 
SCENE IV.—Rome. Philario’s house. 


Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, @ 
Dutchman, and a Spaniard. 


Tach. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain: 
he was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so 
worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of ; 
but I could then have looked on him without the help 
of admiration, though the catalogue of his endow- 
ments had been tabled by his side and I to peruse 
him by items. 

Phi. Youspeak of him when he was less furnished 
than now he is with that which makeshim both with- 
out and within. 

French. I have seen him in France: we had very 
many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes 
as he. 

Tach. This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, 
wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than 
his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from 
the matter. 

French. And then his banishment. 

Tach. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep 
this lamentable divorce under her colours are won- 
derfully to extend him ; be it but to fortify her judg- 
ment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for 
taking a beggar without less quality. But how comes 
it he is to sojourn with you ? Howcreeps acquaint- 
ance ? 

Phi. His father and I were soldiers together; to 
whom I have been often bound for no less than my 
life. Here comes the Briton: let him be so enter- 
tained amongst you as suits, with gentlemen of your 
knowing, to a stranger of his quality. 


Enter Posthumus. 


I beseech you all, be better known to this gentle- 
man; whom I commend to you as a noble friend of 
mine: how worthy he is I will leave to appear here- 
after, rather than story him in his own hearing. 

French. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. 

Post. Since when I have been debtor to you for 
Muse ti which I will be ever to pay and yet pay 
still. 

French. Sir, you o’er-rate my poor kindness: I 
was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it 
had been pity you should have been put together 


777 


ANOT: Te 


with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon 
importance of so slight and trivial a nature. 

Post. By your pardon, sir, I was then a young 
traveller; rather shunned to go even with what I 
heard than in my every action to be guided by 
others’ experiences: but upon my mended judg- 
ment—if I offend not to say it is mended—my 
quarrel was not altogether slight. 

French. ’Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement 
of swords, and by such two that would by all likeli- 
hood have confounded one the other, or have fallen 
both. 

Tach. Can we, with manners, ask what was the 
difference ? 

French. Safely, I think: ’t was a contention in 
public, which may, without contradiction, suffer 
the report. It was much like an argument that fell 
out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our 
country mistresses; this gentleman at that time 
vouching —and upon warrant of bloody affirma- 
tion —his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, 
constant-qualified and less attemptable than any 
the rarest of our ladies in France. 

Iach. That lady is not now living, or this gentle- 
man’s opinion by this worn out. 

Post. She holds her virtue still and I my mind. 

' Iach. You must not so far prefer her ’fore ours of 
taly. 

Post. Being so far provoked as I was in France, I 
would abate her nothing, though I profess myself 
her adorer, not her friend. 

Tach. As fair and as good—a kind of hand-in- 
hand comparison — had been something too fair and 
too good for any lady in Britain. Ifshe went before 
others I have seen, as that diamond of yours out- 
lustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe 
she excelled many: but I have not seen the most 
precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. 

Post. I praised her as I rated her: so do I my stone. 

Tach. What do you esteem it at ? 

Post. More than the world enjoys. 

Tach. Hither your unparagoned mistress is dead, 
or she’s outprized by a trifle. 

Post. You are mistaken: the one may be sold, or 
given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase, 
or merit for the gift : the other is not a thing for sale, 
and only the gift of the gods. 

Tach. Which the gods have given you? 

Post. Which, by their graces, I will keep. 

Tach. You may wear her in title yours: but, you 
know, strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. 
Your ring may be stolen too: so your brace of un- 
prizable estimations; the one is but frail and the 
other casual; a cunning thief, or a that way ac- 
complished courtier, would hazard the winning 
both of first and last. 

Post. Your Italy contains none so accomplished 
a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, 
if, in the holding or loss of that, you term her frail. 
I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; not- 
withstanding, I fear not my ring. 

Phi. Let us leave here, gentlemen. 

Post. Sir, with allmy heart. This worthy signior, 
I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are fa- 
miliar at first. 

ach. With five times so much conversation, I 
should get ground of your fair mistress, make her 
go back, even to the yielding, had I admittance 
and opportunity to friend. 

Post: No, no. 


Jach. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my | 


estate to your ring; which, in my opinion, o’er- 
values it something: but I make my wager rather 
against your confidence than her reputation: and, 
to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it 
against any lady in the world. 

Post. You are a great deal abused in too bold a 


778 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE V. 


persuasion; and I doubt not you sustain what 
you ’re worthy of by your attempt. 

Tach. What’s that ? 

Post. A repulse: though your attempt, as you 
call it, deserve more; a punishment too. 

Phi. Gentlemen, enough of this: it came in too 
suddenly; let it die as it was born, and, I pray you, 
be better acquainted. 

Iach. Would I had put my estate and my neigh- 
bour’s on the approbation of what I have spoke! 

Post. What lady would you choose to assail ? 

Tach. Yours; whom in constancy you think 
stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats 
to your ring, that, commend me to the court where 
your lady is, with no more advantage than the op- 
portunity of a second conference, and I will bring 
from thence that honour of hers which you imagine 
so reserved. 

Post. I will wage against your gold, gold to it: 
my ring I hold dear as my finger; *tis part of it. 

Tach. You are afraid, and therein the wiser. If 
you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you can- 
not preserve it from tainting: but I see you have 
some religion in you, that you fear. 

Post. This is but a custom in your tongue; you 
bear a graver purpose, I hope. 

Jach. 1 am the master of my speeches, and would 
undergo what ’s spoken, I swear. 

Post. Will you? I shall but lend my diamond 
till your return: let there be covenants drawn be- 
tween ’s: my mistress exceeds in goodness the huge- 
ness of your unworthy thinking: I dare you to this 
match: here’s my ring. 

Phi. I will have it no lay. 

Iach. By the gods, it isone. If I bring you no 
sufficient testimony that I have enjoyed the dearest 
bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand 
ducats are yours; so is your diamond too; if I come 
off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust 
in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold 
are yours: provided I have your commendation for 
my more free entertainment. 

Post. I embrace these conditions; let us have 
articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall 
answer: if you make your voyage upon her and 
give me directly to understand you have prevailed, 
Iam no further your enemy; she is not worth our 
debate: if she remain unseduced, you not making 
it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and the 
assault you have made to her chastity you shall 
answer me with your sword. 

Iach. Your hand; a covenant: we will have 
these things set down by lawful counsel, and 
straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should 
catch cold and starve: I will fetch my gold and 
have our two wagers recorded. 

Post. Agreed. 

[EHxeunt Posthumus and Iachimo. 

French. Will this hold, think you? 

Phi. Signior Iachimo will not from it. 


Pray, 
let us follow ’em. 


[ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Britain. A roomin Cymbeline’s palace. 


Enter Queen, Ladies, and Cornelius. 


Queen. Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather 
those flowers ; 
Make haste: who has the note of them ? 
First Lady. I, madam. 
Queen. Dispatch. | Exeunt Ladies. 
Now, master doctor, have you brought those drugs ? 
Cor. Pleaseth your highness, ay: here they are, 
madam: [Presenting a small bow. 
But I beseech your grace, without offence,— 
My conscience bids me ask — wherefore you have 
Commanded of me these most poisonous com- 
pounds, 


AGT Ts 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE VI. 


Which are the movers of a languishing death; 
But though slow, deadly ? 

Queen. I wonder, doctor, 
Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not been 
Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how 
To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so 
That our great king himself doth woo me oft 
For my confections ? Having thus far proceeded,— 
Unless thou think’st me devilish —is ’t not meet 
That I did amplify my judgment in 
Other conclusions? I will try the forces 
Of these thy compounds on such creatures as 
We count not worth the hanging, but none human, 
To try the vigour of them and apply 
Allayments to their act, and by them gather 
Their several virtues and effects. 

or. Your highness 
Shall from this practice but make hard your heart: 
Besides, the seeing these effects will be 
Both noisome and infectious. 


Queen. O, content thee. 


Enter Pisanio. 


[ Asede] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him 
Will I first work: he’s for his master, 
And enemy tomy son. How now, Pisanio! 
Doctor, your service for this time is ended; 
Take your own way. 
Cor. [ Aside] I do suspect you, madam; 

But you shall do no harm. 

ueen. [To Pisanio] Hark thee, a word. [she has 

or. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think 
Strange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit, 
And will not trust one of her malice with 
A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has 
Will stupify and dull the sense awhile; [dogs, 
Which first, perchance, she’ll prove on cats and 
Then afterward up higher: but there is 
No danger in what show of death it makes, 
More than the locking-up the spirits a time, . 
To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d 
With a most false effect; and I the truer, 
So to be false with her. 


Ueen. 

Until I send for thee. 
Cor. I humbly take my leave. [Evit. 
Queen. Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou 

think in time 

She will not quench and let instructions enter 

Where folly now possesses? Do thou work: 

When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, 

I'l] tell thee on the instant thou art then 

As great as is thy master, greater, for 

His fortunes all lie speechless and his name 

Is at last gasp: return he cannot, nor 

Continue where he is: to shift his being 

Is to exchange one misery with another, 

And every day that comes comes to decay 

A day’s workin him. What shalt thou expect, 

To be depender on a thing that leans, 

Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends, 

So much as but to prop him? [The Queen drops the 

box: Pisanto takes it wp.] Thou takest up 

Thou know’st not what ; but take it for thy labour: 

It is a thing I made, which hath the king 

Five times redeem’d from death: I do not know 

What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee, take it; 

It is an earnest of a further good 

That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how 

The case stands with her; do ’t as from thyself. 

Think what a chance thou changest on, but think 

Thou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son, 

Who shall take notice of thee: Il] move the king 

To any shape of thy preferment such 

As thou It desire; and then myself, I chiefly, 

That set thee on to this desert, am bound 

To load thy merit richly. Call my women: 


No further service, doctor, 


Think on my words. [Hait Pisanio. 
A sly and constant knave, 
Not to be shaked; the agent for his master 

And the remembrancer of her to hold 

The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that 
Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her 

Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after, 
Except she bend her humour, shall be assured 

To taste of too. 


Re-enter Pisanio and Ladies. 


So, so: well done, well done: 
The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, 
Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; 
Think on my words. [Exeunt Queen and Ladies. 
Naa And shall do: 
But when to my good lord I prove untrue, 
I’ll choke myself: there’s all Ill do for you. [Evzit. 


SCENE VI.— The same. 
palace. 


Another room in the 


Enter Imogen. 


Imo. A father cruel, and a step-dame false; 
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady, 
That hath her husband banish’d ;—O, that husband! 
My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated 
Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n, 
As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable 
Is the desire that ’s glorious: blest be those, 
How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills, 
Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! 


Enter Pisanio and Iachimo. 


Pis. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome, 
Comes from my lord with letters. 

Tach. Change you, madam ? 
The worthy Leonatus is in safety 
And greets your highness dearly. [Presents a letter. 

Imo. Thanks, good sir: 
You’re kindly welcome. frich! 

Lach. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most 
If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, 

She is alone the Arabian bird, and I 

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! 
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! 

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; 
Rather, directly fly. 

Ino. [Reads] ‘He is one of the noblest note, to 
whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect 
upon him accordingly, as you value your trust — 

LEONATUS.’ 
So far I read aloud: 
But even the very middle of my heart 
Is warm/’d by the rest, and takes it thankfully. 
You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I 
Have words to bid you, and shall find it so 
In all that I can do. 

Tach. Thanks, fairest lady. 

What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes 

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop 

Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt 

The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones 

Upon the number’d beach? and can we not 

Partition make with spectacles so precious 

’T wixt fair and foul ? 
Imo. What makes your admiration ? 

- Tach. It cannot be i’ the eye, for apes and monkeys 

’T wixt two such shes would chatter this way and 

Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ the judgment, 

For idiots in this case of favour would 


| Be wisely definite; nor i’ the appetite ; 


Sluttery to such neat excellence opposed 
Should make desire vomit emptiness, 
Not so allured to feed. 

Imo. What is the matter, trow ? 


Lach. The cloyed will, 
709 


ACT I. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE VI. 


That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub 
Both fill’d and running, ravening first the lamb 
Longs after for the garbage. 
Imo. What, dear sir, 
Thus raps you? Are you well? 
Tach. Thanks, madam: well. [Jo Pisanio] Be- 
seech you, sir, desire 
My man’s abode where I did leave him: he 
Is strange and peevish. 
Lig ty 
To give him welcome. 
Imo. Continues well my lord? 
seech you? 
Tach. Well, madam. 
Imo. Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he is. 
Tach. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there 
So merry and so gamesome: he is call’d 
The Briton reveller. 
Imo. When he was here, 
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times 
Not knowing why. 
Lach. IT never saw him sad. 
There is a Frenchman his companion, one 
An eminent Monsieur, that, it seems, much loves 
A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces 
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton — 
Your A I mean — laughs from’s free lungs, cries 


I was going, sir, 
[ Evit. 
His health, be- 


Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows 
By history, report, or his own proof, 
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose 
But must be, will his free hours languish for 
Assured bondage ?’ 

Imo. Will my lord say so? 

Tach. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with 


It is a recreation to be b [laughter : 
And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens 
Some men are much to blame. [know, 


Imo. Not he, I hope. 

lach. Not he: but yet heaven’s bounty towards 

him might 
Be used more thankfully. In himself, ’t is much; 
In you, which I account his beyond all talents, 
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound 
To pity too. 

Imo. What do you pity, sir? 

Tach. Two creatures heartily. 

Imo. Am I one, sir? 
You look on me: what wreck discern you in me 
Deserves your pity ? 

Tach. Lamentable! What, 

To hide me from the radiant sun and solace 
I’ the dungeon by a snuff? 

Imo. I pray you, sir, 
Deliver with more openness your answers 
To my demands. Why do you pity me? 

lach. That others do— 

I was about to say—enjoy your— but 
It is an office of the gods to venge it, 
Not mine to speak on’t. 

Imo. You do seem to know 
Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,— 
Since doubting things go ill often hurts more 
Than to be sure they do; for certainties 
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, 

The remedy then born—discover to me 
What both you spur and stop. 

Tach. Had I this cheek 
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, 
Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul 
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which 
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, 
Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then, 
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs 
That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands 
Made hard with hourly falsehood —falsehood, as 
With labour; then by-peeping in an eye 

780 


Base and unlustrous as the smoky light 

That ’s fed with stinking tallow; it were fit 
That all the plagues of hell should at one time 
Encounter such revolt. 


Imo. My lord, I fear, 
Has forgot Britain. 
Tach. And himself. Not 1, 


Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce 
The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces 
That from my mutest conscience to my tongue 
Charms this report out. 
Imo. Let me hear no more. 
ae O ee soul! your cause doth strike my 
1ear 
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady 
So fair, and fasten’d to an empery, [ner’d 
Would make the great’st king double,—to be part- 
With tomboys hired with that self-exhibition 
Which your own coffers yield! with diseased ven- 


tures 
That play with all infirmities for gold 
Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil’d stuff 
As well might poison poison! Be revenged; 
Or she that bore you was no queen, and you 
Recoil from your great stock. 
mo. Revenged ! 
How should I be revenged? If this be true,— 
As I have such a heart that both mine ears 
Must not in haste abuse —if it be true, 
How should I be revenged ? 
Lach. Should he make me 
Live, like Diana’s priest, betwixt cold sheets, 
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, 
In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. 
I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, 
More noble than that runagate to your bed, 
And will continue fast to your affection, 
Still close as sure. 
Imo. What, ho, Pisanio! 
Iach. Let me my service tender on your lips. 
Imo. Away! Ido condemn mine ears that have 
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, 
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 
For such an end thou seek’st,—as base as strange. 
Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far 
From thy report as thou from honour, and 
Solicit’st here a lady that disdains 
Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio! 
The king my father shall be made acquainted 
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit, 
A saucy stranger in his court to mart 
As in a Romish stew and to expound 
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court 
He little cares for and a daughter who 
He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio! 
Tach. O happy Leonatus! I may say: 
The credit that thy lady hath of thee 
Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness 
Her assured credit. Blessed live you long! 
A lady to the worthiest sir that ever 
Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only 
For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. 
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance 
Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord, 
That which he is, new o’er: and he is one 
The truest manner’d; such a holy witch 
That he enchants societies into him; 
Half all men’s hearts are his. 
Imo. You make amends. 
lach. He sits ’mongst men like a descended god: 
He hath a kind of honour sets him off, 
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, 
Most mighty princess, that I have adventured 
To try your taking of a false report; which hath 
Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment 
In the election of a sir so rare, 
Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him 


AGT ITT. 


Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you, 
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon. 
Imo. All’s well, sir: take my power i’ the court 
for yours. 
Iach. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot 
To entreat your grace but in a small request, 
And yet of moment too, for it concerns 
Your lord; myself and other noble friends, 
Are partners in the business. 
Imo. Pray, what is ’t ? 
Tach. Some dozen Romans of us and your lord — 
The best feather of our wing — have mingled sums 
To buy a present for the emperor; 
Which I, the factor for the rest, have done 
In France: ’t is plate of rare device, and jewels 
Of rich and exquisite form; their values great; 
And I am something curious, being strange, 
To have them in safe stowage: may it please you 
To take them in protection ? 
Imo. Willingly ; 
And pawn mine honour for their safety: since 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE Il, 


My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them 
In my bedchamber. 

Tach. They are in a trunk, 
Attended by my men: I will make bold 
To send them to you, only for this night: 

I must aboard to-morrow. 

Imo. O, no, no. 

lach. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word 
By lengthening my return. From Gallia 
I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise 
To see your grace. 

Imo. I thank you for your pains: 
But not away to-morrow! 

ach. O, I must, madam: 
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please 
To greet your lord with writing, do ’t to-night: 
I have outstood my time; which is material 
To the tender of our present. 

Imo. I will write. 
Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept, 
And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome. 

[| Hxeunt. 


Je LO Di GS Ge 


SCENE I.— Britain. 


Enter Cloten and two Lords. 


Clo. Was there ever man had such luck! when I 
kissed the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I 
had a hundred pound on’t: and then a whoreson 
jackanapes must take me up for swearing; as if I 
borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend 
them at my pleasure. 

First Lord. What got he by that? You have 
broke his pate with your bowl. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] If his wit had been like him 
that broke it, it would have run all out. 

Clo. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it 
is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha? 

Sec. Lord. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the 
ears of them. » 

Clo. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction ? 
Would he had been one of my rank! 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] To have smelt like a fool. 

Clo. I am not vexed more at any thing in the 
earth: a pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as 
I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the 
queen my mother: every Jack-slave hath his belly- 
ful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a 
cock that nobody can match. 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; 
and you crow, cock, with your comb on. 

Clo. Sayest thou? 

Sec. Lord. It is not fit your lordship should under- 
take every companion that you give offence to. 

Clo. No, I know that: but it is fit I should com- 
mit offence to my inferiors. 

Sec. Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. 

Clo. Why, so I say. 

First Lord. Did you hear of a stranger that’s 
come to court to-night ? 

Clo. A stranger, and I not know on’t! 

Sec. Lord. [Aside] He’s a strange fellow himself, 
and knows it not. 

First Lord. There’s an Italian come; and, ’tis 
thought, one of Leonatus’ friends. 

Clo. Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he’s 
another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this 
stranger ? 

First Lord. One of your lordship’s pages. 

Clo. Is it fit I went to look upon him? is there 
no derogation in ’t? 

Sec. Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord. 

Clo. Not easily, I think. 


Before Cymbeline’s palace. 


Sec. Lord. [Aside] You are a fool granted; there- 
fore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. 
Clo. Come, I ’ll go see this Italian: what I have 
lost to-day at bowls I’ll win to-night of him. 
Come, go. 
Sec. Lord. Ill attend your lordship. 
[Hxeunt Cloten and First Lord. 
That such a crafty devil as is his mother 
Should yield the world this ass! a woman that 
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son 
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, 
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, 
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endurest, 
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d, 
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer 
More hateful than the foul expulsion is 
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act 
Of the divorce he ’ld make! The heavens hold firm 
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked 
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand, 
To enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great ane , 
: vit. 


SCENE II.— Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s 
palace: a trunk in one corner of it. 


Imogen in bed, reading ; a Lady attending. 
Imo. Who’s there? my woman Helen ? 
Lady. Please you, madam. 
Imo. What hour is it ? 


Lady. Almost midnight, madam. 
Imo. I have read three hours then: mine eyes 
are weak: 
Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed: 
Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; 
And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock, 
I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly. 
[Hxit Lady. 
To your protection I commend me, gods. 
From fairies and the tempters of the night 
Guard me, beseech ye. 
[Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk. 
Tach. The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d 
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus [sense 
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d 
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, 
How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily, 
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! — 
But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d, 
How dearly they do ’t! *T is her breathing that 


781 


BOTA, 


Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ the taper 
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, 
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
Under these windows, white and azure laced 
With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design, 
To note the chamber: I will write all down: 
Such and such pictures; there the window; such 
The adornment of her bed ; the arras; figures, 
Why, such and such ; and the contents 0’ the story. 
Ah, but some natural notes about her body, 
Above ten thousand meaner movables 
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. 
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! 
And be her sense but as a monument, 
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off: 
[Taking off her bracelet. 
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 
*T is mine; and this will witness outwardly, 
As strongly as the conscience does within, 
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast 
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
I’ the bottom of a cowslip; here ’s a voucher, 
Stronger than ever law could make: this secret 
Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en 
The pearies of her honour. Nomore. To what 
end : 
Why should I write this down, that’s riveted, 
Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late 
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf ’s turn’d down 
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough: 
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. 
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning 
May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear ; 
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. . 
[Clock strikes. 
One, two, three: time, time! 
[Goes into the trunk. The scene closes. 


SCENE III.— An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s 
apartments. 


Enter Cloten and Lords. 


First Lord. Your lordship is the most patient 
man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up 

Olo. It would make any man cold to lose. __[ace. 

First Lord. But not every man patient after the 
noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot 
and furious when you win. 

Clo. Winning will put any man into courage. If 
I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold 
enough. It’s almost morning, is ’t not ? 

First Lord. Day, my lord. 

Clo. I would this music would come: I am ad- 
vised to give her music 0’ mornings; they say it 
will penetrate. 

Enter Musicians. 
Come on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your 


fingering, so; we’ll try with tongue too: if none 
will do, let her remain; but Ill never give o’er. 
First, a very excellent good conceited thing ; after, 
a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words 


to it: and then let her consider. 


SONG. 
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 
And Phoebus ’gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes: 
With every thing that pretty is, 
My lady sweet, arise : 
Arise, arise. 


Clo. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will 
consider your music the better: if it do not, it is a 
vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves’-guts, 


782 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE III. 


nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never 
amend. [ Hxeunt Musicians. 
_ Sec. Lord. Here comes the king. 
Clo. Iam glad I was up so late; for that’s the 
reason I was up so early: he cannot choose but take 
this service I have done fatherly. 


Enter Cymbeline and Queen. 


Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious 
mother. 
Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern 
Will she not forth ? [daughter ? 
Clo. I have assailed her with music, but she 
vouchsafes no notice. 
Cym. The exile of her minion is too new; 
She hath not yet forgot him: some more time 
Must wear the print of his remembrance out, 
And then she ’s yours. 
Queen. You are most bound to the king, 
Who lets go by no vantages that may 
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself 
To orderly soliciting, and be friended 
With aptness of the season; make denials 
Increase your services ; so seem as if 
You were inspired to do those duties which 
You tender to her; that you in all obey her, 
Save when command to your dismission tends, 
And therein you are senseless. 
Clo. Senseless! not so. 


Enter a Messenger. 


Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome ; 
The one is Caius Lucius. 
Cym. A worthy fellow, 
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; 
But that ’s no fault of his: we must receive him 
According to the honour of his sender; 
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, 
We must extend our notice. Our dear son, [tress, 
When you have given good morning to your mis- 
Attend the queen and us; we shall have need 
To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our 
queen. [Exeunt all but Cloten. 
Clo. If she be up, Ill speak with her; if not, 
Let her lie still and dream. [Knocks] By your 
I know her women are about her: what [leave, ho! 
If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold [makes 
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and 
Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up 
Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer; and “tis gold 
Stat ete ae es the true man kill’d and saves the 
ief ; 
Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man; 
Can it not do and undo? I will make [what 
One of her women lawyer to me, for 
I yet not understand the case myself. 
[Knocks] By your leave. 


Enter a Lady. 


Lady. Who’s there that knocks ? 
Clo A gentleman. 


Lady. No more ? 
Olo. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son. 
Lady. That ’s more 


Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours, 
Can justly boast of. What ’s your lordship’s pleas- 


Olo. Your lady’s person: is she ready ? [ure ? 
Lady. AY, 

To keep her chamber. 
Olo. There is gold for you; 


Sell me your good report. : 
Lady. How! my good name? or to report of you 
What I shall think is good ?— The princess! 


Enter Imogen. 


Clo. Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet 
hand. | Hxit Lady, 


——— i 


ACT II. 


Imo. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much 
pains 
For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give 
Is telling you that Iam poor of thanks 
And scarce can spare them. 
Clo. Still, I swear I love you. 
Imo. If you but said so, ’t were as deep with me: 
If you swear still, your recompense is still 
That I regard it not. 
Clo. This is no answer. _ [silent, 
Imo. But that you shall not say I yield being 
I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: ’faith, 
I shall unfold equal discourtesy 
To your best kindness: one of your great knowing 
Should learn, being taught, forbearance. 
Clo. To leave you in your madness, ’t were my 
I will not. [sin : 
Imo. 


0. 

Imo. As Iam mad, I do: 
If you ’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; 
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, 
You put me to forget a lady’s manners, 
By being so verbal: and learn now, for all, 
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, 
By the’ very truth of it, I care ‘not for you, 
‘And am so near the lack of charity — 
To accuse myself —I hate you; which I had rather 
You felt than make ’t my boast. 

Clo. You sin against 
Obedience, which you owe your father. For 
The contract you pretend with that base wretch, 
One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes, 
With scraps o’ the court, it is no contract, none: 
And though it be allow’d in meaner parties — 
Yet who than he more mean ? —to knit their souls, 
On whom there is no more dependency 
But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot ; 
Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by 
The consequence 0’ the crown, and must not soil 
The precious note of it with a base slave, 
A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, 
A pantler, not so eminent. 

Imo. Profane fellow! 
Wert thou the son of J upiter and no more 
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base 
To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough, 
Even to the point of envy, if ’t were made 
Comparative for your virtues, to be styled 
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated 
pene preferr’d so well. 


Fools are not mad folks. 
Do you call me fool ? 


The south-fog rot him! 
Imo. He never can meet more mischance than 
come 
To be but named of thee. His meanest garment, 
That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer 
In my respect than all the hairs above thee, 
Were they all made such men. Hownow, Pisanio! 


Enter Pisanio. 


Olo. ‘His garment!’ Now the devil— 

Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently— 

Clo. ‘ His garment!’ 

Imo. I am sprited with a fool, 
Frighted, and anger’d worse: go bid my woman 
Search for a jewel that too casually 
Hath left minearm: it was thy master’s: ’shrew me, 
If I would lose it for a revenue 
Of any king’s in Europe. I do think 
I saw ’t this morning: confident I am 
Last night ’t was on mine arm; I kiss’d it: 

I hope it be not gone to tell my lord 
That I kiss aught but he. 


Pis. *T will not be lost. 
Imo. I hope so: go and search. [Exit Pisanio. 
Clo. You have abused me: 


‘ His meanest garment! ’ 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE IV. 


Imo. Ay, I said so, sir: 
If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t. 
Clo. I will inform your father. 
Imo. - Your mother too: 
She’s my good lady, and will conceive, I hope, 
But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir, 
To the worst of discontent. [ Exit. 
Clo. Ill be revenged : 
‘His meanest garment!’ Well. [ Hvvit. 


SCENE IV.— Rome. 


Enter Posthumus and Philario. 


Post. Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure 
To win the king as I am bold her honour 
Will remain hers. 
Phi. What means do you make to him ? 
Post. Not any, but abide the change of time, 
Quake in the present winter’s state and wish 
That warmer days would come: in these sear’d 
I barely gratify your love; they failing, [hopes, 
I must die much your debtor. 
Phi. Your very goodness and your company 
O’erpays all I can do. By this, your king 
Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius 
Will do’s commission throughly: and I think 
He ’ll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, 
Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance 
Is yet fresh in their grief. 
Post. I do believe, 
Statist though I am none, nor like to be, 
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear 
The legions now in Gallia sooner landed 
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings 
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen 
Are men more order’d than when Julius Cesar 
Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage 
Worthy his frowning at: their discipline, 
Now mingled with their courage, will make known 
To their approvers they are people such 
That mend upon the world. 


Philario’s house. 


Enter Iachimo. 


Phi. See! Iachimo! 

Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by land; 
And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, 
Ste vee your vessel nimble. 

Welcome, sir. 

aoa I hope the briefness of your answer made 
The speediness of your return. 

Lach. Your lady 
Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon. 

Post. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty 
Look through a casement to allure false hearts 


| And be false with them. 


Tach. Here are letters for you. 

Post. Their tenour good, I trust. 

Tach. *T is very like. 

Phi. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court 
When you were there ? 


Tach. He was expected then, 
But not approach’d. 
Post. All is well yet. 


Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is’t not 
Too dull for your good wearing ? 

Tach. If I had lost it, 
I should have lost the worth of it in gold. 
Ill make a journey twice as far, to enjoy 
A second night of such sweet shortness which 
Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won. 

Post. The stone’s too hard to come by. 

Tach. Not a whit, 
Your lady being so easy. 

Post. Make not, sir, 
Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we 
Must not continue friends. 

Tach. Good sir, we must. 


783 


7% O15 Wag © aA 


If you keep covenant. Had I not brought 
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant 
We were to question further: but I now 
Profess myself the winner of her honour, 
Together with your ring; and not the wronger 
Of her or you, having proceeded but 

By both your wills. 

Post. If you can make ’t apparent 
That you have tasted her in bed, my hand 
And ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion 
You had of her pure honour gains or loses 
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both 
To who shall find them. 

Tach. Sir, my circumstances, 
Being so near the truth as I will make them, 

Must first induce you to believe: whose strength 
I will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not, 
You ’ll give me leave to spare, when you shall find 
You need it not. 

Post. Proceed. 

Tach. First, her bedchamber,— 
Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess 
Had that was well worth watching — it was hang’d 
With tapestry of silk and silver; the story 
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, 

And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for 
The press of boats or pride: a piece of work 
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive 
In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d 
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, 
Since the true life on ’t was— 
Post. This is true; 

And this you might have heard of here, by me, 
Or by some other. 

ach. More particulars 
Must justify my knowledge. 
Post. So they must, 
Or do your honour injury. 

Lach. The chimney 
Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece 
Chaste Dian bathing: never saw I figures 
So likely to report themselves: the cutter 
Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, 
Motion and breath left out. 

Post. This is a thing 
Which you might from relation likewise reap, 
Being, as it is, much spoke of. 

Lach. The roof 0’ the chamber 
With golden cherubins is fretted: her andirons — 
I had torgot them— were two winking Cupids 
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely 
Depending on their brands. 

Post. This is her honour! 
Let it be granted you have seen all this—and praise 
Be given to your remembrance — the description 
Of what is in her chamber nothing saves 
The wager you have laid. 

Lach. Then, if you can, 

[Showing the bracelet. 
Be pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see! 
And now ’tis up again: it must be married 
ae that your diamond; Ill keep them. 

ost. 
Once more let me behold it: is it that 
Which I left with her ? 

Lach. Sir —I thank her—that: 

She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet; 

Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 

And yet enrich’d it too: she gave it me, and said 
She prized it once. 


Jove! 


Post. May be she pluck’d it off 
To send it me. 
Tach. She writes so to you, doth she ? 


Post. O,no,no,no! ’tis true. Here, take this 
too ; [Gives the ring. 

It is a basilisk unto mine eye, 

Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour 


784 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE V. 


Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; 


ove, 
Where there ’s another man: the vows of women 
Of no more bondage be, to where they are made, 
Than they are to their virtues; which is nothing. 
O, above measure false ! 

Phi. Have patience, sir, 
And take your ring again; ’tis not yet won: 
It may be probable she lost it; or 
Who knows if one of her women, being corrupted, 
Hath stol’n it from her ? 

Post. Very true; 

And so, I hope, he came by ’t. Back my ring: 
Render to me some corporal sign about her, 
More evident than this; for this was stolen. 

Iach. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm. 

Post. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 
"Tis true— nay, keep the ring —’t is true: 1am sure 
She would not lose it: her attendants are [it ! 
All sworn and honourable :—they induced to steal 
And by a stranger !— No, he hath enjoyed her: 
The cognizance of her incontinency 
Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus 

dearly. 
There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell 
Divide themselves between you! 

Phi. Sir, be patient : 
This is not strong enough to be believed 
Of one persuaded well of — 


Post. Never talk on ’t; 
She hath been colted by him. 
Tach. If you seek 


For further satisfying, under her breast — 
Worthy the pressing — lies a mole, right proud 
Of that most delicate lodging: by my life, 

I kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger 

To feed again, though full. You do remember 
This stain upon her ? 

Post. Ay, and it doth confirm 
Another stain, as big as hell can hold, ; 
Were there no more but it. 

Tach. Will you hear more ? 

Post. Spare your arithmetic: never count the 
Once, and a million! [turns ; 

Tach. Ill be sworn — 

Post. No swearing. 
If you will swear you have not done ’t, you lie; 
And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny — 

Thou ’st made me cuckold. 

Lach. I ll deny nothing. 

Post. O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal ! 
I will go there and do’t, i’ the court, before 
Her father. Ill do something — {| Hxtt. 

Phi. Quite besides 
The government of patience! You have won: 
Let ’s follow him, and pervert the present wrath 
He hath against himself. 

Lach. With all my heart. 


SCENE V.— Another room in Philario’s house. 


Enter Posthumus. 


Post. Is there no way for men to be but women 
Must be half-workers ? We are all bastards; 
And that most venerable man which IL 
Did call my father, was I know not where 
When I was stamp’d; some coiner with his tools 
Made me a counterfeit: yet my mother seem’d 
The Dian of that time: so doth my wife 
The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! 
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d 
And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with 
A pudency so rosy the sweet view on ’t [her 
Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought 
As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils! 
This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,— was ’t not ?— 
Or less,—at first ?— perchance he spoke not, but, 


[ Hxeunt. 


ACT VET. 


Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, 

Cried ‘OQ!’ and mounted; found no opposition 
But what he look’d for should oppose and she 
Should from encounter guard. Could I find out 
The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion 
That tends to vice in man, but I atfirm 

It is the woman’s part: be it lying, note it, 

The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; 
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; 
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, 


Joa onal 


SCENE I.— Britain. <A hall in Cymbeline’s palace. 


Enter in state, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords 
at one door, and at another, Caius Lucius and At- 
tendants. ; 


Cym. Now say, what would Augustus Cesar 
with us ? [yet 
Inc. When Julius Cesar, whose remembrance 
Lives in men’s eyes and will to ears and tongues 
Be theme and hearing ever, was in this Britain 
And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,— 
Famous in Cesar’s praises, no whit less 
Than in his feats deserving it —for him 
And his succession granted Rome a tribute, 
Yearly three thousand peunds, which by thee lately 
Is left untender’d. 


Queen. And, to kill the marvel, 
Shall be so ever. 
Clo. There be many Cesars, 


Ere such another Julius. Britain is 
A world by itself; and we will nothing pay 
For wearing our Own noses. 

Queen. That opportunity 
Which then they had to take from ’s, to resume 
We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, 

The kings your ancestors, together with 

The natural bravery of your isle, which stands 

As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in 

With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters, 

With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats, 

But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of con- 
quest 

Cesar made here; but made not here his brag 

Of ‘Came’ and ‘saw’ and ‘ overcame: ’ with shame— 

The first that ever touch’d him —he was carried 

From off our coast, twice beaten ; and his shipping— 

Poor ignorant baubles! —on our terrible seas, 

Like egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack’d 

As easily ’gainst our rocks: for joy whereof 

The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point — 

O giglot fortune! —to master Ceesar’s sword, 

Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright 

And Britons strut with courage. 

Clo. Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid: 
our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; 
and, as I said, there is no moe such Cesars: other 
of them may have crook’d noses, but to owe such 
straight arms, none. 

Cym. Son, let your mother end. 

Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard 
as Cassibelan: I do not say Iam one; but I havea 
hand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute ? 
If Cesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or 
put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute 
for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. 

Cym. You must know, 

Till the injurious Romans did extort [tion, 
This tribute from us, we were free: Cesar’s ambi- 
Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch 
The sides 0’ the world, against all colour here 

Did put the yoke upon ’s; which to shake off 


50 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE II. 


Nice longing, slanders, mutability, 

All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows, 
Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all ; 

For even to vice 

They are not constant, but are changing still 
One vice, but of a minute old, for one _, 

Not half so old as that. Ill write against them, 
Detest them, curse them: yet ’tis greater skill 
In a true hate, to pray they have their will: 

The very devils cannot plague them better. [Evit. 


TB 


Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon 
Ourselves to be. 

Clo. and Lords. We do. 

Cym. Say, then, to Ceesar, 
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which 
Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Cesar 
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise 
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, 
Though Rome be therefore angry ; Mulmutius made 

our laws, 

Who was the first of Britain which did put 
His brows within a golden crown and call’d 
Himself a king. 

Lue. I am sorry, Cymbeline, 
That I am to pronounce Augustus Ceesar— 
Cesar, that hath more kings his servants than 
Thyself domestic officers —thine enemy : 
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion 
In Cesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee: look 
For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, 


I thank thee for myself. 
Thou art welcome, Caius. 


Cym. 
Thwi@aae knighted me; my youth I spent 
Much under him; of him I gather’d honour; 
Which he to seek of me again, perforce, 
Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect 
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for 
Their liberties are now in arms; a precedent 
Which not to read would show the Britons cold: 
So Ceesar shall not find them. 

Luc. Let proof speak. 

Clo. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pas- 
time with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek 
us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in 
our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is 
yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall 
fare the better for you; and there ’s an end. 

Luc. So, sir. 

Cym. I know your master’s pleasure and he mine: 
All the remain is ‘ Welcome! ’ | Hxewnt. 


SCENE II. — Another room in the palace. 


Enter Pisanio, with a letter. 


Pis. How! of adultery ? Wherefore write you not 
What monster ’s her accuser? Leonatus! 
O master! what a strange infection 
Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian, 
As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail’d 
On thy too-ready hearing? Disloyal! No: 
She ’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, 
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults 
As would take in some virtue. O my master! 
Thy mind to her is now as low as were 
Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her? 
Upon the love and truth and vows which I 
Have made to thy command ? I, her? her blood ? 
If it be so to do good service, never 
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, 
That I should seem to lack humanity [the letter 
So much as this fact comes to? [Reading] ‘Dot: 


785 


ACT Tid: 


That I have sent her, by her own command 

Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper! 
Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble, 
Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st 

So virgin-like without ? Lo, here she comes. 

I am ignorant in what I am commanded. 


Enter Imogen. 


Imo. How now, Pisanio ? 

Pis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. 

Imo. Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus! 
O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer 
That knew the stars as I his characters ; 
He ’ld lay the future open. You good gods, 
Let what is here contain’d relish of love, 
Of my lord’s health, of his content, yet not 
That we two are asunder; let that grieve him: 
Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, 
For it doth physic love: of his content, 
All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be 
You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers 
And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike: 
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet 
You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods! 

[Reads] ‘Justice, and your father’s wrath, should 
he take mein his dominion, could not be so cruel to 
me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even 
renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am 
in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love 
will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you 
all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow,and your, 
increasing in love, — LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.’ 
O, for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio ? 
He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me 
Tlow far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs 
May plod it in a week, why may not I 
Glide thither ina day? Then, true Pisanio,— 
Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,— 
O, let me bate,— but not like me—yet long’st, 
But in a fainter kind:—O, not like me; 
For mine’s beyond beyond — say, and speak thick ; 
Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing, 
To the smothering of the sense — how far it is 
To this same blessed Milford: and by the way 
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as 
To inherit such a haven: but first of all, 
How we may steal from hence, and for the gap 
That we shall make in time, from our hence-going 
And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence: 
Why should excuse be born or e’er begot ? 
We ’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak, 
How many score of miles may we well ride 
”Twixt hour and hour ? 

Pis. One score ’twixt sun and sun, 
Madam,’s enough for you: [Aside] and too much too. 
Imo. Why, one that rode to’s execution, man, 
Could never go soslow: [have heardof riding wagers, 

Where horses have been nimbler than the sands 
That run i’ the clock’s behalf. But this is foolery: 
Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say 
She 711 home to her father: and provide me presently 
A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit 
A franklin’s housewife. 

is Madam, you ’re best consider. 

Ino. I see before me, man: nor here, nor here, 
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, 
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; 
Do as I bid thee: there’s no more to say ; 
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt. 
SCENE III.— Wales: a mountainous country with a 
cave. 


inter, from the cave, Belarius; Guiderius and 
Arviragus following. 


Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE Iii. 


Instructs you how to adore the heavens and bows you 
To a morning’s holy oftice: the gates of monarchs 
Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through 
And keep their impious turbans on, without 
Good-morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! 
We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly 
As prouder livers do. 
Gui. Hail, heaven! 
Arv. Hail, heaven! 
Bel. Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill; 
Your legs are young; [ll tread these flats. 
When you above perceive me like a crow, 
That it is place which lessens and sets off: 
And you may then revolve what tales I have told 
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war: [you 
This service is not service, so being done, 
But being so allow’d: to apprehend thus, 
Draws us a profit from all things we see; 
And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
The sharded beetle in a safer hold 
Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life 
Is nobler than attending for a check, 
Richer than doing nothing for a bauble, 
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk : 
Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine, 
Yet keeps his book uncross’d: no life to ours. 
Gui. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor un- 
fledged, [not 
Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know 
What air ’s from home. MHaply this life is best, 
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you 
That have a sharper known; well corresponding 
With your stiff age; but unto us it is 
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed ; 
A prison for a debtor, that not dares 
To stride a limit. 
Arv. What should we speak of 
When we are old as you? when we shall hear 
The rain and wind beat dark December, how, 
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; 
We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey, 
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat ; 
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage 
We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird, 
es nue our bondage freely. 
€ 


[sider, 


Bel. How you speak ! 

Did you but know the city’s usuries 

And felt them knowingly; the art 0’ the court, 

As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb 

Is certain falling, or so slippery that 

The fear ’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ the war, 

A pain that only seems to seek out danger [search, 

I’ the name of fame and honour; which dies i’ the 

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph 

As record of fair act; nay, many times, 

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what ’s worse, 

Must court’sy at the censure :—O boys, this story 

The world may read in me: my body ’s mark’d 

With Roman swords, and my report was once 

First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me, 

And when a soldier was the theme, my name 

Was not far off: then was I as a tree [night, 

Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one 

A storm or robbery, call it what you will, 

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, 

And left me bare to weather. 

ui. Uncertain favour! 
Bel. ae fault being nothing —as I have told you 
oLL— 

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d 

Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline 

I was confederate with the Romans: so 

Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years 

This rock and these demesnes have been my world; 

Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid 


Whose roof ’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate | More pious debts to heaven than in all 


786 


Con-' 


ee ee ee 


ACT III. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE IV. 


The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains! 

This is not hunters’ language: he that strikes 

The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast ; 

To him the other two shall minister ; 

And we will fear ne poison, which attends 

In place of greater state. I?ll meet you in the val- 
leys. [Hxeunt Guiderius and Arviragus. 

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! 

These boys know little they are sons to the king; 

Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. 


They think they are mine; and though train’d up 
thus meanly 

I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit 

The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them 

In simple and low things to prince it much 

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, 

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who 

The king his father call’d Guiderius,— Jove! 

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell 

The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out 

Into my story: say ‘Thus mine enemy fell, 

And thus I set my foot on’s neck;’ even then 

The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, 

Strains his young nerves and puts himself in posture 

That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, 

Once Arviragus, in as like a figure, 

Strikes life into my speech and shows much more 

His own conceiving.— Hark, the game is roused ! — 

O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows 

Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon, 

At three and two years old, I stole these babes ; 

Thinking to bar thee of succession, as 

Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile, 

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their 

And every day do honour to her grave: _[mother, 

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d, 

They take for natural father. The game is up. [ £vit. 


SCENE I[V.— Country near Milford-Haven. 


Enter Pisanio and Imogen. 


Imo. Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, 

the place 

Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so 

To see me first, as Ihave now. Pisanio! man! 

Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind, 

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks 
that sigh 

From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus, 

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d 

Beyond self-explication: put thyself 

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness 

Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter ? 

Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with 

A look untender? If ’t be summer news, 

Smile to ’t before; if winterly, thou need’st 

But keep that countenance still. My husband’s hand! 

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, 

And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man: thy 
tongue 

May take off some extremity, which to read 

Would be even mortal to me. 


is. Please you, read; 
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing 
The most disdain’d of fortune. 

Imo. |fteads} ‘ Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played 
the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof 
lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak sur- 
mises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as 
certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, 
Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted 
with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take 
away her life: I shall give thee opportunity at Mil- 
ford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose: 
where, if thou fear to strike and to make me certain 
it is done, thou art the pandar to ‘her dishonour and 
equally to me disloyal.’ } 


Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword? the 
paper 
Hath cut her throat already. No, ’t is slander, 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue 
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds and doth belie 
All corners of the world: kings, queens and states, 
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave 
This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam ? 
Imo. False to his bed! What is it to be false ? 
To le in watch there and to think on him ? 
To weep ’twixt clock and clock ? if sleep charge na- 
To break it with a fearful dream of him [ture, 
And cry myself awake ? that’s false to ’s bed, is it ? 
Pis. Alas, good lady! 
Imo. I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo, 
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency ; 
Thou then look’dst like a villain; now methinks 
Thy favour ’s good enough. Some jay of Italy 
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him: 
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; 
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
I must be ripp’d:— to pieces with me!—O, 
Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, 
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought 
Put on for villany; not born where ’t grows, 
But worn a bait for ladies. 
£18; Good madam, hear me. 
imo. True honest men being heard, like false 


neas, 
Were in his time thought false, and Sinon’s weeping 
Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity 
From most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthumus, 
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men; 
Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured 
From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest: 
Do thou thy master’s bidding: when thou see’st him, 
A little witness my obedience: look ! 
I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart: 
Fear not; ’t is empty of all things but grief: 
Thy master is not there, who was indeed 
The riches of it: do his bidding; strike 
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause; 
But now thou seem’st a coward. 

Pis. Hence, vile instrument ! 
Thou shalt not damn my 


hand. 

Imo. Why, I must die; 
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art 
No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter 
There is a prohibition so divine [heart. 
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my 
Something ’s afore ’t. Soft, soft! we ’ll no defence ; 
Obedient as the scabbard. What is here ? 
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, 
All turn’d to heresy ? Away, away, 
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more 
Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools 
Believe false teachers: though those that are betray’d 
Do'feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor 
Stands in worse case of woe. 
And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up 
My disobedience ’gainst the king my father 
And make me put into contempt the suits 
Of princely fellows, shall hereafter find 
It is no act of common passage, but 
A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself 
To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her 
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory 
Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch: 
The lamb entreats the butcher: where’s thy knife ? 
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, 
When I desire it too. 

Pis. O gracious lady, 
Since I received command to do this business 
I have not slept one wink. 

Imo. Do ’t, and to bed then. 

787 


AOD OEP, 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE V. 


Pis. 1’ll wake mine eye-balls blind first. 

Imo. Wherefore then 
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused 
So many miles with a pretence? this place ? 
Mine action and thine own ? our horses’ labour ? 
The time inviting thee ? the perturb’d court, 
For my being absent ? whereunto I never 
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far, 
To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, 
The elected deer before thee ? 

j But to win time 

in the which 

Good lady, 


Fis. 
To lose so bad employment ; 
I have consider’d of a course. 
Hear me with patience. 

Imo. Talk thy tongue weary; speak: 
I have heard I am a strumpet; and mine ear, 
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, 


Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. 

Pis. Then, madam, 
I thought you would not back again. 

Imo. Most like; 
Bringing me here to kill me. 

Pis. Not so, neither: 


But if I were as wise as honest, then’ 

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be 
But that my master is abused: 

Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, 
Hath done you both this cursed injury. 

are Some Roman courtezan. 

No, on my life. 
i teat a but notice you are dead and ’send him 
Some bloody sign of it; for ’t is commanded 
I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court, 
And that will well confirm it. 

Imo. Why, good fellow, 
What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? 
Or in my life what comfort, when I.am 
Dead to my husband ? 

Pas: If you ’ll back to the court — 

Imo. No court, no father; nor no more ado 
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, 
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me 
As fearful as a siege. 

as, If not at court, 
Then not in Britain must you bide. 

Imo. Where then ? 
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, 
Are they not but in Britain ? I’ the world’s volume 
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t; 

Ina gr eat pool a swan’s nest : prithee, think 
There ’s livers out of Britain. 

Pis Iam most glad 
You think of other place. The ambassador, 
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford- Haven 
To-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind 
Dark as your fortune i is, and but disguise 
That which, to appear itself, must not yet be 
But by self-danger, you should tread a course 
Pretty and full of view; yea, haply, near 
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least / 
That though his actions were not visible, yet 
Report should render him hourly to your ear 
As truly as he moves. 

Imo. O, for such means! 
Though peril to my modesty, not death on ’t, 

I would adventure. 

Pis. Well, then, here ’s the point: 
You must forget to be a woman; change 
Command into obedience; fear and niceness— 
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, 
Woman its pretty self —into aw ‘aggish courage 5 
Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy and 
As quarrelous as the weasel ; nay, you must 
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, 
Exposing it —but, O, the harder heart ! 

Alack, no remedy ! 1—to the greedy touch 
Of common- kissing Titan, and forget 


788 


Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein 
You made great Juno angry. 
Imo. Nay, be brief: 
I see into thy end, and am almost 
A man already. 

Pis First, make yourself but like one. 
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit— 
°T is in my cloak-bag —doublet, Pa hose, all 
That answer to them: would you in their serving, 
And with what imitation you can borrow 
From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius 
Present yourself, desire his service, tellhim [know, 
Wherein you’re happy,— which you ’ll make him 
If that his head have ear in music, — doubtless 
With joy he will embrace you, for he’s honourable 
And doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad, 
You have me, rich; and I will never fail 
Beginning nor supplyment. 

Imo. Thou art all the comfort 
The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away: 
There’s more to be consider ’d; but we ’ll even 
All that good time will give us: this attempt 
I am soldier to, and will abide it with 
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee. 

Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, 
Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of 
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, 
Here is a box; I had it from the queen: 

What ’s in ’t is precious; if you are sick at sea, 
Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this 
Will drive away distemper. ‘To some shade, 
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods 
Direct you to the best! 
Imo. Amen: I thank thee. [Exeunt, severally. 


SCENE V.— A room in Cymbeline’s palace. 


Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, 
Lords, and Attendants. 


Cym. Thus far; and so farewell. 

Lue. Thanks, royal sir. 
My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence; 
And am right sorry that I must report ye 
My master’s enemy. 

Cym. Our subjects, sir, 
Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself 
To show less sovereignty than they, must needs 
Appear unkinglike. 

Lue. So, sir: I desire of you 
A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven. 
Madam, all joy befal your grace! 

And you! 


ween. 

& ym. My lords, you are appointed for that office ; 
The due of honour in no point omit. 
So farewell, noble Lucius. 

Luc. Your hand, my lord. 

Clo. Receive it friendly ; but from this time forth 
I wear it as your enemy. 

C. Sir, the event 

Is yet to name the winner: fare you well. 

Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, 
Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness ! 

[Hxeunt Lucius and Lords. 

Queen. He goes hence frowning: but it honours 
That we have given him cause. [us 

Clo. ’T is all the better ; 
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. 

Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor 
How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely 
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness: 
The powers that he already hath in Gallia 
Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves 
His war for Britain. 

Queen. ’T is not sleepy business ; 
But must be look’d to speedily and strongly. 

Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus 
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, 


AGT? LLG 
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d 
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d 
The duty of the day: she looks us like 
A thing more made of malice than of duty: 
We have noted it. Call her before us; for 
We have been too slight in sufferance. 
[Heit an Attendant. 

ueen. Royal sir, 
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired 
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 
*T is time must do. Beseech your majesty, 
Forbear sharp speeches to her: she’s a lady 
So tender of rebukes that words are strokes 
And strokes death to her. 


Re-enter Attendant. 

Cym. Where is she, sir ? 
Can her contempt be answer’d ? 

Atten. Please you, sir, 
Her chambers are all lock’d; and there ’s no answer 
That will be given to the loudest noise we make. 

Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her, 
She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close, 
Whereto constrain ’d by her infirmity, 

She should that duty leave unpaid to you, 
Which daily she was bound to proffer: this 
She wish’d me to make known; but our great court 
Made me to blame in memory. 
Her doors lock’d ? 


Cym. 
Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear 
Prove false! [ Hct. 


How 


onc Son, I say, follow the king. 
o. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, 
I have not seen these two days. 

Queen. Go, look after. [Exit Cloten. 
Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! 
He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence 
Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes 
It is a thing most precious. But for her, 
Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her, 
Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown 
To her desired Posthumus: gone she is 
To death or to dishonour; and my end 
Can make good use of either: she being down, 
I have the placing of the British crown. 


Re-enter Cloten. 


How now, my son! 

Clo. ’T is certain she is fled. 
Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none 
Dare come about him. 

Queen. [Aside] All the better: may 
This night forestall him of the coming day! [Hvit. 

Clo. I love and hate her: for she’s fair and royal, 
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite 
Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one 
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, 
Outsells them all; I love her therefore: but 
Disdaining me and throwing favours on 
The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment 
That what’s else rare is choked; and in that point 
I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, 
To be revenged upon her. For when fools 
Shall— i \ 

Enter Pisanio. 

Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah ? 
Come hither: ah, you precious pandar! Villain, 
Where is thy lady ? Ina word; or else 
Thou art straightway with the fiends. 

ie O, good my lord! 

Clo. Where is thy lady ? or, by Jupiter,— 
I will not ask again. Close villain, 
I ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip 
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus ? 
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot 
A drain of worth be drawn. 

Las. Alas, my lord, 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE V. 
How can she be with him? When was she miss’d ? 
He is in Rome. 
: Where is she, sir ? 

No further halting: satisfy me home 
What is become of her. 

By O, my all-worthy lord! 

0. 


Come hearer ; 


All-worthy villain! 
Discover where thy mistress is at once, 
At the next word: no more of ‘ worthy lord!’ 
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is 
Thy condemnation and thy death. 
Pis. Then, sir, 
This paper is the history of my knowledge 
Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter. 
Clo Let’s see ’t. 


, I will pursue her 
Even to Augustus’ throne. 
Pis. [Aside] Or this, or perish. 
She ’s far enough; and what he learns by this 
ee prove his travel, not her danger. 
0 


i um ! 
Pis. [Aside] I’l1 write to my lord she’s dead. 
O Imogen, 
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! 

Clo. Sirrah, is this letter true ? 

Pis. Sir, as I think. 

Clo. It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, 
if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true 
service, undergo those employments wherein I 
should have cause to use thee with a serious in- 
dustry, that is, what villany soe’er I bid thee do, 
to perform it directly and truly, I would think 
thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want 
my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy pre- 

Pis. Well, my good lord. {ferment. 

Clo. Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and 
constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of 
that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the 
course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of 
mine: wilt thou serve me? 

Pis. Sir, I will. 

Clo. Give me thy hand: here’s my purse. Hast 
any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession? 

Pis. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same 
suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and 
mistress. 

Clo. The first service thou dost me, fetch that 
suit hither: let it be thy first service; go. 

Pis. I shall, my lord. [ Heit. 

Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Haven!—I forgot to 
ask him one thing; I’l] remember ’t anon :—even 
there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I 
would these garments were come. She said upon 
a time—the bitterness of it I now belch from my 
heart—that she held the very garment of Post- 
humus in more respect than my noble and natural © 
person, together with the adornment of my quali- 
ties. With that suit upon my back, will I ravish 
her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall 
she see my valour, which will then be a torment to 
her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of 
insultment ended on his dead body, and when my 
lust hath dined,— which, as I say, to vex her I 
will execute in the clothes that she so praised,— 
to the court Ill knock her back, foot her home 
again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and Ill 
be merry in my revenge. 


Re-enter Pisanio, with the clothes. 


Be those the garments ? 
Pis. Ay, my noble lord. [Haven ? 
Clo. How long is’t since she went to Milford- 
Pis. She can searce be there yet. i 
Clo. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is 

the second thing that I have commanded thee: the 

third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my 
design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall 

tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Mil- 


789 


ACL ALEE, 
ford: would I had wings to follow it! Come, and 
be true. [ Heit. 


Pis. Thou bid’st me to my loss: for true to thee 
Were to prove false, which I will never be, 
To him that is most true. To Milford go, 
And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, 
You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed 
Be cross’d with slowness; labour be his mee 
eit 


SCENE VI.— Wales. 


Enter Imogen, in boy’s clothes. 


Imo. I see a man’s life is a tedious one: 
I have tired myself, and for two nights together 
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick, 
But that my resolution helps me. Milford, 
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee, 
Thou wast within a ken: O Jove! I think 
Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, [me 
Where they should be relieved. Two beggars told 
I could not miss my way: will poor folks lie, 
That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis 
A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, 
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness 
Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood 
Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! 
Thou art one 0’ the false ones. Now I think on thee, 
My hunger ’s gone; but even before, I was 
At point to sink for food. But what is this ? 
Here is a path to ’t: ’tis some savage hold: 
I were best not call; I dare not call: yet famine, 
Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant. 
Plenty and peace breeds cowards: hardness ever 
Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who’s here? 
If any thing that’s civil, speak ; if savage, 
Take or lend. Ho! Noanswer? Then I’ll enter. 
Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy 
But fear the sword like me, he ’ll scarcely look on ’t. 
Such a foe, good heavens! [ Hxit, to the cave. 


Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 


Bel. You, Polydore, have proved best woodman 
Are master of the feast: Cadwal and I fand 
Will play the cook and servant; ’t is our match: 
The sweat of industry would dry and die, 

But for the end it works to. Come; our stomachs 
Will make what ’s homely savoury: weariness 
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth 

Finds the down pillow hard. Now peace be here, 
Poor house, that keep’st thyself! 

Gui. I am throughly weary. 

Arv. Iam weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. 

Gui. There is cold meat i’ the cave: we’ll browse 
Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d. [on that, 

Bel. [Looking into the cave] Stay; come not in. 
But that it eats our victuals, I should think 
Here were a fairy. 

Gui. What ’s the matter, sir? 

Bel. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, 

An earthly paragon. Behold divineness 
No elder than a boy! 


Before the cave of Belarius. 


Re-enter Imogen. 


Imo. Good masters, harm me not: 
Before I enter’d here, I call’d; and thought 
To have begg’d or bought what I have took: good 
troth, [found 
I have stol’n nought, nor would not, though I had 
Gold strew’d i’ the floor. Here’s money for my 
I would have left it on the board so soon _—[meat: 


: Money, youth ? 
Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt ! 


Who worship dirty gods. 
790 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE VII. 


Imo. I see you ’re angry: 
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 
Have died had I not made it. 

Whither bound ? 


Bel. 

Imo. To Milford-Haven. 

Bel. What’s your name ? 

Imo. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who 
Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford; 

To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
IT am fall’n in this offence. 

Bel. Prithee, fair youth, 
Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds 
By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d! 
*T is almost night: you shall have better cheer 
Ere you depart; and thanks to stay and eat it. 
Boys, bid him welcome. 

Gui. Were you a woman, youth, 
I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty, 
I bid for you as I’ld buy. 

Arv. Ill make ’t my comfort 
He isa man; I’ll love him as my brother: 

And such a welcome as I ’ld give to him 
After long absence, such is yours: most welcome! 
Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends. 

Imo. ’Mongst friends, 
If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so, that they 
Had been my father’s sons! then had my prize 
Been less, and so more equal ballasting 
To thee, Posthumus. 

Bel. He wrings at some distress. 
Gui. Would I could free ’t! 


rv. Or I, whate’er it be, 
What pain it cost, what danger. Gods! 

Bel. Hark, boys. 

[ Whispering. 


Imo. Great men, 
That had a court no bigger than this cave, 
That did attend themselves and had the virtue 
Which their own conscience seal’d them—laying by 
That nothing-gift of differing multitudes — 
Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! 
I ’ld change my sex to be companion with them, 
Since Leonatus’s false. 
Bel. It shall be so. 
Boys, we ’1l go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in: 
Discourse is heavy, fasting ; when we have supp’d, 
We ’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story, 
So far as thou wilt speak it. 
a Pray, draw near. 
Arv. The night to the owl and morn to the lark 
less welcome. 
Imo. Thanks, sir. 
Arv. I pray, draw near. 


SCENE VII.— Rome. 


Enter two Senators and Tribunes. 


First Sen. This is the tenour of the emperor’s writ: 
That since the common men are now in action 
*Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, 

And that the legions now in Gallia are 

Full weak to undertake our wars against 
The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite 

The gentry to this business. He creates 
Lucius proconsul: and to you the tribunes, 
For this immediate levy, he commends 

His absolute commission. Long live Cesar! 

First Tri. Is Lucius general of the forces ? 

Sec. Sen. Ay. 

First Tri. Remaining now in Gallia ? 

First Sen. With those legions 
Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy 
Must be supplyant: the words of your commission 
Will tie you to the numbers and the time 
Of their dispatch. 

First Tri. 


[ Exeunt. 
A public place. 


We will discharge our duty. 
[| Exeunt. 


Sa 


ACT IV: 


ra Od @ 
SCENE I.— Wules: near the cave of Belarius. 


Enter Cloten. 


Clo. I am near to the place where they should 
meet, if Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit 
his earments serve me! Why should his mistress, 
who was made by him that made the tailor, not be 
fit too ? the rather—saving reverence of the ‘word— 
for ’tis said a woman’s fitness comes by fits. There- 
in I must play the workman. I dare speak it to 
myself—for it is not vain-glory for a man and his 
glass to confer in his own chamber—I mean, the 
lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less 

young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, 
beyond him in the advantage of the time, above 
him in birth, alike conversant in general services, 
and more remarkable in single oppositions: yet this 
imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What 
mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is 
growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour 
be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to 
pieces before thy face: and all this done, spurn her 
home to her father; who may haply be a little 
angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having 
power of his testiness, shall turn all into my com- 
mendations. My horse is tied up safe: out, sword, 
and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my 
hand! This is the very description of their meeting- 
place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. [ Exit. 


SCENE II. — Before the cave of Belarius. 


Enter, from the cave, Belarius, Guiderius, 
Arviragus, and Imogen. 


Bel. [To Imogen] You are not well: remain here in 

We & come to you after hunting. [the cave ; 
[To Imogen] Brother, stay here: 

are a not brothers ? 

Imo. So man and man should be; 
But clay and clay differs in dignity, 

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. 

Gui. Go you to hunting; I’l abide with him. 

Imo. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; 
But not so citizen a wanton as 
To seem to die ere sick: so please you, leave me; 
Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom 
Is breach of all. Iam ill, but your being by me 
Cannot amend me; society is no comfort 
To one not sociable: I am not very sick, 
Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here: 
I’ll rob none but myself; and let me die, 
Se so poorly. 

I love thee; I have spoke it: 

How Srrien the quantity, the weight as much, 
As I do love my father. 

Bel. What! how! how! 

Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me 
In my good brother’s fault: I know not why 
I love this youth; and I have heard you say, 
Love’s reason ’s without reason: the bier at "door, 
And a demand who is’t shall die, I Id say 
‘My father, not this youth.’ 

Bel. [Aside] O noble strain! 
O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! 
Cowards father cowards and base things sire base: 
Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. 
I’m not their father; yet who this should be, 
Doth miracle itself, loved before me. 
*T is the ninth hour o’ the morn. 


Arv. Brother, farewell. 
Imo. I wish ye sport. 
Arv. You health. So please you, sir. 


Imo. [Aside] These are kind creatures. 


Gods, 
what lies I have heard! 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE II. 


dae 


| Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court: 


Experience, O, thou disprovest report! 
The i imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish 
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. 
I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, 
Ill now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some. ~ 
Gut. I could not stir him: 
He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; 
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 
Arv. Thus did he answer me: yet said, hereafter 
I might know more. 
Bel. To the field, to the field! 
We'll leave you for this time: go in and rest. 
Arv. We'll not be long away. 


Bel. Pray, be not sick, 
For you must be our housewife. 

Imo. Well or ill, 
I am bound to you. 

Bel. And shalt be ever. 


[Lait Imogen, to the cave. 
This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had 
Good ancestors. 

Aro, How angel-like he sings! 

Gui. But his neat cookery! he cut our roots 
In characters, 

And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick 
And he hex dieter. 

Arv. Nobly he yokes 
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh 
Was that it was, for not being such a smile; 
The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly 
From so divine a temple, to commix 
With winds that sailors rail at. 

Gui. I do note 
That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
Mingle their spurs together. 

Arv Grow, patience ! 
And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine 
His perishing root with the incr easing vine! 

Bel. It is great morning. Come, away !— Who’s 


there ? 
jl Enter Cloten. 


Clo. I cannot find those runagates; that villain 
Hath mock’d me. I am faint. 

Bel. Those runagates ! 
Means he not us? I partly know him: ’tis 
Cloten, the son 0’ the queen. I fear some ambush: 
I saw him not these many years, and yet 
I know ’tis he. Weare held as outlaws: hence! 

Gui. He is but one: you and my brother search 
What companies are near: pray you, away; 
Let me alone with him. 
[Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus. 
Soft! What are you 
That fly me thus ? some villain mountaineers ? 
I have heard of such. What slave art thou ? 

Gut. A thing 
More slavish did I ne’er than answering 
A aR without a knock. 

Thou art a robber, 
A etheaker, a villain: yield thee, thief. 

Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? 

not I 
An arm as big as thine ? a heart as big ? 
Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not 
My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art, 
Why I should yield to thee ? 

Clo. Thou villain base, 
esa st me not by my clothes? 

No, nor thy tailor, rascal, 

Who | is thy grandfather: he made those clothes, 
Which, as it seems, make thee. 
6 Thou precious varlet, 


Have 


My tailor made them not. 
791 


ACD MY. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE II. 


Gui Hence, then, and thank | 
The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; 
I am loath to beat thee. 


Clo. Thou injurious thief, 
Hear but my name, and tremble. 
Gui. What ’s thy name? 


Clo. Cloten, thou villain. 
Gui. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, 
I cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or Adder, Spi- 
°T would move me sooner. (der, 
Clo. To thy further fear, 
Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know 
I am son to the queen. 

Gui IT am sorry for ’t; not seeming 
So vont as thy birth. 

Clo. Art not afeard ? 

Gui. Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise: 
At fools I laugh, not fear them. 

Clo. Die the death: 
When I have slain thee with my proper hand, 
I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, 
And on the gates of Lud’s-town set your heads: 
Yield, rustic mountaineer. | EHxeunt, fighting. 


Re-enter Belarius and Arviragus. 


Bel. No companies abroad ? [sure. 
Arv. None in the world: you did mistake him, 


Bel. I cannot tell: long is it since I saw him, 
But time hath nothing plurr’d those lines of favour 
Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, 
And burst of speaking, were as his: I am absolute 
”T was very Cloten. 

Arv. In this place we left them: 

I wish my brother make good time with him, 
You say he is so fell. 

Bel. Being scarce made up, 
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension 
Of roaring terrors ; for the effect of judgment 
Is oft the cause of fear. But, see, thy brother. 


Re-enter Guiderius, with Cloten’s head. 


Gui. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; 
There was no money in ’t: not Hercules 
Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none: 
Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne 
My head as I do his. 
Bel. What hast thou done ? 
Gui. Iam perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head, 
Son to the queen, after his own report; 
Who ecall’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore 
With his own single hand he ’ld take us in, [grow, 
Displace our heads where — thank the gods ! —they 
And set them on Lud’s-town. 
Bel. Weare all undone. 
Gui. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, 
But that he swore to take, our lives? The law 
Protects not us: then why should we be tender 
To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, 
Play judge and executioner all himself, 
For we do fear the law? What company 
Discover you abroad ? 
Bel. No single soul 
Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason 
He must have some attendants. Though his humour 
Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that 
From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not 
Absolute madness could so far have raved 
To bring him here alone; although perhaps 
It may be heard at court that such as we 
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time 
May make some stronger head; the which he hear- 
As it is like him—might break out, and swear [ing— 
He’ld fetch us in; yet is ’t not probable 
To come alone, either he so undertaking, 


Or they so suffering : then on good ground we fear, 
If we do fear this body hath a tail 
More perilous than the head. 


792 


Arv. Let ordinance 
Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe’er, 

My brother hath done well. 

Bel. I had no mind 
To hunt this day: the boy Fidele’s sickness 
Did make my way long forth. 

Gui. With his own sword, 
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en 
His head from him: Ill throw ’t into the creek 
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea, 

And tell the fishes he ’s the queen’s son, Cloten: 


That ’s all I reck. [ Heit. 
Bel. I fear ’t will be revenged : 
Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done ’t! though 
valour 
Becomes thee well enough. 
Arv. Would I had done ’t, 
So the revenge alone pursued me! Polydore, 
I love thee brotherly, but envy much 
Thou hast robb’d me of this deed : I would revenges, 
That possible strength might meet, would seek us 
And put us to our answer. [through 
Bel. Well, ’tis done: 
We 711 hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger 
Where there ’s no profit. I prithee, to our rock; 
You and Fidele play the cooks: I 1 stay 
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him 


To dinner presently. 
Poor sick Fidele! 


Arv 
I'll willinel? to him: to gain his colour 
I ’ld let a parish of such Clotens’ blood, 
And praise myself for charity. [ Hvit. 
Bel. O thon goddess, 
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st 
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, 
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonder 
That an invisible instinct should frame them 
To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, 
Civility not seen from other, valour 
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop 
‘As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange 
What Cloten’s being here to us portends, 
Or what his death will bring us. 


Re-enter Guiderius. 


Gui. Where’s my brother ? 
I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream, 
In embassy to his mother: his body’s hostage 
For his return. [Solemn music. 
Bel. My ingenious instrument ! 
Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion’ 
Hath Cadwal now to he it motion? Hark! 
Gui. Is he at home: 
Bel. He went hence even now. 
Gui. What does he mean? since death of my 
dear’st mother 
It did not speak before. All solemn things 
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter ? 
Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys 
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. 
Is Seiten mad ? 
Look, here he comes, 
atl brings the dire occasion in his arms 
Of what we blame him for. 


Re-enter Arviragus, with Imogen, as dead, bearing 
her in his arms. 


Arv. The bird is dead 
That we have made so much on. I had rather 
Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, 
To have turn’d my leaping-time into a crutch, 
Than have seen this. 


Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily! 


en ee 


—. 


oe 


‘IL OUdDS “AT 19V—ANIISHGWAO 


Wd 
S — an 
\ — 


i 


uh ee an 
XS 


5, 


—— =e 

0 ————_ 

(fs ik : 
i 


ii 


l 
i} 
OS 


Ali’ gt 


vai 

yay 
/ 
/ 

‘ 

i 
4 

\ 


AE TL < 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE II. 


My brother wears thee not the one half so well 
As when thou grew’st thyself. 

Bel. O melancholy ! 
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find 
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare 
Might easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! 
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; 
Thou diedst, amost rare boy, of melancholy. [but I, 
How found you him ? 

Arv. Stark, as you see: 

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, 
Not asdeath’s dart, being laugh’d at: his right cheek 
Reposing on a cushion. 

Gut. Where? 

Arv. O’ the floor ; 
His arms thus leagued: I thought he slept, and put 
My clouted broegues from off my feet, whose rudeness 
Answer’d my steps too loud. 

Gui. Why, he but sleeps: 
If he be gone, he ’ll make his grave a bed; 

. With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, 
And worms will not come to thee. 
Arv. With fairest flowers 
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, 
Ill sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack 
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
~The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would, 
With charitable bill,—O bill, sore shaming 
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
Without a monument! —bring thee all this; 
Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are 
To winter-ground thy corse. [none, 
Gui. Prithee, have done; 
And do not play in wench-like words with that 
Which is so serious. Let us bury him, 
And not protract with admiration what 
Is now due debt. To the grave! 
Arv. Say, where shall ’s lay him ? 
Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. 
rv. Be ’t so: 
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices 
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, 
As once our mother; use like note and words, 
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. 
Gui. Cadwal, 
I cannot sing: I ’ll weep, and word it with thee; 
For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse 
Than priests and fanes that lie. 
Tv. We’ll speak it, then. 
Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for 
Cloten 
Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys; 
And though he came our enemy, remember [ting 
He was paid for that: though mean and mighty, rot- 
Together, have one dust, yet reverence, 
That angel of the world, doth make distinction 
Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely : 
And though you took his life, as being our foe, 
Yet bury him as a prince. 
Ut. Pray you, fetch him hither. 
“Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’, 
When neither are alive. 
PU If you’ll go fetch him, 
We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. 
| Hait Belarius. 
Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the 


My father hath a reason for ’t. [east ; 
Arv. ’T is true. 
Gui. Come on then, and remove him. 
Arv. So. Begin. 


SONG. 


Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, 
Nor the furious winter’s rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: 


Gui. 


Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
Arv. Fear no more the frown 0’ the great; 
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak; 
The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 


Gui. 
Ar. 
Gui. 
Ary. 
Both. 


Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan: 
All lovers young, all:‘lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 


Gut. 
Arv. 


No exorciser harm thee! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 


Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee! 
Both. Quiet consummation have; 


And renowned be thy grave! 


Fe-enter Belarius, with the body of Cloten. 


Gui. We have done our obsequies: come, lay him 
down. [more: 
Bel. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night 
Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their faces 
You were as flowers, now wither’d: even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. 
Come on, away: apart upon our knees. 
The ground that gave them first has them again: 
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. 
[Hxeunt Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus. 
Imo. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which 
is the way ?— [thither ? 
I thank you.—By yond bush?—Pray, how far 
’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet ?— 
[have goneall night. ’Faith, I’) le down and sleep. 
But, soft! no bedfellow!—O gods and goddesses! 
[Seeing the body of Cloten. 
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ; 
This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream; 
For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, 
And cook to honest creatures: but ’t is not so; 
’T was but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, 
Which the brain makes of fumes: our very eyes 
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good 
I tremble still with fear: but if there be [faith, 
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity 
As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it! 
The dream ’s here still: even when I wake, it is 
Without me, as within me; not imagined, felt. 
A headless man! The garments of Posthumus! 
I know the shape of ’s leg: this is his hand; 
His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh ; 
The brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face — 
Murder in heaven ? —How!—’T is gone. Pisanio, 
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, 
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, 
Conspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten, 
Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read 
Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio 
Hath with his forged letters,—damn’d Pisanio — 
From this most bravest vessel of the world . 
Struck the main-top! O Posthumus! alas, [that ? 
Where is thy head ? where’s that ? Ay me! where’s 
Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, 
And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? 
’T is he and Cloten: malice and lucre in them 
Have laid this woehere. O,’tis pregnant, pregnant! 
The drug he gave me, which he said was precious 
And cordial to me, have I not found it | 
Murderous to the senses ? That confirms it home: 
This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s: O! 


793 


ACT IV. 


Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, 
That we the horrider may seem to those 
Which chance to find us: O, my lord, my lord! 

[ Falls on the body. 


Enter Lucius, a Captain and other Officers, and 
a Soothsayer. 


Cap. To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia, 
After your will, have eross’d the sea, attending 
You here at Milford-Haven with your ships: 

They are in readiness. 

Luc. But what from Rome? 

Cap. The senate hath stirr’d up the confiners 
And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, 

That } promise noble service: and they come 
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, 
Syenna’s brother. 

Luce When expect you them ? 

Cap With the next benefit o’ the wind. 

Luc. This forwardness 
Makes our hopes fair. Command our present num- 

bers 
Be muster’d; bid the captains look to ’t. Now, sir, 
What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose? ? 
Sooth. Last night the very gods show’d me a 
vision — 
I fast and pray’d for their intelligence —thus: 
I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d 
From the spongy south to this part of the west, 
There vanish’d in the sunbeams: which portends— 
Unless my sins abuse my divination — 
Success to the Roman host. 

Lue. Dream often so, 

And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here 
Without his top ? The ruin Nig that sometime 
It was a worthy building. How! a page! 

Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather ; 
For nature doth abhor to make his bed 

With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. 

Let . see the boy’s face. 

Cay He’s alive, my lord. 

ae He ’ll then instruct us of this ‘body. Young 
Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems fone, 
They crave to be demanded. Who is this 
Thou makest thy bloody pillow? Or who was he 
That, otherwise than noble nature did, 

Hath alter’d that good picture ? What ’s thy interest 
In this sad wreck ? How came it? Who is it? 
What art thou ? 

Imo. I am nothing: or if not, 

Nothing to be were better. This was my "master, 
A very valiant Briton and a good, 
That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! 
There is no more such masters: I may wander 
From east to occident, cry out for service, 

Try many, all good, serve truly, never 

Find such another master. 

Luce. ’Lack, good youth! 
Thou movest no less with thy complaining than 
Thy master in bleeding: say his name, good friend. 

Imo. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie and 


No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope [do 
They 7 pardon it.— Say you, sir? 
Lue. Thy name? 
Imo. Fidele, sir. 


Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same: 
Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. 
Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say 
Thou shalt be so well master’d, but, be sure, 

No less beloved. The Roman emperor’ s letters, 

Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner 

Than thine own worth "prefer thee: go with me. 
Imo. ony follow, sir. But first, an ’t please the 

gods 

Ill hide my master from the flies, as deep 

As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when [grave, 

With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his 


794 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE III. 


And on it said a century of prayers, 
Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh; 
And leaving so his service, follow you, 
So ai you entertain me. 

Ay, good youth; 
Rea Tatler father thee than master thee. 
My friends, 
The boy hath taught us manly duties: let us 
Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, 
And make him with our pikes and partisans 
A grave: come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d 
By. thee to us, and he shall be interr’d 
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes: 
Some falls are means the happier to arise. | Hxeunt. 


SCENH III.—A room in Cymbeline’s palace. 


Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio, and Attend- 
ants. 


and bring me word how ’t is with 
her. [Hxit an Attendant. 

A fever with the absence of her son, 

A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens, 

How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, 

The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen 

Upon a desperate bed, and in a time 

When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, 

So needful for this present: it strikes me, past 

The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, 

Who needs must know of her departure and 

Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee 

ee a sharp torture. 


Cym. Again; 


Sir, my life is yours; . 
I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress, 
I nothing know where she remains, why gone, 
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your high- 
Hold me your loyal servant. [ness, 

First Lord. Good my liege, 

The day that she was missing he was here: 

I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform 
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, 
There wants no diligence in seeking him, 

And will, no doubt, be found. 

Cym The time is troublesome. 
[To eee. ] We’ll slip you for a season; but our 

jealousy 
Does yet depend. 

First Lord. So please your majesty, 
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, 
Are landed on your coast, with a supply 
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent. 

Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! 
I am amazed with matter. 

First Lord. Good my liege, 

Your preparation can affront no less 

Than what you hear of: come more, for more 
you ’re ready: 

The want is but to put those powers in motion 

That long to move. 

Cym. I thank you. Let’s withdraw; 
Red meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not 
What can from Italy annoy us; but 
We grieve at chances here. Away! 

[Exeunt all but Pisanio. 

Pis. I heard no letter from my master since 
I wrote him Imogen was slain: ’tis strange: 

Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise 

To yield me often tidings ; neither know I 

What is betid to Cloten ; but remain 

Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. 

Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be 

true. 

These present wars shall find I love my country, 

Even to the note o’ the king, or I ’ll fall in them. 

All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d ; 

Fortune brings i in some boats that are not at 
vit. 


ACT V. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE II. 


SCENE IV.— Wales: before the cave of Belarius. 


Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 


Gui. The noise is round about us. 


Bel. Let us from it. 


Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it 


From action and adventure ? 

Gut. Nay, what hope 
Have we in hiding us? This way, the Romans 
Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us 
For barbarous and unnatural revolts 
During their use, and slay us after. 

Bel. Sons, 
We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us. 
To the king’s party there ’s no going: newness 


Of Cloten’s death— we being not known, not mus- 


Among the bands — may drive us toa render [ter’d 
Where we have lived, and so extort from ’s that 
Which we have done, whose answer would be death 
Drawn on with torture. 

Gui. This is, sir, a doubt 
In such a time nothing becoming you, 
Nor satisfying us. 

Arv. It is not likely 
’ That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, 
Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes 
And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, 
That they will waste their time upon our note, 
To know from whence we are. 

Bel. O, Iam known 
Of many in the army: many years, [him 
Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore 
From my remembrance. And, besides, the king 
Hath not deserved my service nor your loves; 


Who find in my exile the want of breeding, 
The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless 
To have the courtesy your cradle promised, 
But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and 
The shrinking slaves of winter. 
Wi. Than be so 
Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army: 
I and my brother are not known; yourself 
So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, 
Cannot be question’d. 
rv. By this sun that shines, 

I?ll thither: what thing is it that I never 
Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood, 
But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! 
Never bestrid a horse, save one that had 
A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel 
Nor iron on his heel! I am ashamed 
To look upon the holy sun, to have 
The benefit of his blest beams, remaining 
So long a poor unknown. _ 

Gui. By heavens, Ill go: 
If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, 
I’) take the better care, but if you will not, 
The hazard therefore due fall on me by 
The hands of Romans! 

Arv. So say I: amen. 

Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set 
So slight a valuation, should reserve 
My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys! 
If in your country wars you chance to die, 
That is my bed too, lads, and there I ’U lie: 
Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their 

blood thinks scorn, 

Till it fly out and show them princes born. [EHveunt. 


Janay Gop Ea A 


SCENE I.— Britain. 


Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief. 


Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I 
wish’d | 

Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, 
If each of you should take this course, how many 
Must murder wives much better than themselves 
For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! 
Every good servant does not all commands: 
No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you 
Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never 
Had lived to put on this: so had you saved 
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck 
Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack, 
You snatch some hence for little faults; that ’s love, 
To have them fall no more: you some permit 
To second ills with ills, each elder worse, 
And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. 
But Imogen is your own: do your best wills, 
And make me blest to obey! I am brought hither 
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight 
Against my lady’s kingdom: ’tis enough 
That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! 
I ‘ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, 
Hear patiently my purpose: I ’ll disrobe me 
Of these Italian weeds and suit myself 
As does a Briton peasant: so 1711 fight 
Against the part I come with; so I ’ll die 
For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life 
Is every breath a death; and thus, unknown, 
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril 
Myself Ill dedicate. Let me make men know 
More valour in me than my habits show. 
Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me! 
To shame the guise 0’ the world, I will begin 
The fashion, less without and more within. 


The Roman camp. 


[ Exit. 


| SCENE II,— Field of battle between the British and 


Roman camps. 


Enter, from one side, Lucius, Iachimo, wnd the Roman 
Army: from the other side, the British Army ; Leona- 
tus Posthumus following, like a poor soldier. They 
march over and go out. Then enter again, in skirmish, 
Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and dis- 
armeth Iachimo, and then leaves him. 


Tach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom 
Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, 
The princess of this country, and the air on ’t 
Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, 
A very drudge of nature’s, have subdued me 
In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne 
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. 
If that thy gentry, Britain, go before 
This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds 
Is that we scarce are men and you are gods. [Ezvit. 


The battle continues: the Britons fly; Cymbeline is 
taken: then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, 
and Arviragus. 


Bel. Stand, stand! 
the ground : 
The lane is guarded: nothing routs us but 
rs villany of our fears. 
Ur. 


Arv. 


Re-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: they 
rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius, 
and Iachimo, with Imogen. 


Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; 
For friends kill friends, and the disorder ’s such 
As war were hoodwink’d. 

Lach. 


We have the advantage of 


Stand, stand, and fight ! 


’T is their fresh supplies. 
795 


AEP OVS 


Luc. It is a day turn’d strangely: or betimes 
Let ’s re-inforce, or fly. [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Another part of the field. 


Enter Posthumus and a British Lord. 


Lord. Camest thou from where they made the 

pes tL ees [stand ? 
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. 

Lord. I did. 

Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, 
But that the heavens fought: the king himself 
Of his wings destitute, the army broken, 

And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying 
Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted, 
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work 
More plentiful than tools to do ’t, struck down 
Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling 
Merely through fear ; that the strait pass was damm/’d 
With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living 
To die with lengthen’d shame. 

Lord. Where was this lane ? 

Post. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with 
Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, [turf; 
An honest one, I warrant; who deserved 
So long a breeding as his white beard came to, 

In doing this for ’s country: athwart the lane, 

He, with two striplings—lads more like to run 
The country base than to commit such slaughter ; 
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer 

Than those for preservation cased, or shame, — 
Made good the passage; cried to those that fled, 
‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men: 

To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand: 
Or we are Romans and will give you that 

Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save, 
But to look back in frown: stand, stand.’ These 
Three thousand confident, in act as many— [three, 
For three performers are the file when all 

The rest do nothing—with this word ‘ Stand, stand,’ 
Accommodated by the place, more charming 

With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d 
A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, [coward 
Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d 
But by example — O, a sin in war, 

Damn’d in the first beginners ! — gan to look 

The way that they did, and to grin like lions 

Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began 

A stop i’ the chaser, a retire, anon 

A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly 
Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves, 
The strides they victors made: and now our cowards, 
Like fragments in hard voyages, became 

The life o’ the need: having found the back-door open 
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! 
Some slain before; some dying; some their friends 
O’er-borne i’ the former wave: ten, chased by one, 
Ave now each one the slaughter-man of twenty : 
Those that would die or ere resist are grown 

The mortal bugs o’ the field. 

Lord. This was strange chance: 
A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. 

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made 

tather to wonder at the things you hear 
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon ’t, 
And vent it fora mockery? Here is one: 
‘Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, 
Preserved the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’ 

Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir. 

Post. *Lack, to what end ? 
Who dares not stand his foe, Ill be his friend; 
For if he ’1l do as he is made to do, 

I know he ’l quickly fly my friendship too. 
You have put me into rhyme. 
Lord. Farewell; you ’re angry. 
Post. Still going? [EHwit Lord.) This is a lord! 
O noble misery, 
796 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE IV. 


To be i’ the field, and ask ‘ what news ?’ of me! 
To-day how many would have given their honours 
To have saved their carcases! took heel to do ’t, 
And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, 
Could not find death where I did hear him groan, 
Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster, 
°T is strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, 
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we 
That draw his knives i’ the war. Well, I will find 
For being now a favourer to the Briton, {him : 
No more a Briton, I have resumed again 

The part I came in: fight I will no more, 

But yield me to the veriest hind that shall 

Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is 
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be 
Britons must take. For me, my ransom ’s death; 
On either side I come to spend my breath; 

Which neither here I ’ll keep nor bear again, 

But end it by some means for Imogen. 


Enter two British Captains and Soldiers. 
First Cap. Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is 
taken 


°T is thought the old man and his sons were angels. 
Sec. Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, 

That gave the affront with them. 

First Cap. So ’t is reported : 

But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there ? 
Post. A Roman, 

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds 

Had answer’d him. 

Sec. Cap. Lay hands on him; a dog! 

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell [service 

What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his 

As if he were of note; bring him to the king. 

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, 
Pisanio, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. 
The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, w/o 
delivers him over to a Gaoler: then exeunt omnes. 


SCENE IV.— A British prison. 


Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers. 


First Gaol. You shall not now be stol’n, you have 
locks upon you; 
So graze as you find pasture. 
Sec. Gaol. - Ay, or a stomach. 
[Hxeunt Gaolers. 
Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, 
I think, to liberty: yet am I better 
Than one that’s sick o’ the gout ; since he had rather 
Groan so in perpetuity than be cured 
By the sure physician, death, who is the key 
To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art 
fetter’d 
More than my shanks and wrists: you good gods, 
give me 
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, 
Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry? 
So children temporal fathers do appease ; 
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent ? 
I cannot do it better than in gyves, 
Desired more than constrain’d: to satisfy, 
If of my freedom ’t is the main part, take 
No stricter render of me than my all. 
I know you are more clement than vile men, 
Who of their broken debtors take a third, 
A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again 
On their abatement: that’s not my desire: 
For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though 
’T is not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it: 
*T ween man and man they weigh not every stamp; 
Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake: 
Yourather mine, being yours: and so, great powers, 
If you will take this audit, take this life, 
And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! 


Ill speak to thee in silence. [ Sleeps. 


AASB V ii 


Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leo- 
natus, father to Posthumus, an old man, attired like a 
warrior ; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his 
wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them : 
then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, 
brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the 
wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping. 

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show 
Thy spite on mortal flies: 

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, 

That thy adulteries 
Rates and revenges. 

Hath my poor boy done aught but well, 
Whose face I never saw ? 

I died whilst in the womb he stay’d 
Attending nature’s law: 

Whose father then, as men report 
Thou orphans’ father art, 

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him 
From this earth-vexing smart. 

Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid, 

But took me in my throes; 

That from me was Posthumus ript, 

Came crying ’mongst his foes, 
A thing of pity! 

Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry, 
Moulded the stuff so fair, 

That he deserved the praise 0’ the world, 
As great Sicilius’ heir. 


First Bro. When once he was mature for man, 
In Britain where was he 
That could stand up his parallel ; 
Or fruitful object be 
In eye of Imogen, that best 
Could deem his dignity ? 


Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, 
To be exiled, and thrown 
From Leonati seat, and cast 
From her his dearest one, 
Sweet Imogen ? 
Sicit. Why did you suffer Iachimo, 
Slight thing of Italy, 
To taint his nobler heart and brain 
With needless jealousy ; 
And to become the geck and scorn 
©’ th’ other’s villany ? 


Sec. Bro. For this from stiller seats we came, 
Our parents and us twain, 
That striking in our country’s cause 
Fell bravely and were slain, 
Our fealty and Tenantius’ right 
With honour to maintain. 


First Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath 
To Cymbeline perform’d: 
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, 
Why hast thou thus adjourn’d 
The graces for his merits due 
Being all to dolours turn’d 3 


Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look out; 
No longer exercise 
Upon a valiant race thy harsh 
And potent injuries. 


Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, 
Take off his miseries. 
Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help; 
Or we poor ghosts will cry 
To the shining synod of the rest 
Against thy deity. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE IY. 


Both Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal, 
And from thy justice fly. 


Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an 
egle : he throws a thunder-bolt. The Ghosts fall on their 
nees. 


Hest No more, you petty spirits of region low, 
ffend our hearing ; hush! How dare you ghosts 
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know, 

Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts ? 
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest 

Upon your never-withering banks of flowers: 
Be not with mortal accidents opprest ; 

No care of yours it is: you know ’tis ours. 
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, 

The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; 
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift: 

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. 
Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in 

Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade. 
He shall be lord of lady Imogen, 

And happier much by his affliction made. 
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein 

Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine: 
And so, away: no further with your din 

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. 

Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends. 

Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial breath 
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle 


| Stoop’d, as to foot us: his ascension is 


More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird 
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak, 
As when his god is pleased. 

All, Thanks, Jupiter! 

Sici. The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d 
His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, 

Let us with care perform his great behest. 
[The Ghosts vanish. 

Post. [Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, 
A father to me; and thou hast created [and begot 
A mother and two brothers: but, O scorn! 

Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born : 
And so [am awake. Poor wretches that depend 
On greatness’ favour dream as I have done, 

Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve: 
Many dream not to find, neither deserve, 

And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I, 

That have this golden chance and know not why. 
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare 
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment _[one! 
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects 

So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers, 

As good as promise. 

[Reads] ‘ When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself 
unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced 
by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately 
cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead 
many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the 
old stock and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus 
end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish 
in peace and plenty.’ 

’T is still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen 
Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing ; 
Or senseless speaking or a speaking such 

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, 

The action of my life is like it, which 

I ’ll keep, if but for sympathy. 


Re-enter First Gaoler. 


First Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death ? 

Post. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. 

First Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir: if you be 
ready for that, you are well cooked. 

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the specta- 
tors, the dish pays the shot. SA 

First Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But 
the comfort is, you shall be called to no more pay- 
ments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often 


797 


ACT V. 


CYMBELINE. 


the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you 
come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with 
too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, 
and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and 
brain both empty ;-the brain the heavier for being 
too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heavi- 
ness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. 
O, the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thou- 
sands ina trice: you have no true debitor and cred- 
itor but it; of what ’s past, is, and to come, the 
discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and coun- 
ters; so the acquittance follows. 

Post. Iam merrier to die than thou art to live. 

First Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the 
tooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, 
and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would 
change places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you 
know not which way you shall go. 

Post. Yes, indeed do I, fellow. 

First Gaol. Your death has eyes in ’s head then; 
I have not seen him so pictured: you must either 
be directed by some that take upon them to know, 
or do take upon yourself that which I am sure you 
do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own 
peril: and how you shall speed in your journey’s 
end, I think you ’ll never return to tell one. 

Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes 
to direct them the way I am going, but such as 
wink and will not use them. 

First Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a 
man should have the best use of eyes to see the way 
of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of wink- 
ae Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Knock off his manacles; bring your pris- 
oner to the king. 

Post. Thou bring’st good news; I am called to be 
made free. 

First Gaol. 1711 be hang’d then. 

Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no 
bolts for the dead. 

[Hxeunt Posthumus and Messenger. 

First Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows 
and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. 
Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves de- 
sire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be 
some of them too that die against their wills; so 
should I, if 1 were one. I would we were all of one 
mind, and one mind good; O, there were desolation 
of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my pres- 
ent profit, but my wish hath a preferment in ’t. 

| Hxeunt. 
SCENE V.—Cymbeline’s tent. 


Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arvira- 
gus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and Attendants. 


Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have 
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart [made 
That the poor soldier that so richly fought, 

W hose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast 
Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found: 
He shall be happy that can find him, if 

Our Bria can make him so. ' 

Bel. I never saw 
Such noble fury in so poor a thing; 

Such precious deeds in one that promised nought 
But beggary and poor looks. 

Cym. No tidings of him ? 

Pis. He hath been search’d among the dead and 
But no trace of him. [living, 

Cym. To my grief, I am 
The heir of his reward: [70 Belarius, Guiderius, 

and Arviragus] which I will add 
To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain, 
By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time 
To ask of whence you are. Report it. 
Bel. Sir, 


798 


SCENE VY. 


In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen: 
Further to boast were neither true nor modest, 
Unless I add, we are honest. 

Cym. Bow your knees. 
Arise my knights o’ the battle: I create you 
Companions to our person and will fit you 
With dignities becoming your estates. 


Enter Cornelius and Ladies. 


There ’s business in these faces. Why so sadly 
Greet you our victory ? you look like Romans, 
And not o’ the court of Britain. 

Cor. Hail, great king! 
To sour your happiness, I must report 
The queen is dead. 

Cym. Who worse than a physician 
Would this report become? But I consider, 
By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death 
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? 

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life, 
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded 
Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d 
I will report, so please you: these her women 
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks 
Were present when she finish’d. 

Cym. Prithee, say. 

Cor. First, she confess’d she never loved you, only. 
Affected greatness got by you, not you: 
Married your royalty, was wife to your place; 


-Abhorr’d your person. 


Cym. She alone knew this; 
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not 
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. 

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to 
With such integrity, she did confess [love 
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, 

But that her flight prevented it, she had 
Ta’en off by poison. 

ym. O most delicate fiend! 
Who is’t can read a woman? _ Is there more ? 

Cor. More,sir, and worse. She did confess she had 
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, 
Should by the minute feed on life and lingering 
By inches waste you: in which time she purposed, 
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to 
O’ercome you with her show, and in time, 

When she had fitted you with her craft, to work 
Her son into the adoption of the crown: 

But, failing of her end by his strange absence, 
Grew shameless-desperate; open’d, in despite 
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented 
The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so 
Despairing died. 

Cym. Heard you all this, her women ? 

First Lady. We did, so please your highness. 

Cym. Mine eyes 
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; 

Mine ears, that heard her flattery ; nor my heart, 

That thought her like her seeming; it had been 
vicious 

To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter! 

That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, 

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! 


Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other 
Roman Prisoners, guarded ; Posthumus behind, and 
Imogen. 


Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute; that 
The Britons have razed out, though with the loss 
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit 
That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter 
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted: 
So think of your estate. 

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day 
Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, 
We should not, when the blood was cool, have 

threaten’d 


ACT V. 


Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives 
May be eall’d ransom, let it come: sufticeth 
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer: 
Augustus lives to think on ’t: and so much 
For my peculiar care. This one thing only 
I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born, 
Let him be ransom’d: never master had 
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, 
So tender over his occasions, true, 
So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join [ness 
With my request, which I ’ll make bold your high- 
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, 
Though he have served a Roman: save hin, sir, 
And spare no blood beside. 
Cym. I have surely seen him: 
His favour is familiar to me. Boy, 
Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, 
And art mine own. t know not why, wherefore, 
To say ‘live, boy:’ ne’er thank thy master; live: 
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, 
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I ’ll give it; 
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, 
The noblest ta’en. 
Imo. I humbly thank your highness. 
Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; 
And yet I know thou wilt. 
Imo. No, no: alack, 
There’s other work in hand: I see a thing 
Bitter to me as death: your life, good master, 
Must shuffle for itself. 
3) Ee. The boy disdains me, | 
He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys 
That place them on the truth of girls and boys. 
Why stands he so perplex’d ? 
Cym. What wouldst thou, boy ? 
I love thee more and more: think more and more 
What’s a toask. Know’st him thou look’st on ? 
spea 
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin ? thy friend ? 
Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me [sal, 
Than I to your highness; who, being born your vas- 
Am ae ah tans nearer. 
Wherefore eyest him so? 
Tin “Ill tell you, sir, in private, if you please 
To a me hearing. 
Ay, with all my heart, 
ke eval my best attention. What ’s thy name ? 
Imo. Fidele, sir. 
Cym. Thou ’rt my good youth, my page; 
ait +e thy master: walk with me; speak freely. 
[Cymbeline and Tmogen converse apart. 
Bel. Is not this boy revived from death ? 
Arv. One sand another 
Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad 
Who died, and was Fidele. What think you ? 
Gui. The same dead thing alive. 
Bel. Peace, peace! see further ; he eyes us not; 
forbear : : 
Creatures may be alike: were ’t he, I am sure 
He would have spoke to us. 
Gui. But we saw him dead. 
Bel. Be silent; let ’s see further. 
Pers, [Aside] It is my mistress: 
Since she is living, let the time run on 
To good or bad. 
[Cymbeline and Imogen come forward. 
Cym Come, stand thou by our side ; 
Maka. thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo] Sir, step 
you forth ; 
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely ; 
Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, 
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall [him. 
Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to 
Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render 
Of whom he had this ring. 
Post. [Aside] What’s that to him ? 


CYMBELINE. 


Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods | 


SCENE V. 


Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say 
How came it yours ? 

lach. Thou ’lt torture me to leave unspoken that 
Which, to be spoke, would torture thee. 

Cym. How! me? 

LIach. I am glad to be Gonetaatid to utter that 
Which torments me to conceal. By villany 
I got this ring: ’t was Leonatus’ jewel; 

Whom thou didst banish; and— which more may 
grieve thee, 

As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er lived [lord ? 

’T wixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my 

Cym. All that belongs to this. 

Lach. That paragon, thy daughter,— 
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits 
Quail to remember — Give me ‘leave ; I faint. 

Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy 

strength : 
I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will 
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak. 
lach. Upon a time,— unhappy was the clock 
That struck the hour !—it was in Rome,— accursed 
The mansion where!—’t was:at a feast ,—O, would 
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least 
Those which I heaved to head!—the good Post- 
humus — 
What should I say ? he was too good to be 
Where ill men were; and was the best of all 
Amongst the rarest of good ones,— sitting sadly, 
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy 
For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast 
Of him that best could speak, for feature, laming 
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva, 
Postures beyond brief nature, for condition, 
A shop of all the qualities that man 
Loves woman for, besides that hook of wiving, 
Fairness which strikes the eye— 


Cym. I stand on fire: 
Coice to the matter. 
Tach. All too soonI shall,  [mus, 


Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthu- 
Most like a noble lord in love and one 
That had a royal lover, took his hint ; 
And, not dispraising whom we praised,— therein 
He was as calm as virtue — he began [made, 
His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being 
And then a mind put in ’t, either our brags 
Were crack’d of kitchen-trulls, or his description 
mye us unspeaking sots. 
Nay, nay, to the purpose. 

rae Your daughter’s chastity — there it begins. 
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams, 
And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch, 
Made scruple of his praise; and wager’d with him 
Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore 
Upon his honour’d finger, to attain 
In suit the place of ’s bed and win this ring 
By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, 
No lesser of her honour confident 
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring ; 
And would so, had it been a carbuncle 
Of Phoebus’ wheel, and might so safely, had it 
Been all the worth of ’s car. Away to Britain 
Post I in this design: well may you, sir, 
Remember me at court; where I was taught 
Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 
’T wixt amorousand villanous. Being thus quench’d 
Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain 
*Gan in your duller Britain operate 
Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent : 
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d, 
That I return’d with simular proof enough 
To make the noble Leonatus mad, 
By wounding his belief in her renown 
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes 
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet — 
O cunning, how I got it! —nay, some marks 


799 


ACT V. 


Of secret on her person, that he could not 
But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, 
I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon — 
Methinks, I see him now — 

Post. [Advancing] Ay, so thou dost, 
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, 
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing 
That s due to all the villains past, in being, 
Tocome! QO, give me cord, or knife, or poison, 
Some upright justicer ! Thou, king, send out 
For torturers ingenious: it is I 
That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend 
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, 
That kill’d thy daughter :—villain-like, I liie— 
That caused a lesser villain than myself, 

A sacrilegious thief, to do ’t: the temple 

Of virtue was she ; yea, and she herself. 

Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set 

The dogs 0’ the street to bay me: every villain 

Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus: and 

Be villany less than ’t was! O Imogen! 

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, 

Imogen, Imogen! 
Imo. Peace, my lord; hear, hear— 
Post. Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scorn- 

ful page, 

There lie thy part. [Striking her: she falls. 
a8: O, gentlemen, help! 

Mine and your mistress ! O, my lord Posthumus! 

You ne’er kill’d Tmogen till now. Help, help! 

Mine honour’d lady! 

Cym. Does the world go round ? 

Post. How come these staggers on me? 

4s Wake, my mistress! 

Cane If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me 
To death with mortal j joy. 

is. How fares my mistress ? 
Imo. O, get thee from my sight; 
Thou gavest me poison : dangerous fellow, hence! 
Breathe not where princes are. 
Cym. The tune of Imogen! 
Pis. Lady, 
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if 
That box I gave you was not thought by me 
A precious thing: I had it from the queen. 

Cym. New matter still ? 

Imo. It poison’d me. 

Cor. O gods! 
I left out one thing which the queen confess’d, 
Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio 
Have’ said she ‘* given his mistress that confection 
Which I gave him for cordial, she is served 
As I would serve a rat. 

Cym. What ’s this, Cornelius ? 

Cor. The queen, sir, very oft importuned me 
To temper poisons for her, still pretending 
The satisfaction of her knowledge only 
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, 

Of no esteem : AE dreading that her purpose 
Was of more danger, did ‘compound for her 

A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would cease 
The present pow er of life, but in short time 

All offices of nature should again 

Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it ? 


Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead. 

Bel. My boys, 
There was our error. 

Gui. This is, sure, Fidele. 


Imo. Why did you throw your wedded lady from 
Think that you are upon a rock; and now _ [you? 
Throw me again. [Embracing him. 


Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul, 
Till the tree die! 
Cym. How now, my flesh, my child! 


What, makest thou me a dullard in this act ? 
Wilt thou not speak to me? 
Imo. [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. 


800 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE VY. 


Bel. [To Guiderius and Arviragus] Though you 
did love this youth, I blame ye not; 
You had a motive for ’t. 

Cym. My tears that fall 
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, 

Thy mother ’s dead. 

Imo. I am sorry for ’t, my lord. 

Cym. O, she was naught; and long of her it was 
That we meet here so strangely: but her son 
Is gone, we know not how nor where. 

Pis. y lord, 
Now fear is from me, Ill speak troth. Lovd Cloten, 
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me 
With his sword drawn; foam’d at the mouth, and 


swore, 
If I discover ’d not which way she was gone, 

It was my instant death. By accident, 

I had a feigned letter of my master’s 

Then in my pocket; which directed him 

To seek her on the mountains near to Milford ; 
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, 
Which he enforced from me, away he posts 
With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate 
My lady’s honour: what became of him 

I further know not. 


Gui. Let me end the story: 
I slew him there. 
Cym. Marry, the gods forfend! 


I would not thy good deeds should from my lips 
Pluck a hard sentence: prithee, valiant youth, 
Deny ’t again. 

Gui. I have spoke it, and I did it. 

Cym. He was a prince. 

Gui. A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me 
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me 
With language that would make me spurn the sea, 
If it could so roar to me: I cut off ’s head; 

And am right glad he is not standing here. 
To tell this tale of mine. 

Cym. I am sorry for thee: 

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must 
Endure our law: thou ’rt dead. 
That headless man 


Bind the offender, 
And Hale him from our presence. 


Imo. 
ii iene had been my lord. 


Stay, sir king: 

This man is better than the man he slew, 
As well descended as thyself; and hath 
More of thee merited than a band of Clotens 
Had ever scarfor. [To the Guard] Let his arms alone; 
They were not born for bondage. 

Cym. Why, old soldier, 
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for, 
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent 
As good as we? 

Arv. In that he spake too far. 

6) pm And thou shalt die for ’t. 

Bel. We will die all three: 

But I will prove that two on’s are as good 
As I have given out him. My sons, I must, 
For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech, 
ee haply, well for you. 

Arv Your danger ’s ours. 
Pe And our good his. 
Bel. Have at it then, by leave. 
Thou hadst, great king, a subject who 


Was Sekt Belarius. 
What of him? he is 


Cyn 
A panistd traitor. 

Bel. He it is that hath 
Assumed this age; indeed a banish’d man; 
I know not how a traitor. 

Cym. Take him hence: 
The whole world shall not save him, 

Bel. Not too hot: 
First pay me for the nursing of thy sons; 


ACT. Vi OVO B E-LYEN Fi SCENE V. 


And let it be confiscate all, so soon How parted with your brothers? how first met 
As I have received it. them ? 
Cym. Nursing of my sons! Why fled you from the court ? and whither ? These, 
Bel. I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee: | And your three motives to the battle, with 
Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons; I know not how much more, should be demanded ; 
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, And all the other by-dependencies, 
These two young gentlemen, that call me father From chance to chance: but nor the time nor 
And think they are my sons, are none of mine; Will serve our long inter’gatories. See, [place 
They are the issue of your loins, my liege, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen, 
And blood of your begetting. And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye 
Cym. How! my issue! On him, ‘her brothers, me, her master, hitting 
Bel. So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan, | Each object with a joy: the counterchange 
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d : Is severally in all. Let’s quit this eround, 
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punish- | And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. 
ment [To Belarius] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold 
Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d | thee ever. 
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes — Imo. You are my father too, and did relieve me, 
For such and so they are — these twenty years To see this gracious season. 
Have I train’d up: those arts they have as I Cym. All o’erjoy’d, 
Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as | Save ehese in bonds: let them be joyful too, 
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, For they shall taste our comfort. 
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Imo. My good master, 
Upon my banishment: I moved her to’t, |Iw ill yey do you service. 
Having received the punishment before, Oya S77. Happy be you! 
For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty Peenee ym. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, 


Excited me to treason: their dear loss, 

The more of you ’t was felt, the more it shaped 
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, 
Here are your sons again; and I must lose 

Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. 
The benediction of these covering heavens 

Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy 
To inlay heaven with stars. 

Cym. Thou weep’st, and speak’st. 
The service that you three have done is more 
Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children: 
If these be they, I know not how to wish 
A pair of worthier sons. 


He would have well becomed this place, and gr raced 
The thankings of a king. 
Post. I am, sir, 
The soldier that did company these three 
In poor beseeming; ’t was a fitment for 
The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, 
Speak, Iachimo: I had you down and might 
Have made you finish. 
Lach. [Kneeling] I am down again: 
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, 
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech 


you, 
Which I so often owe: but your ring first ; 


Bel. Be pleased awhile. And here the bracelet of the truest princess 
This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, That ever swore her faith. 
Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: Post. Kneel not to me: 
This gentleman, my Cadwal, ‘Arviragus, The power that I have on you is to spare you; 
Your younger princely son; ‘he, sir, was lapp’d The malice towards you to forgive you: live, 
In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand And deal with others better. 
Of his queen mother, which for more probation Cym. Nobly doom’d! 
I can with ease produce. We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law ; 
Cym. Guiderius had Pardon ’s the word to all. 
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star ; Arv. You holp us, sir, 
It mes a mark of wonder. As you did mean indeed to be our brother ; 
This is he; Joy’d are we that you are. 
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp: Post. Your servant, princes. Good my Jord of 
It was wise nature’s end in the donation, ome, 
To np his evidence now. Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought 
O, what, am I Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, 
A eee to the birth of three ? ES pe mother Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows 
Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be, Of mine own kindred: when I waked, I found 
That, after this strange starting from your orbs, This label on my bosom; whose containing 
You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Is so from sense in hardness, that I can 
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. Make no collection of it: let him show 
Imo. No, my lord; | His skill in the construction. 
I have got two.worlds by’t. O my gentle eae Lue. Philarmonus! 
Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter Sooth. Here, my good lord. 
But I am truest speaker : you call’d me brother, Luc Read, and declare the meaning. 
When I was but your sister; I you brothers, Sooth. [Reads] ‘When as a lion’s whelp shall, to 
When ye were so indeed. himself unknown, without seeking find, and be em- 
Cym. Did you e’er meet ? braced by a piece ‘of tender air; and when from a 
are: Ay, my good lord. stately cedar shall be lopped pranches, which, being 
Gut. And at first meeting loved; | dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to 
Continued so, until we thought he died. the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Post- 
Gym By the queen’s dram she swallow’d. humus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and 


O rare instinct! | flourish in peace and plenty.’ 
When. shall I hear all through ? This fierce abridge- | Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; 


ment The fit and apt construction of thy name, 
Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. 
Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived | [Zo Cymbeline] The piece of tender air, thy virtu- 


your ous daughter, — 
And when came you to serve our Roman captive? | Which we eall ‘mollis aer;’ and ‘ mollis aer’ 
51 801 


ACT V.. 


We term it ‘mulier:’ which ‘mulier’ I divine 
Is this most constant wife; who, even now, 
Answering the letter of the oracle, 
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about 
With this most tender air. 

Cym. 

Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, 
Personates thee: and thy lopp’d branches point 
Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol’n, 
For many years thought dead, are now revived, 
To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue 
Promises Britain peace and plenty. 

ym. Well: 
My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, 
Although the victor, we submit to Ceesar, 
And to the Roman empire; promising 
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which 
We were dissuaded by our wicked queen; 
Whom heavens, in justice, both on her and hers, 
IIave laid most heavy hand. 

Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune 


This hath some seeming. 


CYMBELINE. 


SCENE VY. 


The harmony of this peace. The vision 

Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke 

Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant 

Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle, 

From south to west on wing soaring aloft, 
Lessen’d herself, and in the beams o’ the sun 

So vanish’d: which foreshow’d our princely eagie, 
The imperial Cesar, should again unite 

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, 

Which shines here in the west. 

Oym. Laud we the gods; 
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils 
From our blest altars. Publish we this peace 
To all our subjects. Set we forward: let 
A Roman and a British ensign wave 


| Friendly together: so through Lud’s-town march: 


And in the temple of great Jupiter 

Our peace we ’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. 

Set on there! Never was a war did cease, 

Ere bioody hands were wash’d, with such a peace. 
[ Hxewnt 


IMOGEN IN THE CAVE. —AcTIITI., Scene vi. 


PERICLES. 


DRAMATIS PERSON 4. 


Antiochus, King of Antioch. 
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 
aaa two lords of 
Escanes, | 
Simonides, King of Pentapolis. 
Cleon, Governor of Tarsus. 
Lysimachus, Governor of Mytilene. 
Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus. 
Thaliard, a lord of Antioch. 
Philemon, servant to Cerimon. 
Leonine, servant to Dionyza. 
Marshal. 

A Pandar. 

Boult, his servant. 


Deve! 


The Daughter of Antiochus. 

Dionyza, wife to Cleon. 

Thaisa, daughter to Simonides. 

Marina, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa. 
Lychorida, nurse to Marina. 

A Bawa. 


Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, 
and Messengers. 


Diana. 


Gower, as Chorus. 


SCENE — Dispersedly in various countries, 


[ For an Analysis of the Plot of this Play, see page LXvill. | 


2a dg BE ie 


Enter Gower. 
Before the patace of Antioch. 


To sing a song that old was sung, 

From ashes ancient Gower is come; 
Assuming man’s infirmities, 

To glad your ear, and please your eyes. 
It hath been sung at festivals, 

On ember-eves and holy-ales ; 

And lords and ladies in their lives 

Have read it for restoratives: 

The purchase is to make men glorious ; 
Et bonum quo antiquius, eo melius. 

If you, born in these latter times, 

When wit ’s more ripe, accept my rhymes, 
And that to hear an old man sing 

May to your wishes pleasure bring, 

I life would wish, and that I might 
Waste it for you, like taper-light. 

This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great 
Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat ; ’ 
The fairest in all Syria, 

I tell you what mine authors say: 

This king unto him took a fere, 

Who died and left a female heir, 

So buxom, blithe, and full of face, 

As heaven had lent her all his grace; 
With whom the father liking took, 

And her to incest did provoke: 


Bad child; worse father! to entice his own 


To evil should be done by none: 
But custom what they did begin 
Was with long use account no sin. 
The beauty of this sinful dame 
Made many princes thither frame, 
To seek her as a bed-fellow, 

In marriage-pleasures play-fellow : 
Which to prevent he made a law, 
To keep her still, and men in awe, 
That whoso ask’d her for his wife, 
His riddle told not, lost his life: 


So for her many a wight did die, 

As yon grim looks do testify. 

What now ensues, to the judgment of your eye 

I give, my cause who best can justify. [ Heit. 


SCENE I.— Antioch. A room in the palace. 


Enter Antiochus, Prince Pericles, and followers. 


Ant. Young prince of Tyre, you have at large re- 
The danger of the task you undertake. [ceived 
Per. have, Antiochus, and, with a soul 
Embolden’d with the glory of her praise, 
Think death no hazard in this enterprise. 
Ant. Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride, 
For the embracements even of Jove himself ; 
At whose conception, till Lucina reign’d, 
Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence, 
The senate-house of planets all did sit, 
To knit in her their best pefections. 


Music. Enter the Daughter of Antiochus. 


Per. See where she comes, apparell’d like the 
spring, 
Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king 
Of every virtue gives renown to men! 
Her face the book of praises, where is read 
Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence 
Sorrow were ever razed, and testy wrath 
Could never be her mild companion. 
You gods that made me man, and sway in love, 
That have inflamed desire in my breast 
To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree, 
Or die in the adventure, be my helps, 
As Iam son and servant to your will, 
To compass such a boundless happiness ! 
Ant. Prince Pericles,— 7 
Per. That would be son to great Antiochus. 
Ant. Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, 
With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch’d ,; 
For death-like dragons here affright thee hard: 
Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view 
Her countless glory, which desert must gain ; 


803 


ACT 1. 


And which, without desert, because thine eye 
Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die. 
Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself, 
Drawn by report, adventurous by desire, [pale, 
Tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance 
That without covering, save yon field of stars, 
Here they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars; 
And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist 
For going on death’s net, whom none resist. 
Per. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught 
My frail mortality to know itself, 
And by those fearful objects to prepare 
This body, like to them, to what I must; 
For death remember’d should be like a mirror, 
Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error. 
Ill make my will then, and, as sick men do 
Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe, 
Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did; 
So I bequeath a happy peace to you 
And all good men, as every prince should do; 
My riches to the earth from whence they came; 
But my unspotted fire of love to you. 
[To the daughter of Antiochus. 
Thus ready for the way of life or death, 
I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus. 
Ant. Scorning advice, read the conclusion, then: 
Which read and not expounded, ’tis decreed, 
As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed. 
Daugh. Of all say’d yet, mayst thou prove pros- 
Of all say’d yet, I wish thee happiness! [perous! 
Per. Like a bold champion, I assume the lists, 
Nor ask advice of any other thought 
But faithfulness and courage. 
He reads the riddle. 
I am no viper, yet I feed 
-On mother’s flesh which did me breed. 
I sought a husband, in which labour 
I found that kindness in a father: 
He’s father, son, and husband mild; 
I mother, wife, and yet his child. 
How they may be, and yet in two, 
As you will live, resolve it you. 
Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers 
That give heaven countless eyes to view men’s acts, 
Why cloud they not their sights perpetually, 
If this be true, which makes me pale to read it ? 
Fair glass of light, I loved you, and could still, 
[Takes hold of the hand of the Princess. 
Were not this glorious casket stored with ill: 
But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt ; 
For he’s no man on whom perfections wait 
That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate. 
You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings ; 
Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music, 
Would draw heaven down, and all the gods, to 
But being play’d upon before your time, [hearken ; 
Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime. 
Good sooth, I care not for you. 
Ant. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life, 
For that’s an article within our law, 
As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expired: 
Hither expound now, or receive your sentence. 
Per. Great king, | 
Few love to hear the sins they love to act; 
*T would braid yourself too near for me to tell it. 
Who has a book of all that monarchs do, 
He’s more secure to keep it shut than shown: 
For vice repeated is like the wandering wind, 
Blows dust in others’ eyes, to spread itself ; 
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, 
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear: 
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole 
casts [throng’d 
Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is 
By Bar ie Mas decay and the poor worm doth die 
or ’t. 
Kings are earth’s gods; in vice their law ’s their will; 
804 


PERICLES. 


If it be true that I interpret false, 
| 
| 


SCENE f, 


And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill ? 
It is enough you know; and it is fit, 
What being more known grows worse, to smother it. 
All love the womb that their first being bred, 
Then give my tongue like leave to love my head. 
Ant. [Aside] Heaven, that I had thy head! he has 
found the meaning: 
But I will gloze with him.— Young prince of Tyre, 
Though by the tenour of our strict edict, 
Your exposition misinterpreting, 
We might proceed to cancel of your days; 
Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree. 
As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise: 
Forty days longer we do respite you; 
If by which time our secret be undone, 
This mercy shows we’ll joy in such a son: 
And until then your entertain shall be 
As doth befit our honour and your worth. 
[Hxeunt all but Pericles. 
Per. How courtesy would seem to cover sin, 
When what is done is like an hypocrite, 
The which is good in nothing but in sight! 


Then were it certain you were not so bad 

As with foul incest to abuse your soul; 
Where now you’re both a father and a son, 
By your untimely claspings with your child, 
Which pleasure fits an husband, not a father; 
And she an eater of her mother’s flesh, 

By the defiling of her parent’s bed ; 


And both like serpents are, who though they feed 


On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed. 
Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men 
Blush not in actions blacker than the night, 
Will shun no course to keep them from the light. 
One sin, I know, another doth provoke ; 

Murder ’s as near to lust as flame to smoke: 
Poison and treason are the hands of sin, 

Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame: 

Then, lest my life be cropp’d to keep you clear, 


By flight I’ shun the danger which I fear. [zi. 


Re-enter Antiochus. 


Ant. He hath found the meaning, for which we 
To have his head. {mean 
He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy, 
Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin 
In such a loathed manner ; 

And therefore instantly this prince must die; 
For by his fall my honour must keep high. 
Who attends us there ? 


Enter Thaliard. 


Thal. Doth your highness call ? 
Ant. Thaliard, 

You are of our chamber, and our mind partakes 

Her private actions to your secrecy ; 

And for your faithfulness we will advance you. 

Thaliard, behold, here ’s poison, and here ’s gold; 

We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him: 

It fits thee not to ask the reason why, 

Because we bid it. Say, is it done? 

| Thal. My lord, 

| "Tis done. 

Ant. Enough. 


Enter a Messenger. 


| Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste. 
_ Mess. My lord, prince Pericles is fled. [ Hoctt. 
| Ant. As thou 
_ Wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot 
From a well-experienced archer hits the mark 
His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return 
Unless thou say ‘ Prince Pericles is dead.’ 
Thal. My lord, 
If I can get him within my pistol’s length, {ness. 
Ill make him sure enough: so, farewell to your high- 


ACT TY. 


Ant. Thaliard, adieu! [Hzit Thal.] Till Pericles 
be dead, 
My heart can lend no succour to my head. = [ Evit. 


SCENE II.— Tyre. A room in the palace. 


Enter Pericles. 


Per. [To Lords without] Let none disturb us.— 

Why should this change of thoughts, 

The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy, 

Be my so used a guest as not an hour, 

In the day’s glorious walk, or peaceful night, 

The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me 
quiet ? [them, 

Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun 

And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch, 

Whose aim seems far too short to hit me here: 

Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits, 

Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me. 

Then it is thus: the passions of the mind, 

That have their first conception by mis-dread, 

Have after-nourishment and life by care; 

And what was first but fear what might be done, 

Grows elder now and cares it be not done. 

And so with me: the great Antiochus, 

*Gainst whom I am too little to contend, 

Since he’s so great can make his will his act, 

Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence; 

Nor boots it me to say I honour him. 

If he suspect I may dishonour him: 

And what may make him blush in being known, 

He’ll stop the course by which it might be known ; 

With hostile forces he ’ll o’erspread the land, 

And with the ostent of war will look so huge, 

Amazement shall drive courage from the state; 

Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist, 

And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought offence: 

Which care of them, not pity of myself, 

Who am no more but as the tops of trees, 

Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them, 

Makes both my body pine and soul to languish, 

And punish that before that he would punish. 


Enter Helicanus, with other Lords. 


First Lord. Joy and all comfort in your sacred 

breast ! [to us, 

Sec. Lord. And keep your mind, till you return 
Peaceful and comfortable! | 

Hel. Peace, peace, and give experience tongue. 
They do abuse the king that flatter him: 

For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; 

The thing the which is flatter’d, but a spark, 

To which that blast gives heat and stronger glow- 
Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, [ing ; 
Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err. 
When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace, 
He flatters you, makes war upon your life. 

Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please ; 

I cannot be much lower than my knees. 

Per. All leave us else; but let your cares o’erlook 
What shipping and what lading ’s in our haven, 
And men return tous. [Hxeunt Lords.] Helicanus, 

ou 
Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks ? 

Hel. An angry brow, dread lord. 

Per. If there be such a dart in princes’ frowns, 
How durst thy tongue move anger to our face ? 

Hel. How dare the plants look up to heaven, from 
They have their nourishment ? [whence 

Per. Thou know’st I have power 
To take thy life from thee. 

Hel. [Kneeling] I have ground the axe myself; 
Do you but strike the blow. 

er. Rise, prithee, rise. 
Sit down: thou art no flatterer: 
I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid 
That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid! 


PERICLES. 


SCENE III. 


Fit counsellor and servant for a prince, 
Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant, 
What wouldst thou have me do? 
. Hel. To bear with patience 
Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself. 
Per. Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus, 
That minister’st a potion unto me 
| That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself. 
Attend me, then: I went to Antioch, 
Where as thou know’st, against the face of death, 
J sought the purchase of a glorious beauty, 
| rom whence an issue I might propagate, 
Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects. 
Tier face was to mine eye beyond all wonder; 
The rest — hark in thine ear—as black as incest: 
Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father 
Seem’d not to strike, but smooth: but thou know’st 
’T is time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. [this, 
Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled, 
Under the covering of a careful night, 
Who seem’d my good protector; and, being here, 
Bethought me what was past, what might succeed. 
I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants’ fears 
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years: 
And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth, 
That I should open to the listening air 
How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed, 
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope, 
To lop that doubt, he ’Il fill this land with arms, 
And make pretence of wrong that I have done him ; 
When all, for mine, if I may call offence, 
Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence: 
Which love to all, of which thyself art one, 
Who now reprovest me for it,— 
Hel Alas, sir! 


el, 
Per. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from 
my cheeks, 
Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts 
How I might stop this tempest ere it came; 
And finding little comfort to relieve them, 
I thought it princely charity to grieve them. 
Hel. Well, my lord, since you have given me 
leave to speak, 
Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear, 
And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant, 
Who either by public war or private treason 
Will take away your life. 
Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while, 
Till that his rage and anger be forgot, 
Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. 
Your rule direct to any; if to me, 
Day serves not light more faithful than I ’Il be. 
Per. I do not doubt thy faith ; 
But should he wrong my liberties in my absence? 
Hel. We’llmingle our bloods together in the earth, 
From whence we had our being and our birth. 
Per. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to 
Tarsus 
Intend my travel, where I ’ll hear from thee; 
And by whose letters I ’l1 dispose myself. 
The care I had and have of subjects’ good 
On thee I lay, whose wisdom’s strength can bear it. 
I ‘ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath: 
Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both : 
But in our orbs we ’ll live so round and safe, 
That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince, 
Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a true prince. 
[ Hxeunt 


SCENE III.— Tyre. An ante-chamber in the palace. 


Enter Thaliard. 

Thal. So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here 
must I kill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am 
sure to be hanged at home: ’tis dangerous. Well, 
I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good dis- 
eretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the 

805 


ACT T: PHAR 


king, desired he might know none of his secrets: 
now do I see he had some reason for ’t; for ifa king 
bid a man be a villain, he’s bound by the indenture 
of his oath to be one. Hush! here come the lords 
of Tyre. 


Enter Helicanus and Escanes, with other Lords 

of Tyre. 

Hel. You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre, 
Further to question me of your king’s departure: 
His seal’d commission, left in trust with me, 

Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel. 

Thal. [Aside] How! the king gone! 

Hel. It further yet you will be satisfied, 

Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves, 

He would depart, I ‘ll give some light unto you. 

Being at Antioch 
Thal. [Aside] What from Antioch ? 

Hel. ole Antiochus —on what cause I know 

not— 

Took some displeasure at him ; at least he judged so: 

And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d, 

To show his sorrow, he’ld correct himself ; 

So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil, 

With whom each minute threatens life or death. 
Thal. [Aside] Well, I perceive 

I shall not be hang’d now, although I would; 

But since he’s gone, the king’s seas must please: 

He ’seaped the land, to perish at the sea. 

Ill present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre! 
Hel. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome. 
Thal. From him I come 

With message unto princely Pericles ; 

But since my landing i have understood 

Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels, 

My message must return from whence it came. 

_ Hel. We have no reason to desire it, 

Commended to our master, not to us: 

Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire, 

As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. 

[ Heeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Tarsus. A room in the Governor’s 
house. 


Enter Cleon, the governor of Tharsus, with Dionyza, 
and others. 


Cle. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here, 
And by relating tales of others’ griefs, 
See if ’t will teach us to forget our own ? 
Dio. That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it ; 
For who digs hills because they do aspire 
Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. 
O my distressed lord, even such our griefs are; 
Here they ’re but felt, and seen with mischief ’s eyes, 
But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise. 
Ole. O Dionyza, 
Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it, 
Or can conceal his hunger till he famish ? 
Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep 
Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep, 
Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them 
louder ; 
That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want, 
They may awake their helps to comfort them. 
Ill then discourse our woes, felt several years, 
And wanting breath to speak help me with tears. 
Dio. I'll do my best, sir. 
Cle. This Tarsus, o’er which I have the govern- 
ment, 
A city on whom plenty held full hand, 
For riches strew’d herself even in the streets ; 
Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d the 
clouds, 
And strangers ne’er beheld but wonder’d at ; 
Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d, 
Like one another’s glass to trim them by: 


S06 


CLES. 


| Their tables were stored full, to glad the sight, 
And not so much to feed on as delight ; 
All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great, 
The name of help grew odious to repeat. 
Dio. O, tis too true. 
| Cle. But see what heaven can do! 
| change, 
These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air, 
Were all too little to content and please, 
Although they gave their creatures in abundance, 
As houses are defiled for want of use, 
They are now starved for want of exercise: 
Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, 
Must have inventions to delight the taste, 
Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it: 
Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes, 
Thought nought too curious, are ready now 
To eat those little darlings whom they loved. 
So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and wife 
Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life: 
Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping ; 
Here many sink, yet those which see them fall 
Have scarce strength left to give them burial. 
Is not this true ? 
Dio. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it. 
Cle. O, let those cities that of plenty’s cup 
And her prosperities so largely taste, 
With their superfluous riots, hear these tears! 
The misery of Tarsus may be theirs. 


Enter a Lord. 

Lord. Where’s the lord governor ? 

Cle. Here. 

Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in haste, 
lor comfort is too far for us to expect. 

oie We have descried, upon our neighbouring 

shore, 

A portly sail of ships make hitherward. 

le. I thought as much. 
| One sorrow never comes but brings an heir, 
That may succeed as his inheritor; 
And so in ours: some neighbouring nation, 
Taking advantage of our misery, 
Hath stuff’d these hollow vessels with their power, 
To beat us down, the which are down already ; 
And make a conquest of unhappy me, 
Whereas no glory ’s got to overcome, 

Lord. That’s the least fear; for, by the semblance 
Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace, 
And come to us as favourers, not as foes. 

Cle. Thou speak’st like him’s untutor’d to repeat : 
Who makes the fairest show means most deceit. 
But bring they what they will and what they can, 
What need we fear ? 

The ground ’s the lowest, and we are half way there. 
Go tell their general we attend him here, 
To know for what he comes, and whence he comes, 
And what he craves. 
Lord. I go, my lord. [ Ett. 
Cle. Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist ; 
If wars, we are unable to resist. 


SCENE IV. 


aed 


By this our 


Enter Pericles with Attendants. 


Per. Lord governor, for so we hear you are, 
Let not our ships and number of our men 
Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes. 
We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, 
And seen the desolation of your streets: 
Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears, 
But to relieve them of their heavy load ; 
And these our ships, you happily may think 
| Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within 
With bloody veins, expecting overthrow, 
Are stored with corn to make your needy bread, 
And give them life whom hunger starved half dead. 
_ All. The gods of Greece protect you! 
| And we’ll pray for you. 


a 
7. 
‘sy 
» 


ACT, LL. 


Pere Arise, I pray you, rise: 
We do not look for reverence, but for love, 
And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men. 
Cle. The which when any shall not gratify, 
Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought, 
Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves, 


PERICLES 


SCENE I, 


The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils! 
Till when,—the which I hope shall ne’er be seen,— 
Your grace is welcome to our town and us. 
Perv. Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here 
awhile, 
Until our stars that frown lend usasmile. [Exeunt. 


via OO Daeeene Bel Oe 


Enter Gower. 


Gow. Here have you seen a mighty king 
His child, I wis, to incest bring ; 
A better prince and benign lord, 
That will prove awful both in deed and word. 
Be quiet then as men should be, 
Till he hath pass’d necessity. 
I’) show you those in troubles reign, 
Losing a mite, a mountain gain. 
The good in conversation, 
To whom I give my benison, 
Is still at Tarsus, where each man 
Thinks all is writ he speken can; 
And, to remember what he does, 
Build his statue to make him glorious: 
But tidings to the contrary 
Are brought your eyes; what need speak I ? 


Dumb Show. 


Enter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon; all the 
train with them. Hnter at another door a Gentleman, 
with a letter to Pericles; Pericles shows the letter to 
Cleon ; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. 
Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another. 

Good Helicane, that stay’d at home, 

Not to eat honey like a drone 

From others’ labours; for though he strive 
To killen bad, keep good alive; 

And to fulfil his prince’ desire, 

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre: 

How Thaliard came full bent with sin 
And had intent to murder him; 

And that in Tarsus was not best 

Longer for him to make his rest. 

He, doing so, put forth to seas, 

Where when men been, there ’s seldom ease ; 
For now the wind begins to blow; 
Thunder above and deeps below 

Make such unquiet, that the ship 

Should house him safe is wreck’d and split; 
And he, good prince, having all lost, 

By waves from coast to coast is tost: 

All perishen of man, of pelf, 

Ne aught escapen but himself ; 

Till fortune, tired with doing bad, 

Threw him ashore, to give him glad: 

And here he comes. What shall be next, 


Pardon old Gower,— this longs the text. [Hvit. | 


SCENE I.—Pentapolis. 
side. 


Enter Pericles, wet. 


Per. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven ! 
Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man 
Is but a substance that must yield to you; 

And I, as fits my nature, do obey you: 

Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks, 

Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath 
Nothing to think on but ensuing death: 

Let it suffice the greatness of your powers 

To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes; 

And having thrown him from your watery grave, 
Here to have death in peace is all he ’1] crave. 


An open place by the sea- | 


Enter three Fishermen. 
First Fish. What, ho, Pilch! 
’ 

Sec. Fish. Ha, come and bring away the nets! 
First Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say! 

Mi 
Third Fish. What say you, master ? 

y you, 

First Fish. Look how thou stirrest now! come 
away, or Ill fetch thee with a wanion. 

Third Fish. ’Faith, master, I am thinking of 
the poor men that were cast away before us even 
now. 

First Fish. Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart 

I , 1g y 
to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help 


| them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help our- 


selves. 

Third fish. Nay, master, said not I as much 
when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tum- 
bled? they say they ’re half fish, half flesh: a 


| plague on them, they ne’er come but I look to be 


washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in 
the sea. 

First Fish. Why, as men do a-land; the great 
ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich 
misers to nothing so fitly as toa whale; a’ plays 
and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and 
at last devours them all at a mouthful: such whales 
have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave gap- 
ing till they ’ve swallowed the whole parish, church, 
steeple, bells, and all. 

Per. [Aside] A pretty moral. 

Third Fish. But, master, if I had been the sex- 
ton, I would have been that day in the belfry. 

Sec. Fish. Why, man? 

Third Fish. Because he should have swallowed 
me too: and when I had been in his belly, I would 
have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he 
should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, 
church, and parish, up again. But if the good 
King Simonides were of my mind,— 

Per. [Aside] Simonides! 

Third Fish. We would purge the land of these 
drones, that rob the bee of her honey. 

Per. [Aside] How from the finny subject of the 
These fishers tell the infirmities of men; [sea 
And from their watery empire recollect 
All that may men approve or men detect! 

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen. 

Sec. Fish. Honest! good fellow, what’s that? 

If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, 


' and nobody look after it. 


Per. May see the sea hath cast upon your coast. 
Sec. Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea to 


cast thee in our way! 


Per. A man whom both the waters and the wind, 
In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball 


_ For them to play upon, entreats you pity him; 


He asks of you, that never used to beg. 

First Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg? Here’s 
them in our country of Greece gets more with 
begging than we can do with working. 

Sec. Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes, then ? 

Per. I never practised it. 

Sec. Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for 
here ’s nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou 
canst fish for ’t. 


807 


ACT II. PERICLES. SCENE II. 


Per. What I have been I have forgot to know; | And if that ever my low fortune ’s better, 


But what I am, want teaches me to think on: I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor. 
A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill, First Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady ? 
And have no more of life than may suffice Per. 1711] show the virtue I have borne in arms. 
To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; First Fish. Why, do ’e take it, and the gods give 
Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, thee good on ’t! 

For that I am a man, pray see me buried. Sec. Fish. Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’t was 


First Fish. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I | we that made up this garment through the rough 
have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee | seams of the waters: there are certain condole- 
warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, | ments, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, 
thou shalt go home, and we’ll have flesh for holi- | you ll remember from whence you had it. 
days, fish for fasting-days, and moreo’er puddings Per. Believe ’t, I will. 


and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. By your furtherance I am clothed in steel; 
Per. I thank you, sir. And, spite of all the rapture of the sea, 
Sec. Fish. Hark you, my friend; you said you ; This jewel holds his building on my arm: 
could not beg. | Unto thy value I will mount myself 
Per. I did but crave. | Upon a courser, whose delightful steps 
Sec. Fish. But crave! Then Ill turn craver | Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread. 


too, and so I shall ’scape whipping. Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided 

Per. Why, are all your beggars whipped, then? | Of a pair of bases. 

Sec. Fish. O, not all, my friend, not all; for if Sec. Fish. We’ll sure provide: thou shalt have 
all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no | my best gown to make thee a pair; and Ill bring 
better office than to be beadle. But, master, Ill | thee to the court myself. 


go draw up the net. [Evit with Third Fisherman. Per. Then honour be but a goal to my will, 
Per. { Aside] How well this honest mirth becomes | This day I’l rise, or else add ill to ill. [ Haeunt. 


their labour ! 

First sae Hark you, sir, do you know where ye 

are | 

Per. Not well. 

First Fish. Why, 17ll tell you: this is called 
Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides. 

Per. The good King Simonides, do you call him? 

First Fish. Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called 
for his peaceable reign and good government. 

Per. He is a happy king, since he gains from his 
subjects the name of good by his government. How 
far is his court distant from this shore ? 

First Fish. Marry, sir, half a day’s journey: and 
Ill tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow 
is her birth-day; and there are princes and knights 
come from all parts of the world to just and tourney 
for her love. 

Per. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I 
could wish to make one there. 

First Fish. O, sir, things must be as they may; 
and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal 
for — his wife’s soul. 


SCENE II. —The same. A public way or platform 
leading to the lists. A pavilion by the side vi at for 
the reception of the King, Princ s, Lords, &c. 


Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, and At- 
tendants. , 

Sim. Are the knights ready to begin the triumph ? 

First Lord. They are, my liege; 
And stay your coming to present themselves. 

Sim. Return them, we are ready; and our daughter, 
In honour of whose birth these triumphs are, 
Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom nature gat 
For men to see, and seeing wonder at. 

[ Exit a Lord. 


Thai. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express 
My commendations great, whose merit ’s less. 
Sim. It’s fit it should be so; for princes are 
A model, which heaven makes like to itself: 
As jewels lose their glory if neglected, 
So princes their renowns if not respected. 
°T is now your honour, daughter, to explain 
The labour of each knight in his device. [form. 


ee-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing | ‘Thai, Which, to preserve mine honour, Ill per- 


up a net. 

Sec. Fish. Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs 
in the net, like a poor man’s right in the law; ’t will 
hardly come out. Ha! bots on’t, ’t is come at last, 
and ’t is turned to a rusty armour. Thai. A knight of Sparta, my renowned father ; 

Per. Anarmour, friends! I pray you, let me see it. | And the device he bears upon his shield 


| 

Enter a Knight; he passes over, and his Squire 
Thanks, fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses, Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun; 

' 


presents his shield to the Princess. 
Sim. Who is the first that doth prefer himself ? 


Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself ; The word, ‘ Lux tua vita mihi.’ 
And though it was mine own. part of my heritage, Sim. He loves you well that holds his life of you. 
Which my dead father did bequeath to me, [The Second Knight passes over. 
With this strict charge, even as he left his life, Who is the second that presents himself ? 
‘Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield Thai. A prince of Macedon, my royal father; 
*Twixt me and death ; ’—and pointed to this brace ;— | And the device he bears upon his shield 
‘For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity— | Is an arm’d knight that’s conquer’d by a lady; 
The which the gods protect thee from!—may de- | The motto thus, in Spanish, ‘Piu por dulzura que 
fend thee.’ por fuerza.’ 

It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it; 
Till the rough seas, that spare not any man, 
Took it in rage, though calm’d have given ’t again: 
I thank thee for ’t: my shipwreck now’s no ill, 
Since I have here my father’s gift in ’s will. 

First Fish. What mean you, sir ? 

Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth, 
For it was sometime target to a king; 
I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly, 
And for his sake I wish the having of it; 
And that you ‘ld guide me to your sovereign’s court, 
Where with it I may appear a gentleman ; 

808 


[The Third Knight passes over. 
Sim. And what’s the third ? 
Thai. The third of Antioch; 
And his device, a wreath of chivalry ; 
The word, ‘ Me pomp provexit apex.’ 
[The Fourth Knight passes over. 
Sim. What is the fourth ? 
Thai. A burning torch that ’s turned upside down; 
The word, ‘ Quod me alit, me extinguit.’? 
Sim. Which shows that beauty hath his power and 
Which can as well inflame as it can kill. [will, 
[The Fifth Knight passes over. 


Rt eat 


ACT II. 


Thai. The fifth, an hand environed with clouds, 
Tiolding out gold that ’s by the touchstone tried ; 
The motto thus, ‘Sic spectanda fides.’ 

[The Sixth Knight, Pericles, passes over. 

Sim. And what ’s 
The sixth and last, the which the knight himself 
With such a graceful courtesy deliver’d ? 

That. He seems to be a stranger ; but his present is 
A wither’d branch, that’s only green at top; 

The motto, ‘ In hac spe vivo.’ 
Sim. A pretty moral ; 
From the dejected state wherein he is, 
He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish. 
First Lord. He had need mean better than his 
outward show 
Can any way speak in his just commend ; 
For by his rusty outside he appears 
To have practised more the whipstock than the lance. 

Sec. Lord. He well may be a stranger, for he comes 
To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished. [rust 

Third Lord. And on set purpose let his armour 
Until this day, to scour it in the dust. 

Sim. Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan 
The outward habit by the inward man. 

But stay, the knights are coming: we will withdraw 
Into the gallery. [ Heunt. 
[Great shouts within, and all ery ‘The mean 

¢ knight !° 


‘SCENE III.—The same. A hall of state: a ban- 
quet prepared. 


Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants, 
and Knights, from tilting. 
Sim. Knights, 
To say you ’re welcome were superfluous. 
To place upon the volume of your deeds, 
As in a title-page, your worth in arms, 
Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit, 
Since every worth in show commends itself. 
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast : 
You are princes and my guests. 
Thai. But you, my knight and guest ; 
To whom this wreath of victory I give, 
And crown you king of this day’s happiness. 
Per. ’T is more by fortune, lady, than by merit. 
Sim. Call it by what you will, the day is yours; 
And here, I hope, is none that envies it. 
In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed, 
To make some good, but others to exceed ; 
And you are her labour’d scholar. Come, queen 0’ 
the feast ,— 
For, daughter, so you are, — here take your place: 
Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace. 
Knights. Weare honour’d much by goodSimonides. 
Sim. Your presence glads our days: honour we 
For who hates honour hates the gods above. [love; 
Marshal. Sir, yonder is your place. 
Pew Some other is more fit. 
First Knight. Contend not, sir; for we are gentle- 
That neither in our hearts nor outwardeyes [men 
Envy the great nor do the low despise. 
Per. You are right courteous knights. 
Sim. Sit, sir, sit. 
Per. By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts, 
These cates resist me, she but thought upon. 
Thai. By Juno, that is queen of marriage, 
AlJ viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, fman. 
Wishing him mymeat. Sure,he’s a gallant gentle- 
Sim. He’s but a country gentleman; 
Has done no more than other knights have done; 
Has broken a staff or so; so let it pass. 
Thai. 'To me he seems like diamond to glass. 
Per. Yon king ’s to me like to my father’s picture, 
Which tells me in that glory once he was: 
Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne, 
And he the sun, for them to reverence ; 


PERICLES. 


SCENE III 


None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights, 
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy: 
Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night, 
The which hath fire in darkness, none in light: 
Whereby I see that Time ’s the king of men, 
He’s both their parent, and he is their grave, 
And gives them what he will, not what they crave, 
Sim. What, are you merry, knights ? 
Knights. Who can be other in this royal presence ? 
Sik Here, with a cup that’s stored unto the 
rim ,— ; 
As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,— 
We drink this health to you. 
Knights. 
Sim. Yet pause awhile: 
Yon knight doth sit too melancholy, 
As if the entertainment in our court 
Had not a show might countervail his worth. 
Note it not you, Thaisa ? 


We thank your grace. 


Thai. What is it 
To me, my father ? 
Sim. O, attend, my daughter: 


Princes in this should live like gods above, 


| Who freely give to every one that comes 


To honour them: 
And princes not doing so are like to gnats, 
Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at. 
Therefore to make his entrance more sweet, 
Here, say we drink this standing-bow] of wine to him. 
Thai. Alas, my father, it befits not me 
Unto a stranger knight to be so bold: 
He may my proffer take for an offence, 
Since men take women’s gifts for impudence. 
Sim. How! 
Do as I bid you, or you 7ll move me else. 
Thai. [Aside] Now, by the gods, he could not 
please me better. [of him, 
Sim. And furthermore tell him, we desire to know 
Of whence he is, his name and parentage. 
Thai. The king my father, sir, has drunk to you. 
Per. I thank him. 
Thai. Wishing it so much blood unto your life. 
Per. I thank both him and you, and pledge him 


reely. 
Thai. ee further he desires to know of you, 

Of whence you are, your name and parentage. 
Per. A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles; 

My education been in arts and arms; 

Who, looking for adventures in the world, 

Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, 

And after shipwreck driven upon this shore. 

Thai. He thanks your grace; names_ himself 
A gentleman of Tyre, [Pericles, 
Who only by misfortune of the seas 
Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore. 

Sim. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune, 
And will awake him from his melancholy. 

Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles, 

And waste the time, which looks for other revels. 

Even in your armours, as you are address’d, 

Will very well become a soldier’s dance. 

I will not have excuse, with saying this 

Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads, 

Since they love men in arms as well as beds. 

[The Knights dance. 

So, this was well ask’d, ’t was so well perform’d. 

Come, sir; 

Here is a lady that wants breathing too: 

And I have heard, you knights of Tyre 

Are excellent in making ladies trip; 

And that their measures are as excellent. flord. 
Per. In those that practise them they are, my 
Sim. O, that’s as much as you would be denied 

Of your fair courtesy. 

| The Knights and Ladies dance. 
Unclasp, unclasp: 
Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well. 
809 


ACT Il. 


[To Per.| But you the best. Pages and lights, to 
conduct 
These knights unto their several lodgings! [Zo 
Per.| Yours, sir, 
We have given order to be next our own. 
Per. I am at your grace’s pleasure. 
Sim. Princes, it is too late to talk of love; 
And that ’s the mark I know you level at: 
Therefore each one betake him to his rest ; 
To-morrow all for speeding do their best. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.—Tyre. A voom in the Governor’s house. 


Enter Helicanus and Escanes. 


Hel. No, Escanes, know this of me, 
Antiochus from incest lived not free: 
For which, the most high gods not minding longer 
To withhold the vengeance that they had in store, 
Due to this heinous capital offence, 
Even in the height and pride of all his glory, 
When he was seated in a chariot 
Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him, 
A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up 
Their bodies, even to loathing; for they so stunk, 
That all those eyes adored them ere their fall 
Scorn now their hand should give them burial. 

Esca. "LT was very strange. 

Fel. And yet but justice; for though 
This king were great, his greatness was no guard 
To bar heaven’s shaft, but sin had his reward. 

Esca. ’T is very true. 


Enter two or three Lords. 


First Lord. See, not a man in private conference 
Or council has respect with him but he. [proof. 
Sec. Lord. It shall no longer grieve without re- 
Third Lord. And cursed be he that will not sec- 
ond it. |word. 

First Lord. Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a 

Hel. With me? and welcome: happy day, my 

lords. [top, 

First Lord. Know that our griefs are risen to the 
And now at length they overflow their banks. 

Hel. Your griefs! for what? wrong not your 

prince you love. [Helicane ; 

First Lord. Wrong not yourself, then, noble 
But if the prince do live, let us salute him, 

Or know what ground ’s made happy by his breath. 
If in the world he live, we ’ll seek him out; 
If in his grave he rest, we ’l find him there ; 
And be resolved he lives to govern us, 
Or dead, give ’s cause to mourn his funeral, 
And leave us to our free election. 
Sec. Lord. Whose death indeed’s the strongest 
in our censure: 
And knowing this kingdom is without a head,— 
Like goodly buildings left without a roof 
Soon fall to ruin,— your noble self, 
That best know how to rule and how to reign, 
We thus submit unto,—our sovereign. 

All, Live, noble Helicane! 

Hel. For honour’s cause, forbear your suffrages: 
If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear. 

Take I your wish, I leap into the seas, 
Where ’s hourly trouble for a minute’s ease. 
A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you to 
Forbear the absence of your king; 

If in which time expired, he not return, 

I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. 
But if I cannot win you to this love, 

Go search like nobles, like noble subjects, 
And in your search spend your adventurous worth ; 
Whom if you find, and win unto return, 
You shall like diamonds sit about his crown. 

First Lord. To wisdom he’s a fool that will not 
And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us, [yield ; 
We with our travels will endeavour us. 

S10 


PERICLES. 


SCENE V. 


| Hel. Then you love us, we you, and we’ll clasp 

/ hands: 

| When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands. 
' [ Hxeunt. 


SCENE V.—Pentapolis. 


Enter Simonides, reading a letter, at one door: the 
Knights meet him. 

First Knight. Good morrow to the good Simonides. 

Sim. Knights, from my daughter this I let you 


A room in the palace. 


know, 

That for this twelvemonth she 7] not undertake 

A married life. 

Her reason to herself is only known, 

Which yet from her by no means can I get. [lord ? 
Sec. Knight. May we not get access to her, my 
Sim. ’Faith, by no means; she has so strictly tied 

Her to her chamber, that ’tis impossible. 

One twelve moons more she I] wear Diana’s livery ; 

This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d, 

And on her virgin honour will not break it. 

Third Knight. Loath to bid farewell, we take our 
leaves. [| Hxeunt Knights. 
Sim. So, {letter : 

They are well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s 

She tells me here, she *Il wed the stranger knight, 

Or never more to view nor day nog light. 

’T is well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine: 

I like that well: nay, how absolute she’s in ’t, 

Not minding whether I dislike or no! 

Well, I do commend her choice; 

And will no longer have it be delay’d. 

Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it. 


Enter Pericles. 


Per. All fortune to the good Simonides! 
Sim. To youas much, sir! Iam beholding to you 
For your sweet music this last night: I do 
Protest my ears were never better fed 
With such delightful pleasing harmony. 
Per. It is your grace’s pleasure to commend: 
Not my desert. 
Sim. Sir, you are music’s master. 
Per. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord. 
Sim. Let me ask you one thing: 
What do you think of my daughter, sir? 
Per. A most virtuous princess. 
Sim. And she is fair too, is she not ? 
Per. As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair. 
Sim. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you; 
Ay, so well, that you must be her master, 
And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it. 
Per. [am unworthy for her schoolmaster. 
Sim. She thinks not so; peruse this writing else. 
Per. [Aside] What’s here ? 
A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre! 
°T is the king’s subtilty to have my life. 
O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, 
A stranger and distressed gentleman, 
That never aim’d so high to love your daughter, 
But bent all offices to honour her. ~ 
Sim. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, and thou 
A villain. . fart 
Mg By the gods, I have not: 
Never did thought of mine levy offence; 
Nor never did my actions yet commence 
A deed might gain her love or your displeasure. 
Sim. Traitor, thou liest. 
Per. 
Sim. Ay, traitor. 
Per. Even in his throat — unless it be the king — 
That calls me traitor, I return the lie. 
Sim. [Aside] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his 
courage. 
Per. My actions are as noble as my thoughts, 
; That never relish’d of a base descent. 


Traitor ! 


ACT IT. 


I came unto your court for honour’s cause, 

And not to be a rebel to her state ; 

And he that otherwise accounts of me, 

This sword shall prove he’s honour’s enemy. 
Sim. No? 

Tiere comes my daughter, she can witness it. 


Enter Thaisa. 


Per. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair, 
liesolve your angry father, if my tongue 
Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe 
To any syllable that made love to you. 
Thai. Why, sir, say if you had, 
Who takes offence at that would make me glad ? 
Sim. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory ? 
| Aside] I am glad on ’t with all my heart.— 
I ll tame you; Ill bring you in subjection. 
Will you, not having my consent, 
bestow your love and your affections 


vat One & 


Enter Gower. 


Gow. Now sleep yslaked hath the rout; 
No din but Snores the house about, 
Made louder by the o’er-fed breast 
Of this most pompous marriage-feast. 
The cat, with eyne of burning coal, 
Now couches fore the mouse’s hole; 
And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth, 
E’er the blither for their drouth. 
Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, 
Where, by the loss of maidenhead, 
A babe is moulded. Be attent, 
And time that is so briefly spent 
With your fine fancies quaintly eche: 
What ’s dumb in show Ill plain with speech. 


Dumb Show. 


Enter, Pericles und Simonides, at one door, with Attend- 
ants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Per- 
icles a letter ;: Pericles shows it Simonides: the Lords 
kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lycho- 
ridaanurse. The King shows her the letter ; she rejoices: 
she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart with 
Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Si- 
monides and the rest. 


By many a dern and painful perch 

Of Pericles the careful search, 

By the four opposing coigns 

Which the world together joins, 

Is made with all due diligence 

That horse and sail and high expense 
Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre, 
Fame answering the most strange inquire, 
To the court of King Simonides 

Are letters brought, the tenour these: 
Antiochus and his daughter dead; 

The men of Tyrus on the head 

Of Helicanus would set on 

The crown of Tyre, but he will none: 
The mutiny he there hastes t’ oppress; 
Says to ’em, if King Pericles 

Come not home in twice six moons, 

He, obedient to their dooms, 

Will take the crown. The sum of this, 
Brought hither to Pentapolis, 
Y-ravished the regions round, 

And every one with claps can sound, 
‘Our heir-apparent is a king! 

Who dream’d, who thought of such a thing ?’ 
Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre: 
His queen with child makes her desire — 


PERICLES. 


SCENE I. 


| Upon a stranger ? [Aside] who, for aught I know, 
| May be, nor can I think the contrary, 
As great in blood as I myself.— 
Therefore hear you, mistress; either frame 
Your will to mine,— and you, sir, hear you, 
Either be ruled by me, or 1 will make you— 
Man and wife: ‘ 
Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too: 
And being join’d, I ll thus your hopes destroy ; 
And tor a further grief,— God give you joy !— 
What, are you both pleased ? 
Thai. Yes, if you love me, sir. 
Per. Even as my life, or blood that fosters it. 
Sim. What, are you both agreed ? 
Both. Yes, if it please your majesty. 
Sim. It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you 


wed ; 
And then with what haste you can get you to bed. 
| [ Hceunt. 


A Fl by 


Which who shall cross ?— along to go: 
Omit we all their dole and woe: | 
Lychorida, her nurse, she takes, 

And so to seas Their vessel shakes 
On Neptune’s billow; half the flood 
Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood 
Varies again; the grisly north 
Disgorges such a tempest forth, 

That, as a duck for life that dives, 

So up and down the poor ship drives: 
The lady shrieks, and well-a-near 
Does fall in travail with her fear: 

And what ensues in this fell storm 
Shall for itself itself perform. 

I nill relate, action may 

Conveniently the rest convey ; 

Which might not what by me is told. 
In your imagination hold 

This stage the ship, upon whose deck 
The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. 


SCENE I. 


Enter Pericles, on shipboard. 
Per. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these 
{hast 
that 


{ Hxit. 


surges 
Which aaatibatn heaven and hell; and thou, 
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, 
Having call’d them from the deep! O, still 
Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench 
Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida, 
How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously ; 
Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle 
Is as a whisper in the ears of death, 
Unheard. Lychorida! — Lucina, O 
Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle 
To those that cry by night, convey thy deity 
Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs 
Of my queen’s travails ! 


Enter Lychorida, with an Infant. 


Now, Lychorida! 

Lyc. Here is a thing too young for such a place, 
Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I 
Am like to do: take in your arms this piece 
Of your dead queen. 

Sete How, how, Lychorida! 

Lyc. Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm. 
Here ’s all that is left living of your queen, 
A little daughter: for the sake of it, 
Be manly, and take comfort. 

Per. O you gods! 
Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, 

811 


ACT II. 


And snatch them straight away? We here below 
Recall not what we give, and therein may | 
Use honour with you. 


Lye. Patience, good sir, 
Even for this charge. 
Per. Now, mild may be thy life! 


For a more blustrous birth had never babe: 

Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for 

Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world 

That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows! 
Thou hast as chiding a nativity 

As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, 
To herald thee from the womb: even at the first 
Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit, 

With all thou canst find here. Now, the dod gods 
Throw their best eyes upon ’t! 


Enter two Sailors. 


First Sail. What courage, sir? God save you! 

Per. Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw; 
It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love 
Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer, 

I would it would be quiet. 

First Sail. Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt 
net, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself. 

Sec. Sail. But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy 
billow kiss the moon, I care not. 

First Sail. Sir, your queen must overboard: the 
sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie 
till the ship be cleared of the dead. 

Per. That’s your superstition. 

First Sail. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath 
been still observed: and we are strong in custom. 
Therefore briefly yield her ; for she must overboard 
straight. 

Per. As you think meet. 

Lyc. Here she lies, sir. 

Per. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear ; | 
No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements 
Forgot thee utterly: nor have I time 
To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight 
Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze; 
Where, for a monument upon thy bones, 

And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale 
And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse, 
Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, 

Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, 

My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander 
Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe 

Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say 

A priestly farewell to her: ere: woman. 


Heit Lychorida. 
Sec. Sail. Sir, 


we have a chest beneath the 
hatches, caulked and bitumed ready. [this ? | 
Per. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is 
Sec. Sail. We are near Tarsus. 
Per. 'Thither, gentle mariner, fit ? 
Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach 
Sec. Sail. By break of day, if the wind cease. 
Per. O, make for Tarsus! 
There will I visit Cleon, for the babe 
Cannot hold out to Tyrus: there I ’I] leave it 


Most wretched queen! 


PERICLES. 


We careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner: 
I?ll bring the body presently. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE II.— Ephesus. 


Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons 
who have been shipwrecked. 
. Philemon, ho! 


A room in Cerimon’s house. 


Cer 
Enter Philemon. 
aba Doth my lord eall ? 
Cer. Get fire and meat for these poor men: 
°T has been a turbulent and stormy night. [this, 
Serv. I have been in many; but such a night as 
Till now, I ne’er endured. 
812 


SCENE IT. 


Cer 
There *s nothing can be minister’d to nature 


Your master will be dead ere you return ; 


That can recover him. 
the ’pothecary, 
And tell me how it works. 


[To Philemon] Give this to 


[ Exeunt all but Cerimon. 


Enter two Gentlemen. 


First Gent. Good morrow. 
Sec. Gent. Good morrow to your lordship. 


Cer. Gentlemen, 
Why do you stir so early ? 
First Gent. Sir, 


Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, 
Shook as the earth did quake; 
The very principals did seem to rend, 
And all-to topple: pure surprise and fear 
Made me to quit the house. [early ; 
Sec. Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so 
fi = not our husbandry. 
O, you say well. 
Fir st Gent. But I much marvel that your lord- 
ship, having 
Rich tire about you, should at these early hours 
Shake off the golden slumber of repose. 
*T is most strange, 
Nature should be so conversant with pain, 
Re thereto not compell’d. 

Cer. I hold it ever, 
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater 
Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs 
May the two latter darken and expend; 

But immortality attends the former, 

Making amanagod. Tis known, I ever 
Have studied physic, through which secret art, 
By turning o’er authorities, I have, 

Together with my practice, made familiar 

| 'To me and to my aid the blest infusions 

| That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones; 


| And I can speak of the disturbances [give me 


| That nature works, and of her cures; iia doth 


A more content in course of true delight 
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, 


| Or tie my treasure up in silken bags, 


To please the fool and death. 
Sec. Gent. Your honour has through sed er 

pour’d forth 

Your charity, and hundreds call themselves 

Your creatures, who by you have been restored : 

And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but 
even 

Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon 

Such strong renown as time shall ne’er decay. 


Enter two or three Servants with a chest. 


First Serv. So; lift there. 

Cer. What is that ? 

First Serv. Sir, even now 
Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest: 
”T is of some wreck. 


er. 

Sec. Gent. ’T is like a coffin, sir. 

Cer. Whate’er it be, 
df bat: wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight : 
If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharged with gold, 

’T is a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us. 

Sec. Gent. °T is so, my lord. 

Cer. How close *t is caulk’d and bitumed ! 
Did the sea cast it up ? 

First Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, 

As toss’d it upon shore. 

Cer. Wrench it open; 
Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. 

Sec. Gent. A delicate odour. 

Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it. 

Oyen most potent gods! what’s here ? a corse! 

irst Gent. Most strange! [treasured 

Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state! balm’d and en- 


Set ’t down, let ’s look upon ’t. 


ACT III. 


With full bags of spices! A passport too! 
Apollo, perfect me in the characters! 
[Reads from a scroll. 
‘Here I[ give to understand, 
If e’er this coffin drive a-land, 
I, King Pericles, have lost 
This queen, worth all our mundane cost. 
Who finds her, give her burying ; 
She was the daughter of a king: 
Besides this treasure for a fee, 
The gods requite his charity !’ 
If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart 
That even cracks for woe! This chanced to-night. 

Sec. Gent. Most likely, sir. 

Cer. Nay, certainly to-night ; 
For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough 
That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within: 
Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet. 

| Hauit a servant. 
Death may usurp on nature many hours, 
And yet the fire of life kindle again 
The o’erpress’d spirits. I heard of an Egyptian 
That had nine hours lien dead, 
Who was by good appliance recovered. 


Fe-enter au Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire. 


Well said, well said; the fire and cloths. 

The rough and woeful music that we have, 

Cause it to sound, beseech you. 

The viol once more: how thou stirr’st, thou block! 
The music there !—I pray you, give her air. 
Gentlemen, 

This queen will live: nature awakes; a warmth 
Breathes out of her: she hath not been entranced 
Above five hours: see how she gins to blow 

Into life’s flower again ! 

First Gent. The heavens, 

Through you, increase our wonder and set up 
Your fame for ever. 
(een. She is alive; behold, 
Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels 

Which Pericles hath lost, 

Begin to part their fringes of bright gold; 

The diamonds of a most praised water 

Do appear, to make the world twice rich. Live, 
And make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature, 
Rare as you seem to be. [She moves. 

Thai. O dear Diana, 

Where atl ? Where’s my lord? What world is 
this : 

Sec. Gent. Is not this strange ? 

First Gent. Most rare. 

Cer. Hush, my gentle neighbours! 
Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her. 
Get linen: now this matter must be look’d to, 

For her relapse is mortal. Come, come; 
And isculapius guide us! 
| Hxeunt, carrying her away. 


SCENE ITI.— Tarsus. 


Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza, and Lychorida 
with Marina in her arms. 


Per. Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone; 
My twelve months are expired, and Tyrus stands 
In a litigious peace. You, and your lady, 

Take from my heart all thankfulness! ‘The gods 
Make up the rest upon you! 


A room in Cleon’s house. 


PERICLES. 


SCENE TN. 

Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you 

mortally, 
Yet glance full wanderingly on us. 

Dion. O your sweet queen! 
That the strict fates had pleased you had brought 

her hither, 
To have bless’d mine eyes with her! 

Per. We cannot but obey 
The powers above us. Could I rage and roar 
As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end 
Must be as ’tis. My gentle babe Marina, whom, 
For she was born at sea, I have named so, here 
I charge your charity withal, leaving her 
The infant of your care; beseeching you 
To give her princely training, that she may be 
Manner’d as she is born, 

Cle. Fear not, my lord, but think 
Your grace, that fed my country with your corn, 
For which the people’s prayers still fall upon you, 
Must in your child be thought on. If neglection 
Should therein make me vile, the common body, 
By you relieved, would force me to my duty: 

But if to that my nature need a spur, 
The gods revenge it upon me and mine, 
To the end of generation! 

Per. I believe you: 
Your honour and your goodness teach me to ’t, 
Without your vows. ‘Till she be married, madam, 
By bright Diana, whom we honour, all 
Unscissar’d shall this hair of mine remain, 
Though I show illin’t. So I take my leave. 
Good madam, make me blessed in your care 
In bringing up my child. 

Dion. I have one myself, 
Who shall not be more dear to my respect 
Than yours, my lord. 

er. Madam, my thanks and prayers. 
Cle. We'll bring your grace e’en to the edge o’ 
the shore, 
Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and 
The gentlest winds of heaven. 

ier. I will embrace 
Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears, 
Lychorida, no tears: 

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace 
You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house. 


Enter Cerimon and Thaisa. 
Cer. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels, 
Lay with you in your coffer: which are now 
At your command. Know you the character ? 
Thai. It is my lord’s. 
That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember, 


| Even on my eaning time; but whether there 


Deliver’d, by the holy gods, 
I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles, 
My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again, 
A vestal livery will I take me to, 
And never more have joy. 

Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak, 
Diana’s temple is not distant far, 
Where you may abide till your date expire. 
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine 
Shall there attend you. 

Thai. My recompense is thanks, that’s all; 
Yet my good will is great, though the gift small. 

[ Hxeunt. 


$15 


ACE PVs 


wo EEA Bhs) BOA 


Enter Gower. 


Gow. Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre, 
Welcomed and settled to his own desire. 
His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus, 
Unto Diana there a votaress. 

Now to Marina bend your mind, 

Whom our fast-growing scene must find 
At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d 

In music, letters; who hath gain’d 

Of education all the grace, 

Which makes her both the heart and place 
Of general wonder. But, alack, 

That monster envy, oft the wrack 

Of earned praise, Marina’s life 

Seeks to take off by treason’s knife. 

And in this kind hath our Cleon 

One daughter, and a wench full grown, 
Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid 
Hight Philoten: and it is said 

For certain in our story, she 

Would ever with Marina be: 

Be ’t when she weaved the sleided silk 
With fingers long, small, white as milk; 
Or when she would with sharp needle wound 
The cambric, which she made more sound 
By hurting it; or when to the lute 

She sung, and made the night-bird mute, 
That still records with moan; or when 
She would with rich and constant pen 
Vail to her mistress Dian; still 

This Philoten contends in skill 

With absolute Marina: so 

With the dove of Paphos might the crow 
Vie feathers white. Marina gets 

All praises, which are paid as debts, 
And not as given. This so darks 

In Philoten all graceful marks, 

That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare, 

A present murderer does prepare 

For good Marina, that her daughter 
Might stand peerless by this slaughter. 
The sooner her vile thoughts to stead, 
Lychorida, our nurse, is dead : 

And cursed Dionyza hath 

The pregnant instrument of wrath 
Prest for this blow. ‘The unborn event 
I do commend to your content : 

Only I carry winged time 

Post on the lame feet of my rhyme; 
Which never could I so convey, 

Unless your thoughts went on my way. 
Dionyza does appear, 

With Leonine, a murderer. 


SCENE I.— Tarsus. 


[ Hai. 


An open place near the sea- 
shore. 


Enter Dionyza and Leonine. 
Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to 
do ’t: : 
*T is but a blow, which never shall be known. 
Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon, 
To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, 


PERICLES. 


SCENE I. 


Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers. 


Mar. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed, 

To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues, 
The purple violets, and marigolds, 

Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave, 

While summer-days do last. Ay me! poor maid, 
Born in a tempest, when my mother died, 

This world to me is like a lasting storm, 

Whirring me from my friends. 

Dion. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone? 
How chance my daughter is not with you? Donot 
Consume your blood with sorrowing: you have 
A nurse of me. Lord, how your favour ’s changed 
With this unprofitable woe! 

Come, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it. 

Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there, 

And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come, 

Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her. 
Mar. No, I pray you; 

Ill not bereave you of your servant. 

Dion. Come, come: 
I love the king your father, and yourself, 
With more than foreign heart. We every day 
Expect him here: when he shall come and find 
Our paragon to all reports thus blasted, 
He will repent the breadth of his great voyage ; 
Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken 
No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you, 
Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve 
That excellent complexion, which did steal 
The eyes of young and old. Care not for me; 
I can go home alone. 

Mar. Well, I will go; 
But yet I have no desire to it. 

Dion. Come, come, I know ’tis good for you. 
Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least: 
Remember what I have said. 

Leon. I warrant you, madam. 

Dion. Ill leave you, my sweet lady, for a while: 
Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood: 

What! I must have a care of you. 

Mar. My thanks, sweet madam. 

EKxit Dionyza. 


| 
; 
| 


Is this wind westerly that blows ? 
Leon. South-west. 
Mar. When I was born, the wind was north. __ 
Leon. Was ’t so? 
Mar. My father, as nurse said, did never fear, 

But cried ‘ Good seamen!’ to the sailors, galling 

His kingly hands, haling ropes; 

And, clasping to the mast, endured a sea 

That almost burst the deck. 

Leon. When was this ? 
Mar. When I was born: 

Never was waves nor wind more violent; 

And from the ladder-tackle washes off 

| A canvas-climber. ‘Ha!’ says one, ‘ wilt out?’ 

_And with a dropping industry they skip 

Irom stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and 

|The master calls, and trebles their confusion. 

Leon. Come, say your prayers. 
Mar. What mean you ? 
Leon. If you require a little space for prayer, 


Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom, 
Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which 

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be 

A soldier to thy purpose. 

ae I will do ’t; but yet she is a goodly crea- 

ure. 

Dion. The fitter, then, the gods should have her. 
Here she comes weeping for her only mistress’ death. 
Thou art resolved ? 

Léon. Tam resolved. 

814 


| 
/ 


| To any living creature: believe me, la, 


I grant it: pray; but be not tedious, 
lor the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn 
To do my work with haste. 
Mar. 
Leon. To satisfy my lady. 
Mar. Why would she have me kill’d ? 
Now, as I can remember, by my troth, 
I never did her hurt in all my life: 
[ never spake bad word, nor did ill turn 


Why will you kill me? 


ACT IV. 


T never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly: 

I trod upon a worm against my will, 

But I wept for it. How have I offended, 
Wherein my death might yield her any profit, 
Or my life imply her any danger ? 

Leon. My commission 
Is not to reason of the deed, but do it. 

Mar. You will not do’t for all the world, I hope. 
You are well favour’d, and your looks foreshow 
You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately, 

When you caught hurt in parting two that fought : 

Good sooth, it show’d well in you: do so now: 

Your lady seeks my life; come you between, 

an save poor me, the weaker. 
eon. 


I am sworn, 
And will dispatch. 


| He seizes her. 
Enter Pirates. 


First Pirate. Hold, villain! 
[Leonine runs away. 
Sec. Pirate. A prize! a prize! 
Third Pirate. Half-part, mates, half-part. 
Come, let ’s have her aboard suddenly. 


[| Exeunt Pirates with Marina. 


Re-enter Leonine. 


Leon. These roguing thieves serve the great pirate 
Valdes ; 
And they have seized Marina. Let her go: [dead, 
There ’s no hope she will return. Ill swear she’s 
And thrown into the sea. But I’ see further: 
Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, 
Not carry her aboard. If she remain, 
Whom they have ravish’d must by me be ass 
Rit. 


SCENE II.— Mytilene. 


Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult. 


Pand. Boult! 

Boult. Sir ? 

Pand. Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is 
full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart 
by being too wenchless. 

Bawd. We were never so much out of creatures. 
We have but poor three, and they can do no more 
than they can do; and they with continual action 
are even as good as rotten. 

Pand. Therefore let ’s have fresh ones, whate’er 
we payforthem. If there be not a conscience to be 
used in every trade, we shall never prosper. 

Bawd. Thou sayest true: ’tis not our bringing up 
of poor bastards,—as, I think, I have brought up 
some eleven — 

Boult. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down 
again. But shall I search the market ? 

Bawd. What else, man? The stuff we have, a 
strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so piti- 
fully sodden. 

Pand. Thou sayest true; they ’re too unwhole- 
some, 0’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is 
dead, that lay with the little baggage. 

Boult. Ay, she quickly pooped him: 
him roast-meat for worms. 

market. [ Exit. 

Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were as 
pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over. 

Bawd. Why to give over, I pray you? is ita shame 
to get when we are old ? 

Pand. O, our credit comes not in like the com- 
modity, nor the commodity wages not with the 
danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick 
up some pretty estate, ’t were not amiss to keep our 
door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand 
upon with the gods will be strong with us for giv- 
ing over. 

Bawd. Come, other sorts offend as well as we. 


A room in a brothel. 


she made 


But Ill go search the | 


PERICLES. 


| give most shall have her first.’ 


SCENE IT. 


Pand. As wellas we! ay, and better too; we of- 
fend worse. Neither is our profession any trade ; 
it ’s no calling. But here comes Boult. 


Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina. 


Boult. [To Marina] Come your ways. My masters, 
you say she’s a virgin ? 

First Pirate. O, sir, we doubt it not. 

Boult. Master, T have gone through for this piece, 
you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my 

Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities { ?  [earnest. 

Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and has 
excellent good clothes: there sno further necessit y 
of qualities can make her be refused. 

Bawd. What ’s her price, Boult ? [pieces. 

Boult. I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand 

Pand. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall 
have your money presently. Wife, take her insins 
struct her what she has to do, that she may not be 
raw in her entertainment. 

[EHxeunt Pandar and Pirates. 

Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her, the 
colour of her hair, complexion, height, age, with 
warrant of her virginity; and cry ‘He that will 
Such a maidenhead 
were no cheap thing, if men wereas they have been. 
Get this done as I command you. 

Boult. Performance shall follow. [ Hoit. 

Mar. Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow! 
He should have struck, not spoke; or that these 

pirates, 

Not enough barbarous, had not o’erboard thrown me 
For to seek my mother! 

Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one? 

Mar. That I am pretty. [you. 

Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part in 

Mar. J accuse them not. 

Bawd. You are light into my hands, where you 
are like to live. 

Mar. The more my fault 


| To seape his hands where I was like to die. 


Bawd. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure. 

Mar. No. 

Bawd. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen 
of all fashions: you shall fare well; you shall have 
the difference of all complexions. What! do you 
stop your ears ? 

Mar. Are you a woman ? 

Bawd. What would you have me be, an I be not 
a woman ? 

Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman. 

Bawd. Marry, whip thee, 2 gosling: I think I shall 
have something to do with you. Come, you’re a 
young foolish ‘sapling, and must be bowed as I 
would have you. 

Mar. The gods defend me! 

Bawd. If it please the gods to defend you by men, 
then men must comfort you, men must feed you, 
men must stir you up. Boult’s returned. 


Re-enter Boult. 


Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market ? 

Boult. T have eried her almost to the number of 
her hairs; I have drawn her picture with my voice. 

Baud. And | prithee tell me, how dost thou find 
the Ue of the people, especially of the 
younger sort ? 

Boult. "Faith, they listened to me as they would 
have hearkened to their father’s testament. There - 
was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went 
to bed to her very description. 

Bawd. We shall have him here to-morrow with 
his best ruff on. 

Boult. To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you 
know the French knight that cowers i’ the hams ? 

Bad. Who, Monsieur Veroles ? 

Soult. Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the 


815 


ACT APY: 


proclamation ; but he made a groan at it, and swore 
he would see her to-morrow. 

Bawd. Well, well; as for him, he brought his 
disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know 
he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns 
in the sun. 

Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, 
we should lodge them with this sign. 

Bawd. [To Mar .]| Pray you, come hither awhile. 
You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: 
you must seem to do that fearfully which you com- 
mit willingly, despise profit where you have most 


PHRICLES. 


gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity 
in your lovers: seldom but that pity begets you a 
good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit. 

Mar. I understand you not. 

Boult. O, take her home, mistress, take her home: 
these blushes of hers must be quenched with some 
present practice. 

Bawd. Thou sayest true, i’ faith, so they must; 
for your bride goes to that with shame which is her 
way to go with warrant. 

Boult. "Faith, some do, and some do not. But, 
mistress, if I have bargained for the joint,— 

Bawd. Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit. 

Boult. I may so. 

Bawd. Who should deny it? Come, young one, I 
like the manner of your garments well. [yet. 

Boult. Ay, by my faith, , they shall not be changed 

Bawd. Boult, spend thou that in the town: report 
what a sojourner we have; you’ll lose nothing by 
custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant 
thee a good turn ; therefore say what a paragon she 
is, oy thou hast the harvest out of thine own re- 
port. 

Boult. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not 
so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her 
beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. 1°11 bring home 
some to-night. 

Bawd. Come your ways; follow me. 

Mar. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep, 
Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. 

Diana, aid my purpose! 

Bawd. What have we to do with Diana ? Pray 

you, will you go with us? [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— Tarsus. 


Enter Cleon and Dionyza. 


he Why, are you foolish ? Can it be undone? 
AD Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter 

The : sun and moon ne’er look’d upon! 

Dion. I think 
Youll turn a child again. 

Cle. Were I chief lord of all this euecious world, 
I’ld give it to undo the deed. O lady, 
Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess. 
To equal any single crown 0’ the earth 
I’ the justice of compare! O villain Leonine! 
Whom thou hast poison’d too: 
If thou hadst drunk to him, ’t had been a kindness 
Becoming well thy fact: what canst thou say 
When noble Pericles shall demand his child ? 

Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, | 
To foster it, nor ever to preserve. 
She died at night: I’ll say so. Who can cross it ? 
Unless you play the pious innocent, 
And for an honest attribute cry out 


‘She died by foul play.’ 
Cle. O, goto. Well, well, 


a all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods 
Lo like this worst. 
Dion. Be one of those that think 
‘The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence, 
And open this to Pericles. I do shame 
To think of what a noble strain you are, 
And of how coward a spirit. 


816 


A room in Cleon’s house. 


SCENE nbs: 


Cle. To such proceeding 
Who ever but his approbation added, 
Though not his prime consent, he did not flow 
From honourable sources. 
Dion. Be it so, then: 
Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead, 
Nor none can know, "Leonine being gone. 
She did distain my child, and stood between 
Her and her fortunes; none would look on her, 
But cast their gazes on Marina’s face; 
Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin 
Not worth the time of day. It pierced me thorough ; 
And though you call my course unnatural, 
You not your child well loving, yet I find 
It greets me as an enterprise of kindness 
Perform’d to your sole daughter. 
Cle. Heavens forgive it! 
Dion. And as for Pericles, 
What should he say? We wept after her hearse, 
And yet we mourn: her monument 
Is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs 
In glittering golden characters express 
A general praise to her, and care in us 
At whose expense ’tis done. 
Cle. Thou art like the harpy, 
Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face, 
Seize with thine éagle’s talons. 
Dion. You are like one that superstitiously 
Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies : 


But yet I know you ’ll do as I advise. { Hzeunt. 
SCENE Iv. 
Enter Gower, before the Monument of Marina at 
Tarsus. 


Gow. Thus time we waste, and longest leagues 
make short ; 

Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for ’t ; 
Making, to take your imagination, 
From bourn to bourn, region to region. 
By you being pardon’d, we commit no crime 
To use one language in each several clime 
Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you 
To learn of me, who stand i’ the gaps to teach you, 
The stages of our story. Pericles 
Is now again thwarting the wayward seas, 
Attended on by many a lord and knight, 
To see his daughter, all his life ’s delight. 
Old Escanes, whom "Helicanus late 
Advanced in time to great and high estate, 
Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind, 
Old Helicanus goes along behind. [brought 
Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have 
This king to Tarsus,—think his pilot thought ; 
So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on,— 
To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. 
Like motes and shadows see them move awhile; 
Your ears unto your eyes Ill reconcile. 


Dumb Show. 


Enter Pericles, at one door, with all his train ; Cleon and 
Dionyza, «at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb ; 
whereut Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, 
and in a mighty passion departs. Then exeunt Cleon and 
DionyzZa. 

See how belief may suffer by foul show! 
This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe; 
And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d, [shower "a 
With sighs shot through, and biggest tears o’er- 
Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears 
Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs: 
He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears 
A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears, 
And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit 
The epitaph is for Marina writ 
By wicked Dionyza. 

[Lteads the inscription on Marina’s monument. 


a 


ACT IV. 


‘The fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here, 
Who wither’d in her spring of year. 
She was of Tyrus the king’s daughter, 
On whom foul death hath made this slaughter ; 
Marina was she eall’d; and at her birth, [earth: 
Thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part 0’ the 
Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow’d, 
Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow’d: 
Wherefore she does, and swears she ’I] never stint, 
Make raging battery upon shores of flint.’ 
No visor does become black villany 
So well as soft and tender flattery. 
Let Pericles believe his daughter ’s dead, 
And bear his courses to be ordered 
By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play 
His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day 
In her unholy service. Patience, then, 
And think you now are all in Mytilene. [ Exit. 


SCENE V.— Mytilene. A street before the brothel. 
Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. 


First Gent. Did you ever hear the like? 

Sec. Gent. No, nor never shall do in such a place 
as this, she being once gone. 

First Gent. But to have divinity preached there! 
did you ever dream of such a thing ? 

Sec. Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no more 
bawdy-houses: shall ’s go hear the vestals sing ? 

First Gent. I’11 do any thing now that is virtuous; 
but I am out of the road of rutting for ever. 

[ Exeunt. 


SCENE VI.— The same. A room in the brothel. 


Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult. 


Pand. Well, I had rather than twice the worth 
of her she had ne’er come here. 

Bawd. Fie, fie upon her! she’s able to freeze the 
god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We 
must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. 
When she should do for clients her fitment, and do 
me the kindness of our profession, she has me her 
quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, 
her knees; that she would make a puritan of the 
devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her. 

Boult. "Faith, I must ravish her, or she ’ll dis- 
furnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our 
swearers priests. 

ta ea Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for 
me! 

Bawd. ’Faith, there ’s no way to be rid on ’t but 
by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Ly- 
simachus disguised. 

Boult. We should have both lord and lown, if the 
peevish baggage would but give way to customers. 


Enter Lysimachus. 


Lys. How now! How a dozen of virginities ? 

Bawd. Now, the gods to-bless your honour! 

Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good 
health. 

Lys. You may so; ’tis the better for you that 
your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now! 
wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal 
withal, and defy the surgeon ? 

Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would — but 
there never came her like in Mytilene. 

Lys. If she’ld do the deed of darkness, thou 
wouldst say. [fenough. 

Bawd. Your honour knows what ’t is to say well 

Lys. Well, call forth, call forth. 

Boult. For fiesh and blood, sir, white and red, you 
shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she 
had but — 

Iys. What, prithee ? 

Boult. O, sir, I can be modest. 

le 


52 


BPE RODES, SCENE VI. 


Lys. That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no 
less than it gives a good report to a number to be 
chaste. [Exit Boult. 

Bawd. Here comes that which grows to the stalk ; 
never plucked yet, I can assure you. 


Re-enter Boult with Marina. 


Is she not a fair creature ? 

Lys. ’Faith, she would serve after a long voyage 
at sea. Well, there’s for you: leave us. 

Bawd. I beseech your honour, give me leave: a 
word, and Ill have done presently. 

Lys. I beseech you, do. 

Bawd. [To Marina] First, I would have you 
note, this is an honourable man. [note him. 

Mar. I desire to find him so, that I may worthily 

Bawd. Next, he’s the governor of this country, 
and a man whom I am bound to. 

Mar. If he govern the country, you are bound to 
him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I 
know not. 

Bawd. Pray you, without any more virginal fenc- 
ing, will you use him kindly? He will line your 
apron with gold. 

Mar. What he will do graciously, I will thank- 

Iys. Ha’ you done? [fully receive. 

Bawd. My lord, she’s not paced yet: you must 
take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, 
we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy 
ways. [Hxeunt Bawd, Pandar, and Boult. 

Lys. Now, pretty one, how long have you been 
at this trade ? 

Mar. What trade, sir ? 

Lys. Why, I cannot name ’t but I shall offend. 

Mar. I cannot be offended with my trade. Please 
you to name it. 

Lys. How long have you been of this profession ? 

Marv. E’er since I can remember. 

Lys. Did you go to’t so young? 
gamester at five or at seven ? 

Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one. 

Lys. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you 
to be a creature of sale. 

Mar. Do you know this house to be a place of 
such resort, and will come into ’t? I hear say you 
are of honourable parts, and are the governor of 
this place. 

Lys. Why, hath your principal made known unto 
you who I am ? 

Mar. Who is my principal ? 

Lys. Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds 
and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have 
heard something of my power, and so stand aloof 
for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, 
pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else 
look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some 
private place: come, come. 

Mar. If you were born to honour, show it now; 
If put upon you, make the judgment good 
That thought you worthy of it. 

Lys. How ’s this? how’s this? Some more; be 

Mar. For me, [sage. 
That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune 
Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came, 
Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, 

O, that the gods 
Would set me free from this unhallow’d place, 
Though they did change me to the meanest bird 
That flies i’ the purer air! 

I did not think ° 


Lys. 
Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne’er dream/’d 
thou couldst. 
Had I brought hither a corrupted mind, ; 
Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for 


Were you a 


Persever in that clear way thou goest, [thee: 
And the gods strengthen thee ! 
Mar. The good gods preserve vou! 


817 


ALOT OV 


Lys. For me, be you thoughten 
That I came with no ill intent; for to me 
The very doors and windows savour vilely. 
Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and 
I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. 
Hold, here ’s more gold for thee. 
A curse upon him, die he like a thief, 
That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost 
Hear from me, it shall be for thy good. 


Re-enter Boult. 


Boult. I beseech your honour, one piece for me. 

Lys. Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper! 

Your house, but for this virgin that doth prop it, 
Would sink and overwhelm you. Away! | Hit. 

Boult. How’s this? We must take another 
course with you. If your peevish chastity, which | 
is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country | 
under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let | 
me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways. 

Mar. Whither would you have me ? 

Boult. I must have your maidenhead taken off, 
or the common hangman shall execute it. Come | 
your ways. Well have no more gentlemen driven | 
away. Come your ways, I say. 


Re-enter Bawd. 


Bawd. How now! what’s the matter ? 

Boult. Worse and worse, mistress; she has here 
spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus. 

Bawd. O abominable! 

Boult. She makes our profession as it were to 
stink afore the face of the gods. 

Bawd. Marry, hang her up for ever! 

Boult. The nobleman would have dealt with her 
like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as 
a snowball; saying his prayers too. | 

Bawd. Boult, take her away; use her at thy 
pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and 
make the rest malleable. 

Boult. An if she were a thornier piece of ground | 
than she is, she shall be ploughed. 

Mar. Hark, hark, you gods! 

Bawd. She conjures: away with her! Would 
she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang 
you! She’s born to undo us. Will you not go 
the way of women-kind? Marry, come up, my 
dish of chastity with rosemary and bays! [ Ewii. 

Boult. Come, mistress; come your ways with me. | 


PERICLES. 


SCENE I. 


Mar. Whither wilt thou have me? 
: Boult. To take from you the jewel you hold so 
ear. 
Mar. Prithee, tell me one thing first. 
Boult. Come now, your one thing. 
Mar. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be ? 
Boult. Why, I could wish him to be my master, 
or rather, my mistress. 
Mar. Neither of these are so bad as thou art, 
Since they do better thee in their command. 
Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend 
Of hell would not in reputation change: 
Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every 
Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib; 
To the choleric fisting of every rogue 
Thy ear is liable; thy food is such 
As hath been belch’d on by infected lungs. 
Boult. What would you have me do? go to the 
wars, would you? where a man may serve seven 


years for the loss of a leg, and have not money ° 


enough in the end to buy him a wooden one ? 

Mar. Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty 

Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth; 
Serve by indenture to the common hangman: 
Any of these ways are yet better than this; 

For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak, 
Would own a name too dear. O, that the gods 
Would safely deliver me from this place! 

Here, here’s gold for thee. 

If that thy master would gain by me, 

Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance, 
With other virtues, w hich Ill keep from boast ; 
And I will undertake all these to teach. 

I doubt not but this populous city will 

Yield many scholars. 

Boult. But can you teach all this you speak of 2 

Mar. Prove that I cannot, take me home again, 
And prostitute me to the basest groom 
That doth frequent your house. 

Boult. Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if 
I can place thee, I will. 

Mar. But amongst honest women. 

Boult. Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst 
them. But since my master and mistress have 
bought you, there ’s no going but by their consent: 
therefore I will make them acquainted with your 
purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them 
tractable enough. Come, Ill do for thee what I 
can; come your ways. [ Kxceunt. 


A CTY. 


Enter Gower. 


Gow. Marina thus the brothel ’scapes, and chances 
Into an honest house, our story says. 
She sings like one immortal, and she dances 
AS eoddess-like to her admired lays; 
Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her ‘neeld composes | 
Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry, | 
That even her art sisters the natural roses ; 
Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry: 
That pupils lacks she none of noble race, 
Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain 
She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place: 
And to her father turn our thoughts again, 
Where we left him, on the sea. ‘We there him lost ; 
Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived 


Here where his daughter dwells; ‘and on this coast 
Suppose him now at. anchor. The city strived 
God Neptune’s annual feast to keep: from whence 
Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies, 

His banners sable, trimm?’d with rich expense ; 
And to him in his barge with fervour hies. 


818 


In your supposing once more put your sight 
Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark: 
Where what is done in action, more, if might, 


[Ewit. 


SCENE I.—On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene. 
A close pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it ; 
Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A bar ge 
lying beside the Tyrian vessel. 


| Shall be discover’d; please you, sit and hark. 


| Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, 


the other to the barge; to them Helicanus. 


Tyr. Sail. [To the Sailor of Mytilene] Where is 
lord Helicanus ? he can resolve you. 
O, here he is. 
Sir, there ’s a barge put off from Mytilene, 
And in it is Lysimachus the governor, 
Who craves to come aboard. What is your will ? 
Hel. That he have his. Call up some gentle- 


men. 
Ty. Sail. Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls. 


ewe 


NT 


ACT V. 


Enter two or three Gentlemen. 


First Gent. Doth your lordship call ? 
Hel. Gentlemen, there’s some of worth would 
come aboard ; 
I pray ye, greet them fairly. 
[The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend, and 
go on board the barge. 


Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with 
the Gentlemen and the two Sailors. 
Tyr. Sail. Sir, 
This is the man that can, in aught you would, 
Resolve you. 
Lys. Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you! 
Hel. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am, 
And die as I would do. 


Lys. You wish me well. 


Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs, © 
’ 5 > | 


Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us, 
I made to it, to know of whence you are. 
Hel. First, what is your place ? 


Lys. Iam the governor of this place you lie be- | 


Hel. Sir, 
Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king; 
A man who for this three months hath not spoken 
To any one, nor taken sustenance 
But to prorogue his grief. 
Lys. Upon what ground is his distemperature ? 
Hel. "Y would be too tedious to repeat ; 
But the main grief springs from the loss 
Of a beloved daughter and a wife. 
Lys. May we not see him ? 
Hel. You may; 
But bootless is your sight: he will not speak 
To any. 


Lys. Yet let me obtain my wish. 


Hel. Behold him. [Pericles discovered.] This was | 


a goodly person, 
Till the disaster that, one mortal night, 
Drove him to this. 
Lys. Sir king, all hail! the gods preserve you! 
Hail, royal sir! 
Hel. It is in vain; he will not speak to you. 
First Lord. Sir, 
We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager, 
Would win some words of him. 
Lys. ’T is well bethought. 
She questionless with her sweet harmony 
And other chosen attractions, would allure, 
And make a battery through his deafen’d parts, 
Which now are midway stopp’d: 
She is all happy as the fairest of all, 
And, with her fellow maids, is now upon 
The leafy shelter that abuts against 
The island’s side. 
[Whispers a Lord, who goes off in the 
barge of Lysimachus. 
Hel. Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we’ll omit 
That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kind- 
We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you [ness 
That for our gold we may provision have, 
Wherein we are not destitute for want, 
But weary for the staleness. 
Ys. O, sir, a courtesy 
Which if we should deny, the most just gods 
For every graff would send a caterpillar, 
And so afflict our province. Yet once more 
Let me entreat to know at large the cause 
Of your king’s sorrow. 
Hel. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you: 
But, see, I am prevented. 


Re-enter, from the barge, Lord, with Marina, and a 
young Lady. 
Lys. O, here is 
The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one! 
Is *t not a goodly presence ? 


| 


{fore. | 


| If both were open’d. 


SCENE I. 


PERICLES. 


Fel. She’s a gallant lady. 
Lys. She’s such a one, that, were I well assured 
Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, 
I’ld wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed. 
Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty 
Expect even here, where is a kingly patient: 
If that thy prosperous and artificial feat 
Can draw him but to answer thee in aught, 
Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay 
As thy desires can wish. 
Mar. Sir, I will use 
My utmost skill in his recovery, 
Provided 
That none but I and my companion maid 
Be suffer’d to come near him. 
ys. Come, let us leave her ; 
And the gods make her prosperous! [Mav ina sings. 
Lys. Mark’d he your music ? 
Mar. No, nor look’d on us. 
Lys. See, she will speak to him. 
Mar. Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear. 
Per. Hum, ha! 
Mar. Iam a maid, 
My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes, 
But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks, 


_My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief 
| Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d. 
, Though wayward fortune did malign my state, 


My derivation was from ancestors 


| Who stood equivalent with mighty kings: 


But time hath rooted out my parentage, 

And to the world and awkward casualties 
Bound me in servitude. [Aside] I will desist ; 
But there is something glows upon my cheek, 


| And whispers in mine ear ‘Go not till he speak.’ 


Per. My fortunes—parentage—good parentage— 
To equal mine !— was it not thus? what say you ? 
Mar. I said, my lord, if you did know my parent- 


| You would not do me violence. [age, 
Per. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes 
upon me. woman ? 


You are like something that — 
Here of these shores ? 

Mar. No, nor of any shores: 
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am 
No other than I appear. [ing. 

Per. Lam great with woe, and shall deliver weep- 
My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one 
My daughter might have been: my queen’s square 

brows; 
Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight; 
AS silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like 
And cased as richly; in pace another Juno; 
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them 
hungry, [live ? 
The more she gives them speech. Where do you 

Mar. Where I am but a stranger: from the deck 
You may discern the place. 

Per. Where were you bred ? 
And how achieved you these endowments, which 
You make more rich to owe? 

Mar. Wf I should tell my history, it would seem 
Like lies disdain’d in the reporting. 

Ber. Prithee, speak : 
Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look’st 
Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace 
For the crown’d Truth to dwell in: I will believe 
And make my senses credit thy relation [thee, 
To points that seem impossible ; for thou look’st 
Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends? 
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back — 


What country- 


| Which was when I perceived thee—that thou camest 
| From good descending ? 


Mar. So indeed I did. ; 

Per. Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st 
Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury, 
And that thou thought’st thy griefs ena equal 
mine, 


819 


ACT V. 


Mar. Some such thing 
I said, and said no more but what my thoughts 
Did warrant me was likely. 

Per. Tell thy story ; 
If thine consider’d prove the thousandth part 
Of my endurance, thou art a man, and L 
Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look 
Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling 
Extremity out of act. What were thy friends ? 
How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind 

virgin ? 

Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me. 

Mar. My name is Marina. 

Per. O, Iam mock’d, 
And thou by some incensed god sent hither 
To make the world to laugh at me. 

Mar. Patience, good sir, 
Or 125 I'll cease. 

Nay, I ’ll be patient. 

Thon little know’st how thou dost startle me, 
To call thyself Marina. 

Mar. The name 
Was given me by one that had some power, 
My father, and a king. 


Per. 

And call’d Marina ? 

Mar. You said you would believe me; 
But, not to be a troubler of your peace, 

I will end here. 

Per. But are you flesh and blood ? 
Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy ? 
Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born? 
And wherefore call’d Marina ? 


How! a king’s daughter ? 


Mar. Call’d Marina, 
For I was born at sea. 

Per. At sea! what mother ? 

Mar. My mother was the daughter of a king; 


Who died the minute I was born, 
As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft 
Ge Sha weeping. 
O, stop there a little! 
Aside] This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep 
Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be: 
My daughter ’s buried. Well: where were you bred ? 
I’) hear you more, to the bottom of your story, 
And never interrupt you. [give o’er. 
Mar. You scorn: believe me, "t were best I did 
Per. I will believe you by the ’syllable 
Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave : 
How este you in these parts? where were you 
re 
Mar. The king my father did in Tarsus leave me; 
Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife, 
Did seek to murder me: and having woo'd 
A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do ’t, 
A crew of pirates came and rescued me; 
Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir, 
Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? 
It may be, 
You think me an impostor: no, good faith; 
I am the daughter to King Pericles, 
If good King Pericles be. 
Per. Ho, Helicanus! 
Hel. Calls my lord ? 
Per. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor, 
Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst, 
What this maid is, or what is ‘like to be, 
That thus hath made me weep ? 
Hel. I know not; but 
Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene 
Speaks nobly of her. 
Lys. She would never tell 
Her parentage: being demanded that, 
She would sit still and weep. 
Per. O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir; 
Give me a gash, put me to present pain; 
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me 
O’erbear the shores of my mortality, 


820 


PERICLES. 


_ And give you gold for such provision 


SCENE I. 


And drown me with their sweetness. O,come hither, 
Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget ; 
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, 
And found at sea again! O Helicanus, 
Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud 
As thunder threatens us: this is Marina. 
What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that, 
For truth can never be confirm’d enough, 
Though doubts did ever sleep. 
Mar. 
What is your title ? 
Per. [am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now 
My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said 
Thou hast been godlike perfect, 
The heir of kingdoms and another like 
To Pericles thy father. 
Mar. Is it no more to be your daughter than 
To say my mother’s name was Thaisa ? 
Thaisa was my Ra who did end 
The minute I bega [child. 
Per. Now, piCRine on thee! rise; thou art my 
Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus ; 
She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been, 
By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all; 
When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge 
She is thy very princess. Who is this ? 
Hel. Sir, ’tis the governor of Mytilene, 
Who, hearing of your melancholy state, 
Did come to see you. 
Per, I embrace you. 
Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding. 
O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music ? 
Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him’ 
O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt, 
How sure you are my daughter. But, what music ? 
Hel. My lord, I hear none. 
Per. None! 
The music of the spheres! List, my Marina. 
Lys. It is not good to cross him; give him way. 
Per. Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear? 
ys. My lord, L hear. [Music. 
Per. Most heavenly music! 
It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber 
Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest. [ Sleeps. 
Lys. A pillow for his head: 
So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends, 
If this but answer to my just belief, 
Ill well remember you. [| Hxeunt all but Pericles. 


Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision. 


Dia. My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee 
And do upon mine altar sacrifice. [thither, 
There, when my maiden priests are met together, 
Before the people all, 

Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife: 

To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call 
And give them repetition to the life. 

Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe; 

Do it, and happy; by my silver bow! 

Awake, and tell thy dream. [ Disappears. 

Per. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, 

I will obey thee. Helicanus! 


First, sir, I pray, 


Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Marina. 


Hel. Sir ? 
Per. My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike 
The inhospitable Cleon; but I am 
For other service first: toward Ephesus 
Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I ’ll tell thee why. 
[To Lysimachus] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your 
[shore, 
As our intents will need ? i 
Lys. Sir 
With all my heart; and, when you come ashore, 
I have another suit. 
Per. You shall prevail, 
Were it to woo my daughter; for it seems 
You have been noble towards her. 


ACT V~ 


Lys. ; Sir, lend me your arm. 
Per. Come, my Marina. | Hxeunt. 


SCENE II. —Enter Gower, before the temple of Di- 
ana at Ephesus, 


Gow. Now our sands are almost run; 
More a little, and then dumb. 
This, my last boon, give me, 
For such kindness must relieve me, 
That you aptly will suppose 
What pageantry, what feats, what shows, 
What minstrelsy, and pretty din, 
The regent made in Mytilene 
To greet the king. So he thrived, 
That he is promised to be wived 
To fair Marina; but in no wise 
Till he had done his sacrifice, 
As Dian bade: whereto being bound, 
The interim, pray you, all confound. 
In feather’d briefness sails are fill’d, 
And wishes fall out as they ’re will’d. 
At Ephesus, the temple see, 
Our king and all his company. 
That he can hither come so soon, 
Is by your fancy’s thankful doom. [ Exit. 
SCENE III.—The temple of Diana at Ephesus ; 
Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess ; 
a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and 
other Inhabitants of Hphesus attending. 


Enter Pericles, with his train; Lysimachus, 
Helicanus, Marina, and a Lady. 


Per. Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command, 

I here confess myself the king of Tyre; 

Who, frighted from my country, did wed 

At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. 

At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth 
A maid-child call’d Marina; who, O goddess, 
Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus 

Was nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years 
He sought to murder; but her better stars 
Brought her to Mytilene; ’gainst whose shore 
Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us, 
Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she 
Made known herself my daughter. 

Thai. Voice and favour ! 
You are, you are—O royal Pericles! [ Faints. 

Per. What means the nun? she dies! help, gen- 

Cer. Noble sir, [tlemen ! 
If you have told Diana’s altar true, 

This is your wife. 
Per. Reverend appearer, no; 
I threw her overboard with these very arms. 
Cer. Upon this coast, I warrant you. 
er. ’T is most certain. 

Cer. Look to the lady; O, she’s but o’erjoy’d. 
Early in blustering morn this lady was 
Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin, 

Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and placed 
Here in Diana’s temple. [her 

Per. May we see them ? 

Cer. Great sir, they shall be brought you to my 
Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is [house, 
Recovered. 

T hai. O, let me look! 

If he be none of mine, my sanctity 
Will to my sense bend no licentious ear, 
But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord, 
Are you not Pericles? Like him you spake, 
Like him you are: did you not name a tempest, 
A birth, and death ? 

er. The voice of dead Thaisa ! 

Thai. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead 
And drown’d. 

Per. Immortal Dian! 


Thai. Now I know you better. 


PHRICLES. 


SCENE III. 


When we with tears parted Pentapolis, 
The king my tather gave you such a ring. 
[Shows w ring. 

Per. This, this: no more, you gods! your present 

kindness 
Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well, 
That on the touching of her lips I may 
Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried 
A second time within these arms. 

Man i My heart 
Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom. 

[Kneels to Thaisa. 

Per. Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, 
Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina, [Thaisa; 
For she was yielded there. 

Thai. Blest, and mine own! 

Hel. Hail, madam, and my queen! 

That. I know you not. 

Per. You have heard me say, when I did fly from 
I left behind an ancient substitute: (Tyre, 
Can you remember what I call’d the man ? 

I have named him oft. 
That. "T was Helicanus then. 
Per. Still confirmation: 
Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he. 
Now do I long to hear how you were found ; 
How possibly preserved; and who to thank, 
Besides the gods, for this great miracle. 

Thai. Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man, 
Through whom the gods have shown their power; 
From first to last resolve you. [that can 

er: Reverend sir, 
The gods can have no mortal officer 
More like a god than you. Will you deliver 
How this dead queen re-lives ? 

Cer. I will, my lord. 
Beseech you, first go with me to my house, 

Where shall be shown you all was found with her; 
How she came placed here in the temple; 
No needful thing omitted. 

Per. Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I 
Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa, 

This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter, 
Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now, 

This ornament 

Makes me look dismal will I clip to form; 

And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d, | 
To grace thy marriage-day, Ill beautify. [sir, 

Thai. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, 
My father’s dead. [my queen, 

Per. Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, 
We ’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves 
Will in that kingdom spend our following days: 
Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign. 

Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay 
To hear the rest untold: sir, lead ’s the way. [Hxeunt. 


Enter Gower. 


Gow. In Antiochus and his daughter you have 
heard , 
Of monstrous lust the due and just reward: 
In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen, 
Although assail’d with fortune fierce and keen, 
Virtue preserved from fell destruction’s blast, 
Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last : 
In Helicanus may you well descry 
A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty: 
In reverend Cerimon there well appears 
The worth that learned charity aye wears: 
For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame 
Had spread their cursed deed, and honour’d name 
Of Pericles, to rage the city turn, 
That him and his they in his palace burn; 
The gods for murder seemed so content 
To punish them; although not done, but meant. 
So, on your patience evermore attending, 
New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending: 
[ Hatt 
821 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


‘Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo 
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua,’ 


TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY, 


EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD. 


RIGHT HONOURABLE, 


I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world 
will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden: only, if your honour seem but pleased, I 
account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver 
labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after 


ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. 


I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour 


to your heart’s content ; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world’s hopeful expectation. 


Your honour’s in all duty, 


[item Be 


EVEN as the sun with purple-colour’d face 

Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn, 

Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase ; 

Hunting he loved, but love he laugh’d to scorn ; 
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, 
And like a bold-faced suitor ’gins to woo him. 


‘ Thrice-fairer than myself,’ thus she began, 

‘ The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare, 

Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, 

More white and red than doves or roses are ; 
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, 
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life. 


‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, 

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ; 

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed 

A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know: 
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, 
And being set, I 11 smother thee with kisses ; 


‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, 
But rather famish them amid their plenty, 
Making them red and pale with fresh variety, 
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty: 
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short, 
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’ 


With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, 

The precedent of pith and livelihood, 

And trembling in her passion, calls it balm, 

Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good: 
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force 
Courageously to pluck him from his horse. 


Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein, 
Under her other was the tender boy, 
Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain, 
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ; 
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, 
He red for shame, but frosty in desire. 


The studded bridle on a ragged bough 
Nimbly she fastens :—O, how quick is love! — 
The steed is stalled up, and even now 
To tie the rider she begins to prove: 
Backward she push’d him,as she would be thrust, 
And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust. 


822 


So soon was she along as he was down, 

Each leaning on their elbows and their hips: 

Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, 

And ’gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips; 
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, 
‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’ 


He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears 
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks; 
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs 
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks: 
He saith she is immodest, blames her ’miss ; 
What follows more she murders with a kiss. 


Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, 
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, 
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, 
Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone ; 
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin, 
And where she ends she doth anew begin. 


Forced to content, but never to obey, 

Panting he lies and breatheth in her face ; 

She feedeth on the steam as on a prey, 

And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace; 
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, 
So they were dew’d with such distilling showers. 


Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, 
So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies; 
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret, 
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes: 
Rain added to a river that is ran 
Perforce will force it overflow the bank. 


Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, 

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale; 

Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 

*T wixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale ; 
Being red, she loves him best; and being white, 
Her best is better’d with a more delight. 


Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; 

And by her fair immortal hand she swears, 

From his soft bosom never to remove, 

Till he take truce with her contending tears, 
Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet; 
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt. 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


ee SSSSESSSSeSEeEeESESe 


Upon this promise did he raise his chin, 
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, 
Who, being lock’d on, ducks as quickly in; 
So offers he to give what she did crave ; 
But when her lips were ready for his pay, 
He winks, and turns his lips another way. 


Never did passenger in summer’s heat 
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. 
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get; 
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: — 
‘QO, pity,’ ’gan she cry, ‘ flint-hearted boy! 
’T is but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy? 


‘T have been woo’d, as I entreat thee now, 
Even by the stern and direful god of war, 
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow, 
Who conquers where he comes in every jar; 
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, 
And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have. 


‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance, 

His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest, 

And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance, 

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest, 
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, 
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. 


‘Thus he that overruled I oversway’d, 
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain : 
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey’d, 
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. 

O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, 

For mastering her that foil’d the god of fight ! 


‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,— 

Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red — 

The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. 

What seest thou in the ground ? hold up thy head: 
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies; 
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes ? 


‘Art thou ashamed to kiss ? then wink again, 
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night ; 
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain ; 
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight : 
These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean 
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. 


‘ The tender spring upon thy tempting lip 
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted: 
Make use of time, let not advantage slip ; 
Beauty within itself should not be wasted : 
Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime 
Rot and consume themselves in little time. 


‘ Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old, 
I}l-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, 
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold, 
Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice, 
WAYS Festa thou pause, for then I were not for 
ee ; 
But having no defects, why dost abhor me ? 


‘ Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow; 

Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning ; 

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, 

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning; 
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand Felt, 
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 


‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, 
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, 
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair, 
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen: 
Love is a spirit all compact of fire, 
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. 


‘ Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie; 
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me, 
Twostrengthless doves will draw me throughthesky, 
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me: 
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be 
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee ? 


‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected ? 
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left ? 
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected, 
Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft. 
Narcissus so himself himself forsook, 
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. 


‘ Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, 
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, 
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear: 
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse: 
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth 
beauty ; 
Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty. 


‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed, 
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ? 
By law of nature thou art bound to breed, 
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead; 
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, 
In that thy likeness still is left alive.’ 


By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, 
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them, 
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat, 
With burning eye did hotly overlook them; 
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide, 
So he were like him and by Venus’ side. 


And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, 

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye, 

His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight, 

Like misty vapours when they blot the sky, 
Souring his cheeks cries ‘ Fie, no more of love! 
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.’ 


‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘ young, and so unkind ? 
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone! 
Ill sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind 
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun: 
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs; 
If they burn too, Ill quench them with my tears. 


‘The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, 

And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee: 

The heat I have from thence doth little harm, 

Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me; 
And were I not immortal, life were done 
Between this heavenly and earthly sun. 


‘ Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, 
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth ? 
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel 
What ’tis to love? how want of love tormenteth ? 
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind, 
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. 


‘What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this? 
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit ? 
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss ? 
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute: 
Give me one kiss, I ’ll give it thee again, 
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. 


‘ Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, 

Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, 

Statue contenting but the eye alone, 

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred! 
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion, 
For men will kiss even by their own direction.’ 


823 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, 

And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; 

Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong; 

Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause: 
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, 
And now her sobs do her intendments break. 


Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand, 

Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground; 

Sometimes her arms infold him like a band: 

She would, he will not in her arms be bound; 
And when from thence he struggles to be gone, 
She locks her lily fingers one in one. 


‘ Fondling,’she saith,‘since I have hemm’d thee here 
Within the circuit of this ivory pale, 
I}l be a park, and thou shalt be my deer ; 
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: 
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, 
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. 


‘Within this limit is relief enough, 
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, 
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, 
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain: 

Then be my deer, since I am such a park; 

No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’ 


At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, 
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple: 
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, 
He might be buried in a tomb so simple; 
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, 
Why, there Love lived and there he could not die. 


These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, 
Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking. 
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits ? 
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking ? 
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, 
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn! 


Now which way shall she turn ? what shall she say ? 
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing ; 
The time is spent, her object will away, 
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing. 
‘ Pity,’ she cries, ‘some favour, some remorse! ’ 
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse. 


But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by, 

A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, 

Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy, 

And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: 
The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree, 
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. 


Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, 
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder ; 
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, 
ae hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thun- 
er; 
The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth, 
Controlling what he was controlled with. 


His ears up-prick’d; his braided hanging mane 
Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end; 
HLis nostrils drink the air, and forth again, 
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: 
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, 
Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 


Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, 

With gentle majesty and modest pride: 

Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, 

As who should say ‘ Lo, thus my strength is tried, 
And this I do to captivate the eye 
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’ 


824 


What recketh he his rider’s angry stir, 
His flattering ‘ Holla,’ or his ‘Stand, I say’? 
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur ? 
For rich caparisons or trapping gay ? 
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, 
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 


Look, when a painter would surpass the life, 
In limning out a well-proportion’d steed, 
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, 
As if the dead the living should exceed ; 

So did this horse excel a common one 

In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone. 


Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, 
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide, 
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing 
strong, - 
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: 
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, 
Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 


| Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares; 


Anon he starts at stirring of a feather ; 

To bid the wind a base he now prepares, 

And whether he run or fly they know not whether; 
For through hismaneand tail the high wind sings, 
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings. 


He looks upon his love and neighs unto her; 

She answers him as if she knew his mind: 

Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, 

She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, 
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, 
Beating his kind embracements with her heels. 


Then, like a melancholy malcontent, 

He veils his tail that, like a falling plume, 

Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent: 

He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume. 
His love, perceiving how he is enraged, 
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged. 


His testy master goeth about to take him; 
When, lo, the unback’d breeder, full of fear, 
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, 
With her the horse, and left Adonis there: 
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, 
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them. 


All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, 


| Banning his boisterous and unruly beast: 


And now the happy season once more fits, 
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest ; 
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong 

When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. 


An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d, 

Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: 

So of concealed sorrow may be said; 

Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage 3 
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute, 
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. 


He sees her coming, and begins to glow, 
Even as a dying coal revives with wind, 
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow; 
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, 
Taking no notice that she is so nigh, 
For all askance he holds her in his eye. 


O, what a sight it was, wistly to view 

How she came stealing to the wayward boy! 

To note the fighting conflict of her hue, 

How white and red each other did destroy ! 
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by 
It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky. 


ee ES eee SS 


Now was she just before him as he sat, 

And like a lowly lover down she kneels; 

With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, 

Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels: 
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s print, 
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint. 


O, what a war of looks was then between them! 
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing ; 

His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them; 
Her eyes woo’d still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing: 
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain 

With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain. 


Full gently now she takes him by the hand, 

A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow, 

Or ivory in an alabaster band ; 

So white a friend engirts so white a foe: 
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, 
Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing. 


Once more the engine of her thoughts began: 

‘O fairest mover on this mortal round, 

Would thou wert as I am, and I a man, 

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound; 
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, 
Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure 

thee. 


‘Give me my hand,’ saith he, ‘ why dost thou feel it?’ 
‘Give me my heart,’ saith she, ‘and thou shalt have 
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it, _[it; 
And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it: 
Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard, 
Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.’ 


‘For shame,’ he cries, ‘let go, and let me go; 

My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone, 

‘And ’tis your fault I am bereft him so: 

I pray you hence, and leave me here alone; 
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, 
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.’ 


Thus she replies: ‘ Thy palfrey, as he should, 
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire: 
Affection is a coal that must be cool’d; 
Hise, suffer’d, it will set the heart on fire: 
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none; 
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone. 


‘ How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree, 
Servilely master’d with a leathern rein! 
But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee, 
He held such petty bondage in disdain ; 
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, 
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. 


‘Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, 
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, 
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed, 
His other agents aim at like delight ? 
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold 
To touch the fire, the weather being cold ? 


‘ Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy; 

And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee, 

To take advantage on presented joy; 

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee: 
O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain, 
And once made perfect, never lost again.’ 


‘T know not love,’ quoth he, ‘ nor will not know it, 
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it; 
’T is much to borrow, and I will not owe it; 
My love to love is love but to disgrace it ; 
For I have heard it is a life in death, 
That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath. 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


| ‘Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d 


Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth ? 

If springing things be any jot diminish’d, 

They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth: 
The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being young 
Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong. 


‘You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part, 

And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat : 

Remove your siege from my unyielding heart ; 

To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate: [tery ; 
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flat- 
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.’ 


‘What! canst thou talk ?’ quoth she, ‘hast thou a 
tongue ? 
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing! 
Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong ; 
I had my load before, now press’d with bearing: 
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding, 
Ear’s deep-sweet music, and heart’s deep-sore 
wounding. 


‘ Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 

That inward beauty and invisible; 

Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move 

Each part in me that were but sensible: 
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, 
Yet should I be in love by touching thee. 


‘Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me, 
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, 
And nothing but the very smell were left me, 
Yet would my love to thee be still as much; 
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling 
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by 
smelling. 


‘But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste, 
Being nurse and feeder of the other four! 
Would they not wish the feast might ever last, 
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door, 
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, 
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast ?’ 


Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d, 

Which to his speech did honey passage yield ; 

Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d 

Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, 
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, 
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. 


This ill presage advisedly she marketh: 
Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth, 
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, 
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, 
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, 
His meaning struck her ere his words begun. 


And at his look she flatly falleth down, 

For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth ; 

A smile recures the wounding of a frown; 

But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth ! 
The silly boy, believing she is dead, 
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red° 


And all amazed brake off his late intent, 

For sharply he did think to reprebend her, 

Which cunning love did wittily prevent: 

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her! 
For on the grass she lies as she were slain, 
Till his breath breatheth life in her again. 


He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, 
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, 

He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks , 
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d: 


825 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


He kisses her; and she, by her good will, 
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 


The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day: 
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, 
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array 
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth ; 
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, 
So is her face illumined with her eye; 


Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d, 
As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine. 
Were never four such lamps together mix’d, 
Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine ; 
Shai oe which through the crystal tears gave 
ight, 
Shone like the moon in water seen by night. 


‘O, where am I?’ quoth she, ‘in earth or heaven, 
Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire ? 
What hour is this? or morn or weary even ? 
Do I delight to die, or life desire ? 
But now I lived, and life was death’s annoy; 
But now I died, and death was lively joy. 


‘QO, thou didst kill me: kill me once again: 

Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, 

Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain 

That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine; | 
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, 
‘But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. 


‘Long may they kiss each other, for this cure! 

O, never let their crimson liveries wear ! 

And as they last, their verdure still endure, 

To drive infection from the dangerous year ! 
That the star-gazers, having writ on death, 
May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath. 


‘Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted, | 

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing ? 

To sell myself I can be well contented, 

So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing ; 
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips 
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips. 


‘ A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; 

And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. 

What is ten hundred touches unto thee ? 

Are they not quickly told and quickly gone ? 
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, 
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ?’ 


‘ Fair queen,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me, 
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years: 
Before I know myself, seek not to know me; 
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears : 
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, 
Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste. 


‘ Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait, 
His day’s hot task hath ended in the west; 
The owl, night’s herald, shrieks, ‘‘ ’T is very late;”’ 
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, 
cage ge michy clouds that shadow heaven’s 
igh 
Do summon us to part and bid good night. 


‘ Now let me say “‘ Good night,’’ and so say you; 
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’ 
‘Good night,’ quoth she, and, ere he says ‘ Adieu,’ 
The honey fee of parting tender’d is: 
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace; 
Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face. 


Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward drew 
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, 


826 


Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, 
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth : 
He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth, 
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth. 


Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, 

And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ; 

Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, 

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;  [high, 
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so 
That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry: 


And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, 
With blindfold fury she begins to forage; 
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil. 
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ; 
Planting oblivion, beating reason back, 
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s 
wrack. 


Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, 
Like ‘ wild bird being tamed with too much hand. 
ing, 
Or as the fleet-foot roe that ’s tired with chasing, 
Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling, 
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, 
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. 


What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering, 
And yields at last to every light impression ? 


| Things out of hope are compass’d oft with venturing, 


Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission : 
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, 
But then woos best when most his choice is froward. 


| When he did frown, O, had she then gave over, 


Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d. 


| Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover ; 


What though the rose have prickles, yet ’t is pluck’d: 
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, 
Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last. 


For pity now she can no more detain him ; 


The poor fool prays her that he may depart: 

She is resolved no longer to restrain him ; 

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, 
The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest, 
He carries thence incaged in his breast. 


‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night Ill waste in 
SOrroW, 
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. 
Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to-morrow ? 
Say, shall we ? shall we ? wilt thou make the match ?’ 
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends 
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. 


‘The boar!’ quoth she; whereat a sudden pale, 

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, 

Usurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale, 

And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: 
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, 
He on her belly falls, she on her back. 


Now is she in the very lists of love, 
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter : 
All is imaginary she doth prove, 
He will not manage her, although he mount her; 
That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy, 
To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. 


Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes, 
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw, 
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, 
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 
The warm effects which she in him finds missing 
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


But all in vain; good queen, it will not be: 

She hath assay’d as much as may be proved ; 

Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee ; 

She ’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved. 
‘ Fie, fie,’ he says, ‘ you crush me; let me go; 
You have no reason to withhold me so.’ 


‘Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘ sweet boy, ere 
this, 
But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. 
O, be advised! thou know’st not what it is 
With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore, 
Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still, 
Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill. 


‘On his bow-back he hath a battle set 
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ; 
Tis eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret ; 
His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes ; 
Being moved, he strikes whate’er is in his way, 
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay. 


‘His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d, 
Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter ; 
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm’d; 
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture: 

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, 

As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes. 


‘Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, 
To which Love’s eyes pay tributary gazes; 
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne, 
Whose full perfection all the world amazes; 
But having thee at vantage,— wondrous dread ! — 
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead. 


‘O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still; 

Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends: 

Come not within his danger by thy will; 

They that thrive well take counsel of their friends. 
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, 
I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. 


‘Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white ? 
Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye ? 
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright ? 
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, 
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, 
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. 


‘For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy 
Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel ; 
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, 
And in a peaceful hour doth ery ‘‘ Kill, kill!” 
Distempering gentle Love in his desire, 
As air and water do abate the fire. 


‘This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, 
This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring, 
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, 
That sometime true news, sometime false doth 
bring, 
Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine ear 
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear: 


‘And more than so, presenteth to mine eye 
The picture of an angry-chafing boar, 
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie 
An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore; 
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed 
ies make them droop with grief and hang the 
ead. 


‘What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, 

That tremble at the imagination ? 

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, 
And fear doth teach it divination: 


I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, 
If thou encounter with'the boar to-morrow. 


‘But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me; 
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, 
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety, 
Or at the roe which no encounter dare: 
Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs, 
ahr on ny well-breathed horse keep with thy 
1ounds. 


‘And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, 

Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 

How he outruns the wind and with what care 

He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: 
The many musets through the which he goes 
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. 


‘Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, 
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, 
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, 
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, 
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer: 
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear: 


‘For there his smell with others being mingled, 
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, 
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled 
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out ; 
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, 
As if another chase were in the skies. 


‘ By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, 
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, 
To hearken if his foes pursue him still: 
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; 
And now his grief may be compared well 
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell. 


‘Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch 
Turn, and return, indenting with the way; 
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch, 
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: 
For misery is trodden on by many, 
And being low never relieved by any. 


‘Lie quietly, and hear a little more; 
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise: 
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, 
Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize, 
Applying this to that, and so to so; 
For love can comment upon every woe. 


‘Where did I leave ?’ ‘ No matter where ;’ quoth he, 
‘Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: 
The night is spent.? ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth 
she. 
‘I am,’ quoth he, ‘expected of my friends; 
And now ’tis dark, and going [ shall fall.’ 
‘In night,’ quoth she, ‘ desire sees best of all. 


‘But if thou fall, O, then imagine this, 
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, 
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. 
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips 
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, 
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn. 


‘Now of this dark night I perceive the reason: 

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, 

Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason, _ 

For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine - 
Wherein she framed thee in high heaven’s despite 
To shame the sun by day and her by night. 


‘ And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies 
To cross the curious workmanship of nature, 


827 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


To mingle beauty with infirmities, 
And pure perfection with impure defeature, 
Making it subject to the tyranny 
Of mad mischances and much misery ; 


‘As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, 
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, 
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint 
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood: 
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair, 
Swear Nature’s death for framing thee so fair. 


‘ And not the least of all these maladies 

But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under: 

Both favour, savour, hue and qualities, 

Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder, 
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d and done, 
As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun. 


‘ Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, 
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, 
That on the earth would breed a searcity 
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, 
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night 
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. 


‘What is thy body but a swallowing grave, 
Seeming to bury that posterity 
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, 
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? 

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, 

Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. 


‘So in thyself thyself art made away; 

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, 

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, 

Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life. 
Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, 
But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.’ 

‘ Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘ you will fall again 

Into your idle over-handled theme: 

The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain, 

And all in vain you strive against the stream ; 
For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul nurse, 
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. 


‘If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, 
And every tongue more moving than your own, 
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs, 
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown; 
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, 
And will not let a false sound enter there ; 


‘ Lest the deceiving harmony should run 
Into the quiet closure of my breast ; 
And then my little heart were quite undone, 
In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest. 
No, lady, n6; my heart longs not to groan, 
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. 


‘What have you urged that I cannot reprove ? 

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger: 

I hate not love, but your device in love, 

That lends embracements unto every stranger. 
You do it for increase: O strange excuse, 
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse ! 


* Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fied, 

Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name; 

Under whose simple semblance he hath fed 

Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; 
Which the bot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, 
As caterpiliars do the tender leaves. 


‘ Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, 
But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun ; 


828 


Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, 
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done; 
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; 

Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies. 


‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say; 

The text is old, the orator too green. 

Therefore, in sadness, now I will away; 

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen: 
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended, 
Do burn themselves for having so offended.’ 


With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace, 

Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, 

And homeward through the dark laund runs apace; 

Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress’d. 
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky, 
So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye; 


Which after him she darts, as one on shore 
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, 
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, 
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: 
So did the merciless and pitchy night 
Fold in the object that did feed her sight. 


Whereat amazed, as one that unaware 

Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood, 

Or stonish’d as night-wanderers often are, 

Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood, 
Even so confounded in the dark she lay, 
Having lost the fair discovery of her way. 


And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, 
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, 
Make verbal repetition of her moans; 
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: 
‘Ay me!’ she cries, and twenty times ‘ Woe,woe!’ 
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. 


She marking them begins a wailing note 
And sings extemporally a woetul ditty: 
How love makes young ‘men thrall and old men 
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty: [dote ; 
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, 
And still the choir of echoes answer so. 


Her song was tedious and outwore the night, 
For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short: 
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight 
In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport: 
Their copious stories oftentimes begun 
End without audience and are never done. 


For who hath she to spend the night withal 
But idle sounds resembling parasites, 
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call, 
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ? 
She says ‘’T'is so:’ they answer all ‘’T'is so;’ 
And would say after her, if she said ‘ No.’ . 


Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, 
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast 
The sun ariseth in his majesty ; 
Who doth the world so gloriously behold 
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold. 


Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow: 

‘O thou clear god, and patron of all light, 

From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow 

The beauteous influence that makes him bright, 
There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother, 
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.’ 


This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 
Musing the morning is so much o’erworn, 


VENUS AND ADONIS 


And yet she hears no tidings of her love: 

She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn: 
Anon she hears them chant it lustily, 
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. 


And as she runs, the bushes in the way 

Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 

Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: 

She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, 
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, 
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. 


By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay; 

Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder 

Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way, 

The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder ; 
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds 
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds. 


For now she knows it is no gentle chase, 
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, 
Because the cry remaineth in one place, 
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud: 
Finding their enemy to be so curst, 
They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first. 


This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, 

Through which it enters to surprise her heart; 

Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, 

With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part: 
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, 
They basely fly and dare not stay the field. 


Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy; 

Till, cheering up her senses all dismay’d, 

She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy, 

And childish error, that they are afraid ; 
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:— 
And with that word she spied the hunted boar, 


Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, 
Like milk and blood being mingled both together, 
A second fear through all her sinews spread, 
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: 
This way she runs, and now she will no further, 
But back retires to rate the boar for murther. 


A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; 
She treads the path that she untreads again ; 
Her more than haste is mated with delays, 
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, 
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting ; 
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting. 


Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound, 

And asks the weary caitiff for his master, 

And there another licking of his wound, 

*Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster ; 
And here she meets another sadly scowling, 
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. 


When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, 
Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim, 
Against the welkin volleys out his voice; 
Another and another answer him, 
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, 
Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go. 


Look, how the world’s poor people are amazed 
At apparitions, signs and prodigies, 
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, 
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies ; 
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath 
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death. 


‘ Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, 
Hateful divorce of love,’—thus chides she Death,— 


‘Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou 
mean 
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, 
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set 
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ? 


‘If he be dead,— O no, it cannot be, 

Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it: — 

O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see, 

But hatefully at random dost thou hit. 
Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart 
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant’s heart. 


‘ Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, 
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. 
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke; 
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower: 
Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled, 
And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike him dead. 


‘Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such 
weeping ? 
What may a heavy groan advartage thee ? 
Why hast thou cast into eterral sleeping 
Those eyes that taught all otner eyes to see ? 
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, 
Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.’ 


Here overcome, as one full of despair, 

She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt 

The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair 

In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt : 
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, 
And with his strong course opens them again. 


O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! 
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; 
Both crystals, where they view’d each otlier’s sor- 


row 
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; 
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, 
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. 


Variable passions throng her constant woe, 
As striving who should best become her grief; 
All entertain’d, each passion labours so, 
That every present sorrow seemeth chief, 
But none is best: then join they all together, 
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. 


By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo ; 
A nurse’s song ne’er pleased her babe so well: 
The dire imagination she did follow 
This sound of hope doth labour to expel; 

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, 

And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice. 


Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, 

Being prison’d in her eye like pearls in glass; 

Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, 

Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, 
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, 
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d. 


O hard-believing love, how strange it seems 
Not to believe, and yet too credulous! 
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ; 
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous: 
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, 
Tn likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. 


Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought ; 

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame; 

It was not she that call’d him all-to naught: 

Now she adds honours to his hatefulname; _ 
She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings, 
Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 


829 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


‘No, no,’ quoth she, ‘sweet Death, I did but jest; 
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear 
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast, 
Which knows no pity, but is still severe; 
Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess,— 
I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease. 


‘°Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue; 
Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander ; | 
’T is he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; | 
I did but act, he’s author of thy slander: 

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet 


Could rule them both without ten women’s wit.’ | 


Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; 

And that his beauty may the better thrive, 
With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; 


Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories | 


His victories, his triumphs and his glories. 


‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I 
To be of such a weak and silly mind 
To wail his death who lives and must not die 
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! 
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, 
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 


‘ Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear 

As one with treasure laden, hemm/’d with thieves; 

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, 

Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.’ 
Even at this word she hears a merry horn, 
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. 


As falcon to the lure, away she flies ; 

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; 

And in her haste unfortunately spies 

The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight ; 
Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view, 
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew; 


Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain, 
And there, all smother’d up, in shade doth sit, 
Long after fearing to creep forth again; 

So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled 

Into the deep dark cabins of her head: 


Where they resign their office and their light 
To the disposing of her troubled brain ; 

Who bids them still consort with ugly night, 
And never wound the heart with looks again; 
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, 
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan, 


Whereat each tributary subject quakes; 
As when the wind, imprison’d in the ground, 
Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes, 
Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound. 
This mutiny each part doth so surprise 
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; 


And, being open’d, threw unwilling light 
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d 
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white 
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was 
drench’d: 
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, 
But stole his biood and seem’d with him to bleed. 


This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ; 
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; 
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; 
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead: 
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow; 
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. 
830 


| 
| 


Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, 

That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; 

And then she reprehends her mangling eye, 

That makes more gashes where no breach should be: 
His face seems twain, each severallimb is doubled; 
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. 


‘My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 


_ And yet,’ quoth she, * behold two Adons dead! 


My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, 


| Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead: 


Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire! 
So shall I die by drops of hot desire. 


‘Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! 
What face remains alive that ’s worth the viewing ? 


| Whose tongue is music now ? what canst thou boast 


Of things long since, or any thing ensuing ? 
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim; 
But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. 


‘Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! 
| Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: 
| Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; 


The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you: 
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air 
Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair: 


‘ And therefore would he put his bonnet on, 
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; 
The wind would blow it off and, being gone, 
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep; 
And straight, in pity of his tender years, 
They both would strive who first should dry his 
tears. 


‘To see his face the lion walk’d along 
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him ; 
To recreate himself when he hath sung, 
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him; 
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey 
And never fright the silly lamb that day. 


‘When he beheld his shadow in the brook, 

The fishes spread on it their golden gills; 

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, 

That some would sing, some other in their bills 
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; 
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. 


‘ But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, 
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, 
Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; 
Witness the entertainment that he gave: 

If he did see his face, why then I know 

He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so. 


‘°T is true, tis true; thus was Adonis slain: 

He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, ¢ 

Who did not whet his teeth at him again, 

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; 
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine 
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. 


‘Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess, 

With kissing him I should have kill’d him first ; 

But he is dead, and never did he bless 

My youth with his; the more am I accurst.’ 
With this, she falleth in the place she stood, 
And stains her face with his congealed blood. 


She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; 

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; 

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, 

As if they heard the woeful words she told; 
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, 
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; 


VENUS AND ADONIS. 


Two glasses, where herself herself beheld 

A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; 

Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d, 

And every beauty robb’d of his effect : 
‘Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘ this is my, spite, 
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. 


‘Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: 
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : 
It shall be waited on with jealousy, 
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, 
Ne’er settled equally, but high or low, 
That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe. 


‘It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, 

Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while; 

The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d 

With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: 
The strongest body shall it make most weak, 
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. 


‘It shall be sparing and too full of riot, 

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; 

The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, 

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures ; 
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, 
Make the young old, the old become a child. 


‘It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; 

It shall not fear where it should most mistrust ; 

It shall be merciful and too severe, 

And most deceiving when it seems most just; 
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, 
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. 


‘It shall be cause of war and dire events, 
And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire; 
Subject and servile to all discontents, 

As dry combustious matter is to fire: 


Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, 
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.’ 


By this, the boy that by her side lay kill’d 

Was melted like a vapour from her sight, 

And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d, 

A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white, 
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood 
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. 


She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, 
Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath, 
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, 
Since he himself is reft from her by death: 
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears 
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. 


‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father’s 
guise — 
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — 
For every little grief to wet his eyes: 
To grow unto himself was his desire, 
And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good 
To wither in my breast as in his blood. 


‘Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast ; 

Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right: 

Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, 

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and nighi: 
There shall not be one minute in an hour 
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.’ 


Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid 
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies 
In her light chariot is quickly convey’d ; 
Holding their course to Paphos, where their 
queen 
Means to immure herself and not be seen. 


851 


THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 


TO THE 
RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY, 


EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD, 


THE love I dedicate to your lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous 
moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of 
acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my 
worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, 
still lengthened with all happiness. Your lordship’s in all duty, 


[= 2a 


THE ARGUMENT. 


Lucius TARQUINIUS, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own father-in-law Servius 
Tullius to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people’s 
suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege 
Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the 
king’s son, in their discourses after supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife: among whom Collatinus 
extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and intending, 
by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his 
wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, 
or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time 
Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece’s beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the 
rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally 
entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently 
ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, 
one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the 
other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, 
first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly 
stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and 
bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter 
invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general 
acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls, 


From the besieged Ardea all in post, 

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, 

Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, 

And to Collatium bears the lightless fire 

Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire 
And girdle with embracing flames the waist 
Of Collatine’s fair love, Lucrece the chaste. 


Beauty itself doth of itself persuade 

The eyes of men without an orator; 

What needeth then apologies be made, 

To set forth that which is so singular ? 

Or why is Collatine the publisher 
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown 
From thievish ears, because it is his own ? 


Haply that name of ‘chaste’ unhappily set 
This bateless edge on his keen appetite ; 
When Collatine unwisely did not let 
To praise the clear unmatched red and white 
Which triumph’d in that sky of his delight, 
Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven’s beau- 


Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sovereignty 
Suggested this proud issue of a king; 
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be: 
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, 
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting 
His high-pitch’d thoughts, that meaner men 
should vaunt 


ies, 
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. That golden hap which their superiors want. 


for he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent, 

(inlock’d the treasure of his happy state; 

What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent 

In the possession of his beauteous mate; 

lteckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate, 
That kings might be espoused to more fame, 
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. 


But some untimely thought did instigate 
His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those: 
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, 
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes 
To quench the coal which in his liver glows. 
O rash false heat, wrapp’d in repentant cold, 
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne’er grows old! 


() happiness enjoy’d but of a few! When at Collatium this false lord arrived, 


And, if possess’d, as soon decay’d and done Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, 
As is the morning’s silver-melting dew Within whose face beauty and virtue strived 
Against the golden splendour of the sun! Which of them both should underprop her fame: 
An expired date, cansell’d ere well begun: When virtue bragg’d, beauty would blush for shame; 
Honour and beauty, in the owner’s arms, When beauty boasted blushes, in despite 
Are weakly fortress’d from a world of harms. Virtue would stain that o’er with silver white. 


832 


———————— OO 


iti man 


LUCRECE. 


But beauty, in that white intituled, And every one to rest themselves betake, 
From Venus’ doves doth challenge that fair field: Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, 
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red, that wake. 


Which virtue gave the golden age to gild 
Their silver cheeks, and call’d it then their shield; | As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving 
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, [white. | The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining ; 
When shame assail’d, the red should fence the | Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, ~ 
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstain- 


This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen, ing: 
Argued by beauty’s red and virtue’s white: Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining; 
Of either’s colour was the other queen, And when great treasure is the meed proposed, 
Proving from world’s minority their right: Though death be adjunct, there ’s no death sup- 
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; posed. 

The sovereignty of either being so great, 

That oft they interchange each other’s seat. Those that much covet are with gain so fond, 

For what they have not, that which they possess 

Their silent war of lilies and of roses, | They scatter and unloose it from their bond, 
Which Tarquin view’d in her fair face’s field, | And so, by hoping more, they have but less; 
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess 
Where, lest between them both it should be kill’d, Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, 
The coward captive vanquished doth yield | That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. 

To those two armies that would let him go, 

Rather than triumph in so false a foe. | The aim of all is but to nurse the life 


: | With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age; 
Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue,— | And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, 


The niggard prodigal that praised her so,— | That one for all, or all for one we gage; 
In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, | As life for honour in fell battle’s rage; 
Which far exceeds his barren skill to show: | Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost 
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe | The death of all, and all together lost. 
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, | 
In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. | So that in venturing ill we leave to be 
| The things we are for that which we expect ; 
This earthly saint, adored by this devil, | And this ambitious foul infirmity, 
Little suspecteth the false worshipper ; | In having much, torments us with defect 


For unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on evil; | Of that we have: so then we do neglect 

Birds never limed no secret bushes fear: | The thing we have; and, all for want of wit, 

So guiltless she securely gives good cheer | Make something nothing by augmenting it. 
And reverend welcome to her princely guest, 
Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d ; Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, 


Pawning his honour to obtain his lust; 


For that he colour’d with his high estate, | And for himself himself he must forsake: 

Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ; _ Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust ? 
That nothing in him seem’d inordinate, / When shall he think to find a stranger just, 

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, | When he himself himself confounds, betrays 
Which, having all, all could not satisfy ; | Toslanderous tongues and wretched hateful days? 


But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, 
That, cloy’d with much, he pineth still for more. | Now stole upon the time the dead of night, 
| When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes: 


But she, that never coped with stranger eyes, No comfortable star did lend his light, 

Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, | No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries ; 
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies _ Now serves the season that they may surprise 
Writ in the glassy margents of such books: The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still, 


She touch’d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no hooks; While lust and murder wake to stain and kill. 
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, 


More than his eyes were open’d to the light. And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed, 
Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm ; 
He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, Ts madly toss’d between desire and dread ; 
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; Th’ one sweetly flatters, th? other feareth harm ; 
And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, | But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm, 
Made glorious by his manly chivalry | Doth too too oft betake him to retire, 
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory: Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. 


Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, 
And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. | His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, 
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly ; 


Far from the purpose of his coming hither, Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, 
He makes excuses for his being there: Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye: 
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather And to the flame thus speaks advisedly, 

Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear; ‘As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, 
Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’ 


Upon the world dim darkness doth display, 
And in her vaulty prison stows the Day. 


Here pale with fear he doth premeditate 
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, 


For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, And in his inward mind he doth debate 
Intending weariness with heavy spright; What following sorrow may on this arise: 
For, after supper, long he questioned Then looking scornfully, he doth despise 
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night: His naked armour of still-slaughter’d lust, 


Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight ; And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: 
53 833 


LUCRECE. 


‘Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not 
To darken her whose light excelleth thine: 
And die, unhallow’d thoughts, before you blot 
With your uncleanness that which is divine; 
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine: 
Let fair humanity abhor the deed [weed. 
That spots and stains love’s modest snow-white 


‘O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! 
O foul dishonour to my household’s grave! 
O impious act, including all foul harms! 
A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave! 
True valour still a true respect should have; 
Then my digression is so vile, so base, 
That it will live engraven in my face. 


‘Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, 

And be an eye-sore in my golden coat ; 

Some loathsome dash the berald will contrive, 

To cipher me how fondly I did dote; 

That my posterity, shamed with the note, 
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin 
To wish that I their father had not bin. 


} 


‘What win I, if I gain the thing I seek ? 

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. | 

Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week ? | 

Or sells eternity to get a toy ? 

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy ? 
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, 
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down? 


‘If Collatinus dream of my intent, 

Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage 

Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ? 

This siege that hath engirt his marriage, 

This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, 
This dying virtue, this surviving shame, 
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ? 


‘O, what excuse can my invention make, 
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed ? 
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, | 
Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed ? 
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed ; 
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, 
But coward-like with trembling terror die. 


‘Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire, 
Or lain in ambush to betray my life, 
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire 
Might have excuse to work upon his wife, 
As in revenge or quittal of such strife: 
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, 
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. 


‘Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known: 

Hateful it is; there is no hate in loving: 

I'll beg her love; but she is not her own: 

The worst is but denial and reproving : 

My will is strong, past reason’s weak removing. 
Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw 
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’ 


Thus, graceless, holds he disputation 

*T ween frozen conscience and hot-burning will, 

And with good thoughts makes dispensation, 

Urging the worser sense for vantage still; 

Which in a moment doth confound and kill 
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, 
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. 


Quoth he, ‘ She took me kindly by the hand, 
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes, 
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band, 
Where her beloved Collatinus lies. 

O, how her fear did make her colour rise ! 


834 


First red as roses that on lawn we lay, 
Then white as lawn, the roses took away. 


| ‘And how her hand, in my hand being lock’d, 


Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear! 

Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock’d, 

Until her husband’s welfare she did hear; 

Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer, 
That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, 
Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood. 


‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses ? 
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth ; 
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses; 
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth: 
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ; 
And when his gaudy banner is display’d, 
The coward fights and will not be dismay’d. 


‘ Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die! 
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age! 
My heart shall never countermand mine eye: 
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage; 


| My part is youth, and beats these from the stage: 


Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize; 
Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’ 


As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear 

Is almost choked by unresisted lust. 

Away he steals with open listening ear, 

Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust; 

Both which, as servitors to the unjust, 
So cross him with their opposite persuasion, 
That now he vows a league, and now invasion. 


Within his thought her heavenly image sits, 
And in the self-same seat sits Collatine: 
That eye which looks on her confounds his wits; 


| That eye which him beholds, as more divine, 


Unto a view so false will not incline; 
But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, 
Which once corrupted takes the worser part ; 


And therein heartens up his servile powers, 
Who, flatter’d by their leader’s jocund show, 
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours; 


| And as their captain, so their pride doth grow, 


Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. 
By reprobate desire thus madly led, 
The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed. 


The locks between her chamber and his will, 

Each one by him enforced, retires his ward ; 

But, as they open, they all rate his ill, 

Which drives the creeping thief to some regard : 

The threshold grates the door to have him heard ; 
Night-wandering weasels shriek to see him there; 
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. 


As each unwilling portal yields him way, 
Through little vents and crannies of the place 
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay, 
And blows the smoke of it into his face, 
Extinguishing his conduct in this case ; 
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch, 
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch: 


And being lighted, by the light he spies 
Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks: 
He takes it from the rushes where it lies, 
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks; 
As who should say ‘ This glove to wanton tricks 
Is not inured; return again in haste; 
Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’ 


But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him; 
He in the worst sense construes their denial: 


j 
‘ 
é 
f 


LUCRECE. 


The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him, | Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies, 


He takes for accidental things of trial; 

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, 
Who with a lingering stay his course doth let, 
Till every minute pays the hour his debt. 


‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time, 
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring, 
To add a more rejoicing to the prime, 
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing. 
‘Pain pays the income of each precious thing ; 
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves 
and sands, 
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’ 


Now is he come unto the chamber-door, 
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, 
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, 
Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he sought. 
So from himself impiety hath wrought, 

That for his prey to pray he doth begin, 

As if the heavens should countenance his sin. 


But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, 

Having solicited th’ eternal power 

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair, 

And they would stand auspicious to the hour, 

Even there he starts: quoth he, ‘I must deflower: 
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, 
How can they then assist me in the act ? 


‘Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide! 

My will is back’d with resolution: 

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried ; 

The blackest sin is clear’d with absolution ; 

Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution. 
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night 
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’ 


This said, his guilty hand pluck’d up the latch, 
And with his knee the door he opens wide. 
The dove sleeps fast that this night-ow] will catch: 
Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. 
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside; 
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, 
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. 


Into the chamber wickedly he stalks, 
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed. 
The curtains being close, about he walks, 
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head: 
By their high treason is his heart misled ; 
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full 
soon 
To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. 


Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, 
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ; 
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun 
To wink, being blinded with a greater light: 
Whether it is that she reflects so bright, 
That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed ; 
But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. 


QO, had they in that darksome prison died! 

Then had they seen the period of their ill; 

Then Collatine again, by Lucrece’ side, 

In his clear bed might have reposed still : 

But they must ope, this blessed league to kill; 
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight 
Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight. 


Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, 
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss; 

Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, 
Swelling on either side to want his bliss; 
Between whose hills her head entombed is: 


To be admired of lewd unhallow’d eyes. 


Without the bed her other fair hand was, 
On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white 
Show’d like an April daisy on the grass, , 
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. 
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, 
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, 
Till they might open to adorn the day. 


Her hair, like golden threads, play’d with her breath; 
O modest wantons! wanton modesty! 
Showing life’s triumph in the map of death, 
And death’s dim look in life’s mortality : 
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify, 
As if between them twain there were no strife, 
But that life lived in death, and death in life. 


Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue, 
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered, 
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, 
And him by oath they truly honoured. 
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred; 
Who, like a foul usurper, went about 
From this fair throne to heave the owner out. 


What could he see but mightily he noted ? 
What did he note but strongly he desired ? 
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, 
And in bis will his wilful eye he tired. 
With more than admiration he admired 

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, 

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. 


As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey, 

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, 

So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, 

His rage of lust by gazing qualified ; 

Slack’d, not suppress’d ; for standing by her side, 
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, 
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins: 


And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, 
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting, 
In bloody death and ravishment delighting, 
Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting, 
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting: 
Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, 
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. 


His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, 

His eye commends the leading to his hand ; 

His hand, as proud of such a dignity, 

Smoking with pride, march’d on to make his stand 

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land; 
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, 
Left their round turrets destitute and pale. 


They, mustering to the quiet cabinet | 

Where their dear governess and lady lies, 

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, _ 

And fright her with confusion of their cries: 

She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock’d-up eyes, 
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, 
Are by his flaming torch dimm/’d and controll’d. 


Imagine her as one in dead of night 
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, 
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, 
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking ; 
What terror ’t is! but she, in worser taking, 
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view 
The sight which makes supposed terror true. 


Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears, 
Like to a new-kill’d bird she trembling lies ; 


835 


LUCRECE. 


She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears 


Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes: 
Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries ; 
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, 
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights, 


His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,— 
Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall! — 
May feel her heart — poor citizen ! — distress’d, 
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, 
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. 
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity, 
To make the breach and enter this sweet city. 


First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin 

To sound a parley to his heartless foe ; 

Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin, 

The reason of this rash alarm to know, 

Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show; 
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still 
Under what colour he commits this ill. 


Thus he replies: ‘ The colour in thy face, 
That even for anger makes the lily pale, 
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace, 
Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale: 
Under that colour am I come to scale 
Thy never-conquer’d fort: the fault is thine, 
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. 


‘Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide: 
Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night, 
Where thou with patience must my will abide; 
My will that marks thee for my earth’s delight, 
Which I to conquer sought with all my might; 
But as reproof and reason beat it dead, 
By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. 


‘I see what crosses my attempt will bring; 

I know what thorns the growing rose defends ; 

I think the honey guarded with a sting; 

All this beforehand counsel comprehends: 

But will is deaf and hears no heedful friends; 
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, 
And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty. 


‘I have debated, even in my soul, 
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed; 
But nothing can affection’s course control, 
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. 
Il know repentant tears ensue the deed, 
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity ; 
Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.’ 


This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, 
Which, like a falcon towering in the skies, 
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade, 
W hose crooked beak threats if he mount he dies: 
So under his insulting falchion lies 
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells 
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells. 


‘Lucrece,’ quoth he, ‘this night I must enjoy thee: 
If thou deny, then force must work my way, 
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee: 
That done. some worthless slave of thine Ill slay, 
To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay ; 
And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, 
Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. 


‘So thy surviving husband shall remain 
The scornful mark of every open eye; 
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, 
Thy issue blurr’d with nameless bastardy: 
And thou, the author of their obloquy, 
Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, 
And sung by children in succeeding times. 


836 


‘ But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend: 
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ; 
A little harm done to a great good end 
For lawful policy remains enacted. 
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted 
In a pure compound; being so. applied, 
His venom in effect is purified. 


“Then, for thy husband and thy children’s sake, 
Tender my suit: bequeath not to their lot 
The shame that from them no device can take, 
The blemish that will never be forgot; 
Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour’s blot: 
For marks descried in men’s nativity 
Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.’ 


Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye 
He rouseth up himself and makes a pause; 
While she, the picture of pure piety, 
Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws, 
Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws, 
To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, 
Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. 


But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat, 
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding, 
From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth get, 
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, 
Hindering their present fall by this dividing; 

So his unhallow’d haste her words delays, 

And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. 


Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, 


_ While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth : 


Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, 

A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth: 

His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth 
No penetrable entrance to her plaining: [ing. 
Tears harden lust, though marble wear with rain- 


Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix’d 

In the remorseless wrinkles of his face; 

Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix’d, 

Which to her oratory adds more grace. 

She puts the period often from his place; 
And midst the sentence so ber accent breaks, 
That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. 


She conjures him by high almighty Jove, 
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath, 
By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, 
By holy human law, and common troth, 
By heaven and earth, and all the power of both, 
That to his borrow’d bed he make retire, 
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. 


Quoth she, ‘ Reward not hospitality 
With such black payment as thou hast pretended ; 
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee; 
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended ; 
End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended; 

He is no woodman that doth bend his bow 

To strike a poor unseasonable doe. 


‘My husband is thy friend: for his sake spare me: 
Thyself art mighty ; for thine own sake leave me: 
Myself a weakling; do not then ensnare me: 

Thou look’st not like deceit; do not deceive me. 
Mysighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee: 
If ever man were moved with woman’s moans, 
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans: 


‘All which together, like a troubled ocean, 
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart, 
To soften it with their continual motion; 

For stones dissolved to water do convert. 

O, if no harder than a stone thou art, 


LUCK ECE. 


Melt at my tears, and be compassionate ! 
Soft pity enters at an iron gate. 


‘In Targuin’s likeness I did entertain thee: 

Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? 

To all the host of heaven I complain me,  [name. 

Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely 

Thou art not what thou seem’st; and if the same, 
Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king; 
For kings like gods should govern every thing. 


‘ How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, 
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring ! 
If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage, 
What darest thou not when once thou art a king ? 
O, be remember’d, no outrageous thing 

From vassal actors can be wiped away; 

Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. 


‘ This deed will make thee only loved for fear ; 
But happy monarchs still are fear’d for love: 
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, 
When they in thee the like offences prove: 
If but for fear of this, they will remove; 
For princes are the glass, the school, the book, 
Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look. 


‘And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn? 
Must he in thee read lectures of such shame ? 
Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern 
Authority for sin, warrant for blame, 
To privilege dishonour in thy name? 
Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud, 
And makest fair reputation but a bawd. 


‘Hast thou command ? by him that gave it thee, 
From a pure heart command thy rebel will: 
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, 
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. 
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil, 
When, pattern’d by thy fault, foul sin may say, 
He learn’d to sin, and thou didst teach the way ? 


‘ Think but how vile a spectacle it were, 
To view thy present trespass in another. 
Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear ; 
Their own transgressions partially they smother: 
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. 
O, how are they wrapp’d in with infamies 
That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes! 


‘To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, 
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier: 
I sue for exiled majesty’s repeal ; 
Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire: 
His true respect will prison false desire, 
And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne, 
That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.’ 


‘ Have done,’ quoth he: ‘my uncontrolled tide 
Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. 
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, 
And with the wind in greater fury fret: 
The petty streams that pay a daily debt 
To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ 
Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.’ [haste 


‘Thou art,’ quoth she, ‘a sea, a sovereign king ; 

And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood 

Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, 

Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. 

If all these petty ills shall change thy good, 
Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed, 
And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. 


‘So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave; 
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ; 


Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave: 

Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride: 

The lesser thing should not the greater hide: 
The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot, 
But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root. 


‘So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy’state "— 
‘No more,’ quoth he; ‘by heaven, I will not hear 
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate, [thee : 
Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear thee: 
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee 

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, 

To be thy partner in this shameful doom.’ 


This said, he sets his foot upon the light, 

For light and lust are deadly enemies: 

Shame folded up in blind concealing night, 

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. 

The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries; 
Till with her own white fleece her voice controll’d 
Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold: 


For with the nightly linen that she wears 

He pens her piteous clamours in her head; 

Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears 

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. 

O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed! 
The spots whereof could weeping purify, 
Her tears should drop on them perpetually. 


But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, 
And he hath won what he would lose again: 
This forced league doth force a further strife ; 
This momentary joy breeds months of pain; 
This hot desire converts to cold disdain: 
Pure Chastity is rifled of her store, 
And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. 


Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, 
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, 
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk 
The prey wherein by nature they delight; 
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night: 
His taste delicious, in digestion souring, 
Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. 


O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit 

Can comprehend in still imagination ! 

Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt, 

Ere he can see his own abomination. 

While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation 
Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire, 
Till like a jade Self-will himself doth tire. 


And then with lank and lean discolour’d cheek, 
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace, 
Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, 
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case: 
The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with Grace, 
For there it revels; and when that decays, 
The guilty rebel for remission prays. 


So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, 
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased ; 
For now against himself he sounds this doom, 
That through the length of times he stands dis- 
Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defaced; [graced: 
To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, 
To ask the spotted princess how she fares. 


She says, her subjects with foul insurrection 

Have batter’d down her consecrated wall, 

And by their mortal fault brought in subjection 

Her immortality, and made her thrall 

To living death and pain perpetual: 
Which in her prescience she controlled still, 
But her foresight could not forestall their will. 


837 


LUCRECE. 


Even in this thought through the dark night he 
A captive victor that hath lost in gain;  [stealeth, 
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, 
The sear that will, despite of cure, remain; 
Leaving his spoil perplex’d in greater pain. 

She bears the load of lust he left behind, 

And he the burden of a guilty mind. 


He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence; 
She like a wearied lamb lies panting there; 
He scowls and hates himself for his offence ; 
She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear; 
He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear; 
She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ; 
He runs, and chides his vanish’d, loathed delight. 


He thence departs a heavy convertite ; 

She there remains a hopeless castaway ; 

He in his speed looks for the morning light ; 

She prays she never may behold the day, 

‘For day,’ quoth she, ‘night’s scapes doth open lay, 
And my true eyes have never practised how 
To cloak offences with a cunning brow. 


‘They think not but that every eye can see 

The same disgrace which they themselves behold; 

And therefore would they still in darkness be, 

To have their unseen sin remain untold ; 

For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, 
And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, 
Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.’ 


Here she exclaims against repose and rest, 
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. 
She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, 
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find 
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. 
Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite 
Against the unseen secrecy of night: 


‘O comfort-killing Night, image of hell! 

Dim register and notary of shame! 

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell! 

Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame! 

Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for defame! 
Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator 
With close-tongued treason and the ravisher! 


‘O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night! 
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, 
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, 
Make war against proportion’d course of time; 
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb 
His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, 
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. 


‘With rotten damps ravish the morning air; 
Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick 
The life of purity, the supreme fair, 
Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick ; 
And let thy misty vapours march so thick, 
That in their smoky ranks his smother’d light 
May set at noon and make perpetual night. 
‘Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night’s child, | 
The silver-shining queen he would distain; 
Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled, 
Through Night’s black bosom should not peep again: 
So should I have co-partners in my pain; | 
And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, 
As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage. | 


‘Where now I have no one to blush with me, 

To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, | 

To mask their brows and hide their infamy ; | 

But I alone alone must sit and pine, / 

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine, | 
838 ; 


Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with 
groans, 
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. 


‘O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, 
Let not the jealous Day behold that face 
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak 
Immodestly lies martyr’d with disgrace! 
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place, 
That all the faults which in thy reign are made 
May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade! 


‘Make me not object to the tell-tale Day! 
The light will show, character’d in my brow, 
The story of sweet chastity’s decay, 
The impious breach of holy wedlock vow: 
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how 
To cipher what is writ in learned books, 
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. 


‘The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story, 
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s name: 
The orator, to deck his oratory, 
Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame; 
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, 

Will tie the hearers to attend each line, 

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. 


‘Let my good name, that senseless reputation, 

For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted : 

If that be made a theme for disputation, 

The branches of another root are rotted, 

And undeserved reproach to him allotted 
That is as clear from this attaint of mine 
As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine. 


‘O unseen shame! invisible disgrace! 
O unfelt sore! crest-wounding, private scar ! 
Reproach is stamp’d in Collatinus’ face, 
And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar, 
How he in peace is wounded, not in war. 
Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, 
Raven not themselves, but he that gives them 
nows ! 


‘Tf, Collatine, thine honour lay in me, 

From me by strong assault it is bereft. 

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee, 

Have no perfection of my summer left, 

But robb’d and ransack’d by injurious theft : 
In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept, 
aoe suck’d the honey which thy chaste bee 

ept. 


‘Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack ; 
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ; 
Coming from thee, I could not put him back, 
For it had been dishonour to disdain him: 
Besides, of weariness he did complain him, 
And talk’d of virtue: O unlook’d-for evil, 
When virtue is profaned in such a devil! 


‘Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud ? 
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests ? 
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud ? 
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts ? 
Or kings be breakers of their own behests ? 
But no perfection is so absolute, 
That some impurity doth not pollute. 


‘The aged man that coffers-up his gold 
Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits; 


/ And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, 


But like still-pining Tantalus he sits, 

And useless barns the harvest of his wits; 
Having no other pleasure of his gain 
But torment that it cannot cure his pain. 


———— 


LUCRECE. 


‘So then he hath it when he cannot use it, 
And leaves it to be master’d by his young ; 
Who in their pride do presently abuse it: 
Their father was too weak, and they too strong, 
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. 
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours 
Even in the moment that we call them ours. 


‘Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ; 
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers ; 
The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ; 
What virtue breeds iniquity devours: 
We have no good that we can say is ours, 

But ill-annexed Opportunity 

Or kills his life or else his quality. 


‘O Opportunity, thy guilt is great! 

*T is thou that executest the traitor’s treason: 

Thou set’st the wolf where he the lamb may get ; 

Whoever plots the sin, thou ’point’st the season ; 

*T is thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason ; 
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, 
Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. 


‘Thou makest the vestal violate her oath; 
Thou blow’st the fire when temperance is thaw’d; 
Thou smother’st honesty, thou murder’st troth ; 
Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd ! 
Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud: 
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, 
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief ! 


‘ Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, 
Thy private feasting to a public fast, 
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, 
Thy sugar’d tongue to bitter wormwood taste: 
Thy violent vanities can never last. 

How comes it then, vile Opportunity, 

Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ? 


‘When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend, 
And bring him where his suit may be obtain’d ? 
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end ? 
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain’d ? 
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain’d ? 
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; 
But they ne’er meet with Opportunity. 


‘ The patient dies while the physician sleeps ; 

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ; 

Justice is feasting while the widow weeps; 

Advice is sporting while infection breeds; 

Thou grant’st no.time for charitable deeds : 
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s rages, 
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. 


‘When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, 
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid: 
They buy thy help; but Sin ne’er gives a fee, 
He gratis comes; and thou art well appaid 
As well to hear as grant what he hath said. 
My Collatine would else have come to me 
When Tarquin did, but he was stay’d by thee. 


‘Guilty thou art of murder and of theft, 
Guilty of perjury and subornation, 
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift, 
Guilty of incest, that abomination ; 
An accessary by thine inclination 
To all sins past, and all that are to come, 
From the creation to the general doom. 


‘Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, 
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care, 

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, 

Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare ; 
Thou nursest all and murder’st all that are: 


| 
| O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time! 
Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. 


‘Why hath thy servant, Opportunity, 
_ Betray’d the hours thou gavest me to repose, 
| Cancell’d my fortunes, and enchained me 
| 'To endless date of never-ending woes? ° 
Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes; 

To eat up errors by opinion bred, 

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. 


‘ Time’s glory is to calm contending kings, 
_ To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light, 
| To stamp the seal of time in aged things, 
To wake the morn and sentinel the night, 
To wrong the wronger till he render right, 
| To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, 
And smear with dust their glittering golden 
towers ; 


‘To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, 

To feed oblivion with decay of things, 

To blot old books and alter their contents, 

_ To pluck the quills from ancient ravens’ wings, 

_ To dry the old oak’s sap and cherish springs, 

To spoil antiquities of hammer’d steel, 

And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s wheel; 


‘To show the beldam daughters of her daughter, 
To make the child a man, the man a child, 
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter, 
To tame the unicorn and lion wild, 
To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled, 
To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops, 
And waste huge stones with little water-drops. 


‘Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, 
Unless thou couldst return to make amends ? 
One poor retiring minute in an age 
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, 
Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends: 

O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come 

back, 
I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack! 


‘Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity, 
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight: 
Devise extremes beyond extremity, 
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night: 
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright ; 
And the dire thought of his committed evil 
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. 


‘ Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, 
Afilict him in his bed with bedrid groans; 
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances, 
To make him moan; but pity not his moans: 
Stone him with harden’d hearts, harder than 
stones ; 
And let mild women to him lose their mildness, 
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. 


‘Let him have time to tear his curled hair, 
Let him have time against himself to rave, 
Let him have time of Time’s help to despair, 
Let him have time to live a loathed slave, 
Let him have time a beggar’s orts to crave, 
And time to see one that by alms doth live 
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. 


‘Let him have time to see his friends his foes, 
And merry fools to mock at him resort; 
Let him have time to mark how slow time goes 
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short 
His time of folly and his time of sport; 

And ever let his unrecalling crime 

Have time to wail th’ abusing of his time. 


839 


LUCRECE. 


‘O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute 


Teach me to curse him that thou taught’st this ill! That thou art doting father of his fruit. 

At his own shadow let the thief run mad, Sty 

Himself himself seek every hour to kill! [spill; | ‘ Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, 

Such wretched hands such wretched blood should |. Nor laugh with his companions at thy state; 
For who so base would such an office have But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought 
As slanderous death’s-man to so base a slave ? Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate. 

For me, I am the mistress of my fate, 

‘The baser is he, coming from a king, And with my trespass never will dispense, 

To shame his hope with deeds degenerate: Till life to death acquit my forced offence. 

The mightier man, the mightier is the thing 

That makes him honour’d, or begets him hate; | ‘I will not poison thee with my attaint, 

Yor greatest scandal waits on greatest state. | Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin’d excuses; 


The moon being clouded presently is miss’d, 


My sable ground of sin I will not paint, 
But little stars may hide them when they list. 


| To hide the truth of this false night’s abuses: 

| My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices, 
‘ The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,; As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, 
And unperceived fly with the filth away ; | Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale. 
But if the like the snow-white swan desire, 


The stain upon his silver down will stay. By this, lamenting Philomel had ended 
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day: | The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow, 
Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly, And solemn night with slow sad gait descended 
But eagles gazed upon with every eye. To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow 
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow: 
‘Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools! But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, 


Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators! 
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools; 
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters ; 
To trembling clients be you mediators: 

For me,.I[ force not argument a straw, 

Since that my case is past the help of law. 


And therefore still in night would cloister’d be. 


Revealing day through every cranny spies, 
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping; 
To whom she sobbing speaks: ‘ O eye of eyes, 
Why pry’st thou through my window? leave thy 
peeping: 
‘In vain I rail at Opportunity, Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleep- 
At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night; ing: 
In vain I cavil with mine infamy, 
in vain I spurn at my confirm’d despite: 
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. 
The remedy indeed to do me good 
Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood. 


ing: 
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, 
For day hath nought to do what ’s done by night.’ 


Thus cavils she with every thing she sees: 
True grief is fond and testy as a child, 
Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees: 
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild; 
Continuance tames the one; the other wild, 
Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still, 
With too much labour drowns for want of skill. 


‘Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this decree ? 

Honour thyseit to rid me of this shame; 

For if I die, my honour lives in thee; 

But if I live, thou livest in my defame: 

Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, 
And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe, 


So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, 
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.’ 


Holds disputation with each thing she views, 

And to herself all sorrow doth compare; 

No object but her passion’s strength renews; 

And as one shifts, another straight ensues: 
Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words; 
Sometime ’t is mad and too much talk affords. 


This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth, 

To find some desperate instrument of death: 

But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth 

To make more vent for passage of her breath; 

Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth 
As smoke from tna, that in air consumes, 


The little birds that tune their morning’s joy 
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. 


Make her moans mad with their sweet melody: 
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy; 
Sad souls are slain in merry company ; 
Grief best is pleased with grief’s society : 

True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed 

When with like semblance it is sympathized. 


‘In vain,’ quoth she, ‘I live, and seek in vain 
Some happy mean to end a hapless life. 
{ fear’d by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain, 
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife: 
But when I fear’d I was a loyal wife: 

So am I now: O no, that cannot be; 


’T is double death to drown in ken of shore; 
Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. 


He ten times pines that pines beholding food ; 

To see the salve doth make the wound ache more; 
‘O, that is gone for which I sought to live, Great grief grieves most at that would do it good; 
And therefore now I need not fear to die. Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, 

‘l’o clear this spot by death, at least I give Who, being stopp’d, the bounding banks o’er- 
A. badge of fame to slander’s livery ; | flows; 

A dying life to living infamy: | Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. 
Poor helpless help, the treasure stol’n away, 


en aEmESTREer=™ Semana taint 


to burn the guiltless casket where it lay! * You mocking birds,’ quoth she, ‘your tunes entomb 
Within your hollow-swelling feather’d breasts, 
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb: _ 
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests; . 
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests: 
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears; 
Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears. 


‘Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know 

The stained taste of violated troth ; 

I will not wrong thy true affection so, 

To flatter thee with an infringed oath; 

This bastard graff shall never come to growth: 
840 


———— — 


LUCRECE. 


‘Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment, 
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell’d hair: 
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, 
So i at each sad strain will strain a tear, 
And with deep groans the diapason bear; 
For burden-wise I ’ll hum on Tarquin still, 
While thou on Tereus descant’st better skill. 


‘And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part, 
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, 
To imitate thee well, against my heart 
Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye; 
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. 
These means, as frets upon an instrument, 
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment. 


‘And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day, 
As shaming any eye should thee behold, 

Some dark deep desert, seated from the way, 
That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold, 
Will we find out; and there we will unfold 


To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their | 


_- kinds: 
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle 
minds.’ 


As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, 
Wildly determining which way to fly, 
Or one ericompass’d with a winding maze, 
That cannot tread the way out readily ; 
So with herself is she in mutiny, 
To live or die which of the twain were better, 
When life is shamed, and death reproach’s debtor. 


‘To kill myself,’ quoth she, ‘ alack, what were it, 
But with my body my poor soul’s pollution ? 
They that lose half with greater patience bear it 
Than they whose whole is swallow’d in confusion. 
That mother tries a merciless conclusion 

Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes 


one 
Will slay the other and be nurse to none. 


‘My body or my soul, which was the dearer, 
When the one pure, the other made divine ? 
Whose love of either to myself was nearer, 
When both were kept for heaven and Collatine ? 
Ay me! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine, 

His leaves will wither and his sap decay ; 

So must my soul, her bark being peel’d away. 


* Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, 
Her mansion batter’d by the enemy; 
Her sacred temple spotted, spoil’d, corrupted, 
Grossly engirt with daring infamy : 
Then let it not be call’d impiety, 
If in this blemish’d fort I make some hole 
Through which I may convey this troubled soul. 


‘ Yet die I will not till my Collatine 

Have heard the cause of my untimely death ; 

That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, 

Revenge on him that made me stop my breath. 

My stained blood to Tarquin I ’ll bequeath, 
Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, 
And as his due writ in my testament. 


‘My honour [711 bequeath unto the knife 

That wounds my body so dishonoured. 

”T is honour to deprive dishonour’d life ; 

The one will live, the other being dead : 

So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred ; 
For in my death I murder shameful scorn: 
My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. 


* Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, 
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee ? 


My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, 

By whose example thou revenged mayst be. 

How Tarquin must be used, read it in me: 
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, 
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. 


‘ This brief abridgment of my will I make: 
My soul and body to the skies and ground; 
My resolution, husband, do thou take; 
Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound; 
My shame be his that did my fame confound ; 
| And all my fame that lives disbursed be 
To those that live, and think no shame of me. 


|‘ Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will; 

| How was I overseen that thou shalt see it! 

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill; 

My life’s foul deed, my life’s fair end shall free it. 

| Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say ‘‘ So be it: ” 
| Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee: 
| Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.’ 


This plot of death when sadly she had laid, 
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, 
With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid, 
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies: 
For fleet-wing’d duty with thought’s feathers flies. 
Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so 
As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. 


Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, 
With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty, 
And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow, 

For why her face wore sorrow’s livery; 

But durst not ask of her audaciously 

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, 

Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash’d with woe. 
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, 
Each flower moisten’d like a melting eye; 

Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet 

Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy 

Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky, 
Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light, 
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. 


A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, 

Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling : 

One justly weeps; the other takes in hand 

No cause, but company, of her drops spilling: 

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing; 
Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts, 
And then they drown their eyes or break their 

hearts. 


For men have marble, women waxen, minds, 
And therefore are they form’d as marble will: 
The weak oppress’d, the impression of strange kinds 
Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill: 
Then call them not the authors of their ill, 
No more than wax shall be accounted evil 
Wherein is stamp’d the semblance of a devil. 


Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, 
Lays open all the little worms that creep ; 
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain 
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep: _ 
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep: 
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern 
looks 
Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books. 


No man inveigh against the wither’d flower, _ 
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill’d: 
Not that devour’d, but that which doth devour, 

Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild 

Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfill’d 


841 


LUCRECE. 


With men’s abuses: those proud lords, to blame, 
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. 


The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, 
Assail’d by night with circumstances strong 
Of present death, and shame that might ensue 
By that her death, to do her husband wrong: 
Such danger to resistance did belong, 
That dying fear through all her body spread ; 
And who cannot abuse a body dead ? 


By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak 

’ To the poor counterfeit of her complaining: 

‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break 

Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are 

raining ? 

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, 
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood: 
If tears could help, mine own would do me good. 


‘ But tell me, girl, when went ’—and there she stay’d 
Till after a deep groan —‘ Tarquin from hence ?’ 
‘Madam, ere I was up,’ replied the maid, 
‘The more to blame my sluggard negligence: 
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense ; 

Myself was stirring ere the break of day, 

And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. 


‘ But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, 
She would request to know your heaviness.’ 
‘QO, peace!’ quoth Lucrece: ‘ if it should be told, 
The repetition cannot make it less; 
For more it is than I can well express: 
And that deep torture may be call’d a hell 
When more is felt than one hath power to tell. 


‘Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen: 
Yet save that labour, for I have them here. 
What should I say ? One of my husband’s men 
Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear 
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear: 
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it; 
The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.’ 


Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, 
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill: 
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight ; 
What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; 
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill: 

Much like a press of people at a door, 

Throng her inventions, which shall go before. 


At last she thus begins: ‘ Thou worthy lord 
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, 
Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t’ afford — 
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see — 
Some present speed to come and visit me. 
So, 1 commend me from our house in grief : 
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.’ 


Here folds she up the tenour of her woe, 
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. 
By this short schedule Collatine may know 
Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality: 
She dares not thereof make discovery, 
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, 
Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse. 


Besides, the life and feeling of her passion 
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her; 
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the 
fashion 
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her 
From AY suspicion which the world might bear 
ier. 
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter 
With words, till action might become them better. 
842 


——— 
' 


To see sad sights moves more than hear them told; 
For then the eye interprets to the ear 
The heavy motion that it doth behold, 
When every part a part of woe doth bear. 
’T is but a part of sorrow that we hear: 
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords 
And eet ebbs, being blown with wind of 
words. 


Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ 
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.’ 
The post attends, and she delivers it, 
Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast 
As lagging fowls before the northern blast: 
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she 
deems: 
Extremity still urgeth such extremes. 


The homely villain court’sies to her low; 
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye 
Receives the scroll without or yea or no, 
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. 
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie 
Imagine every eye beholds their blame; 
For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame: 


When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect 

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. 

Such harmless creatures have a true respect 

To talk in deeds, while others saucily 

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely : 
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age 
Pawn’d honest looks, but laid no words to gage. 


His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, 
That two red fires in both their faces blazed ; 
She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust, 
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed ; 
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed : 
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, 
The more she thought he spied in her some 
blemish. 


| But long she thinks till he return again, 

|; And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone. 

The weary time she cannot entertain, 

For now ’t is stale to sigh, to weep, and groan: 

_ So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, 
That she her plaints a little while doth stay, 

| Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. 


At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece 
Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy ; 
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, 
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy, 
Threatening cloud-kissing Dion with annoy; 
Which the conceited painter drew so proud, 
As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets bow'd. 


A thousand lamentable objects there, 


| In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life: 


Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear, 

Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife: 

The red blood reek’d. to show the painter’s strife; 
And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights, 
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights, — 


There might you see the labouring pioner 
Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust; 
And from the towers of Troy there would appear 
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, 
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.: 
Such sweet observance in this work was had, 
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. 


In great commanders grace and majesty 
You might behold, triumphing in their faces ; 


LUCRECE. 


In youth, quick bearing and dexterity ; 
And here and there the painter interlaces 
Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces ; 
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, 
That one would swear he saw them quake and 
tremble. 


In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art 
Of physiognomy might one behold! 
The face of either cipher’d either’s heart ; 
Their face their manners most expressly told: 
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d ; 
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent 
Show’d deep regard and smiling government. 


There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, 

As ’t were encouraging the Greeks to fight; 

Making such sober action with his hand, 

That it beguiled attention, charm’d the sight : 

In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white, 
Wage’d up and down, and from his lips did fly 
Thin winding breath, which purl’d up to the sky. 


About him were a press of gaping faces, 
Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice; 
All jointly listening, but with several graces, 
As if some mermaid did their ears entice, , 
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice; 
The scalps of many, almost hid behind, 
To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind. 


Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head, 
His nose being shadow’d by his neighbour’s ear ; 
Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n and 


red; 

Another smother’d seems to pelt and swear ; 

And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, 
As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, 
It seem’d they would debate with angry swords. 


For much imaginary work was there; 
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, 
That for Achilles’ image stood his spear, 
Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind, 
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind: 
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, 
Stood for the whole to be imagined. 


And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy 
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to 
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy {field, 
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield ; 
And to their hope they such odd action yield, 
That through their light joy seemed to appear, 
Like bright things stain’d, a kind of heavy fear. 


And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought, 
To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran, 
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought 
With swelling ridges; and their ranks began 
To break upon the galled shore, and than 
Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, 
They join and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks. 


To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, 
To find a face where all distress is stell’d. 
Many she sees where cares have carved some, 
But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d, 
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, 
Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes, 
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies. 


In her the painter had anatomized ° 

Time’s ruin, beauty’s wreck, and grim care’s reign: 
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised 5 
Of what she was no semblance did remain : 

Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, 


Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had 
Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead. (fed, 


On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, 

And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes, 

Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, 

And bitter words to ban her cruel foes: 

The painter was no god to lend her those; 
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, 
To give her so much grief and not a tongue. 


‘Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘ without a sound, 
J Il tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue; 

And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound, 
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong ; 


| And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long ; 


And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes 
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. 


‘Show me the strumpet that began this stir, 
That with my nails her beauty I may tear. 
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur 
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear: 
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here ; 
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, 
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. 


‘Why should the private pleasure of some one 

Become the public plague of many moe? 

Let sin, alone committed, light alone 

Upon his head that hath transgressed so ; 

Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe: 
For one’s offence why should so many fall, 
To plague a private sin in general ? 


‘Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, 
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds, 
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, 
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds, 
And one man’s lust these many lives confounds: 
Had doting Priam check’d his son’s desire, 
Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.’ 


Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes: 

For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell, 

Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes; 

Then little strength rings out the doleful knell: 

So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell 
Topencill’d pensivenessandcolour’dsorrow; [row. 
She lends them words, and she their looks doth bor- 


She throws her eyes about the painting round, 
And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament. 
At last she sees a wretched image bound, 

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent: 
His face, though full of cares, yet show’d content ; 
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, 

So mild, that Patience seem’d to scorn his woes. 


In him the painter labour’d with his skill 

To hide deceit, and give the harmless show 

An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, 

A brow unbent, that seem’d to welcome woe; 

Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so 
That blushing red no guilty instance gave, 
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. 


But, like a constant and confirmed devil, 

He entertain’d a show so seeming just, 

And therein so ensconced his secret evil, 

That jealousy itself could not mistrust 

False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust 
Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, 
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. 


The well-skill’d workman this mild image drew 
For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story 


845 


i 


LUCRECE. 


The credulous old Priam after slew; 
Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory 
Of rich-built Dion, that the skies were sorry, 
And little stars shot from their fixed places, 
When their glass fell wherein they view’d their 
faces. 


This picture she advisedly perused, 

And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, 

Saying, some shape in Sinon’s was abused ; 

So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill: 

And still on him she gazed; and gazing still, 
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, 
That she concludes the picture was belied. 


‘It cannot be,’ quoth she, ‘that so much guile ’"— 
She would have said ‘ean lurk in such a look; ; 
But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the while, 


And from her tongue ‘can lurk’ from ‘cannot’ took: | 


‘It cannot be’ she in that sense forsook, 
And turn’d it thus, ‘It cannot be, I find, 
But such a face should bear a wicked mind: 


‘For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, 

So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild, 

As if with grief or travail he had fainted, 

To me came Tarquin armed; so beguiled 

With outward honesty, but yet defiled 
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish, 
So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish. 


‘Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, 

To see those borrow’d tears that Sinon sheds! 

Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise ? 

For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds: 

His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds ; 
Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, 
Are balls of quenchiess fire to burn thy city. 


‘Such devils steal effects from lightless hell ; 
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, 
And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell; 
These contraries such unity do hold, 
Only to flatter fools and make them bold: 
So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth flatter, 
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.’ 


Here, all enraged, such passion her assails, 
That patience is quite beaten from her breast. 
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, 
Comparing him to that unhappy guest 
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest : 
At last she smilingly with this gives o’er; 
‘Fool, fool!’ quoth she, ‘his wounds will not be 
sore:? 


Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, 
And time doth weary time with her complaining. 
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, 
And both she thinks too long with her remaining: 
Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining: 
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps: 
And they that watch see time how slow it creeps. 


Which all this time hath overslipp’d her thought, 
That she with painted images hath spent; 
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought 
By deep surmise of others’ detriment ; 
Losing her woes in shows of discontent. 

It easeth some, though none it ever cured, 

To think their dolour others have endured. 


But now the mindful messenger, come back, 

Brings home his lord and other company; 

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black : 

And round about her tear-distained eye 

Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky: 
844 | 


These water-galls in her dim element 
| Foretell new storms to those already spent. 


Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, 
Amazedly in her sad face he stares: 
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look’d red and raw, | 
Her lively colour kill’d with deadly cares. 
He hath no power to ask her how she fares: 

Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, 

Met far from home, wondering each other’s chance. 


At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, 

And thus begins: ‘ What uncouth ill event 

Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand ? 

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? 
Why art thou thus attired in discontent ? 

_ Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, 

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.’ 


_ Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, 
_ Ere once she can discharge one word of woe; 
At length address’d to answer his desire, 
She modestly prepares to let them know 
Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe; 
While Colatine and his consorted lords 
With sad attention long to hear her words. 


And now this pale swan in her watery nest 

| Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending; 

‘Few words,’ quoth she, ‘shall fit the trespass best, 
| Where no excuse can give the fault amending: 

'In me moe woes than words are now depending ; 

_ And my laments would be drawn out too long, 
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. 


|‘ Then be this all the task it hath to say: 
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed 
| iA stranger came, and on that pillow lay 
| Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; 
And what wrong else may be imagined 
By foul enforcement might be done to me, 
From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. 


| ‘For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, 
With shining falchion in my chamber came 

A creeping creature, with a flaming light, 

And softly cried ‘‘ Awake, thou Roman dame, 


| And entertain my love; else lasting shame 
| On thee and thine this night I will inflict, 


If thou my love’s desire do contradict. 


| *** For some hard-favour’d groom of thine,” quoth 
|‘ Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, e, 
| I?ll murder straight, and then Ill slaughter thee 
_ And swear I found you where you did fulfil 
| The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill 
| The lechers in their deed: this act will be 
My fame and thy perpetual infamy.”’ 
‘With this, I did begin to start and ery; 
And then‘against my heart he sets his sword, 
Swearing, unless I took all patiently, 
I should not live to speak another word; 
So should my shame still rest upon record, 
And never be forgot in mighty Rome, 
Th’ adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. 


‘Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, 
And far the weaker with so strong a fear: 
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak ; 
No rightful plea might plead for justice there: 
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear 
That my poor beauty had purloin’d his eyes; 
And when the judge is robb’d the prisoner diss. 


‘O, teach me how to make mine own excuse! 
Or at the least this refuge let me find; 


LUCRECE. 


—--- 


Though my gross blood be stain’d with this abuse, 
Immaculate and spotless is my mind; 
That was not forced; that never was inclined 

To accessary yieldings, but still pure 

Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.’ 


Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, 
With head declined, and voice damm/’d up with woe, 
With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across, 
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow 
The grief away that stops his answer so: 

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain; 

What he breathes out his breath drinks up again. 


As through an arch the violent roaring tide 

Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, 

Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride 

Back to the strait that forced him on so fast; 

In rage sent out, recall’d in rage, being past: 
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, | 
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. | 


Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, 
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh: 
‘ Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth 
Another power; no flood by raining slaketh. 
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh | 
More feeling-painful: let it then suffice 
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. 


‘And for my sake, when I might charm thee so 
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me: 
Be suddenly revenged on my foe, 
Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost defend me 
From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me 
Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die ; 
For sparing justice feeds iniquity. 


Speaking to those that came with Collatine, 
‘Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, 
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine; 
For ’t is a meritorious fair design 
To chase injustice with revengeful arms: 
tn, aed by their oaths, should right poor ladies’ 
arms. 


At this request, with noble disposition 
Each present lord began to promise aid, 
As bound in knighthood to her imposition, 
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray’d. 
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, 
The protestation stops. ‘O, speak,’ quoth she, 
‘How may this forced stain be wiped from me ? 


‘What is the quality of mine offence, 

Being constrain’d with dreadful circumstance ? 

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, 

My low-declined honour to advance ? 

May any terms acquit me from this chance ? 
The poison’d fountain clears itself again; 
And why not I from this compelled stain ?’ 


With this, they all at once began to say, 
Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears; 
While with a joyless smile she turns away 
The face, that map which deep impression bears 
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears. 
‘ No, no,’ quoth she, ‘no dame, hereafter living, 
By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.’ 


Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, 
She throws forth Tarquin’s name: ‘He, he,’ she 


says, 
But more than ‘ he’ her poor tongue could not speak ; 
Till after many accents and delays, 


| 
| 
‘But ere I name him, you fair lords,’ quoth she, 
Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, 


She utters this, ‘ He, he, fair lords, ’t is he, 
That guides this hand to.give this wound to me.’ 


Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast 


| A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed: 


That blow did bail it from the deep unrest 
Of that polluted prison where it breathed : 
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath’d 
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth 


y 
Life’s lasting date from cancell’d destiny. 


Stone-still, astonish’d with this deadly deed, 

Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew; 

Till Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed, 

Himself on her self-slaughter’d body threw; 

And from the purple fountain Brutus drew 
The murderous knife, and, as it left the place 
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase; 


And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide 

In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood 

Circles her body in on every side, 

Who, like a late-sack’d island, vastly stood 

Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. 
Some of her blood still pure and red remain’d, 
And ce look’d black, and that false Tarquin 

stain’d. 


About the mourning and congealed face 

Of that black blood a watery rigol goes, 

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place: 

And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes, 

Corrupted blood some watery token shows; 
And blood untainted still doth red abide, 
Blushing at that which is so putrified. 


‘Daughter, dear daughter,’ old Lucretius cries, 
‘That life was mine which thou hast here deprived. 
If in the child the father’s image lies, 
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived ? 
Thou wast not to this end from me derived. 

If children pre-decease progenitors, 

We are their offspring, and they none of ours. 


‘ Poor broken glass, I often did behold 

In thy sweet semblance my old age new born; 

But now that fresh fair mirror, dim and old, 

Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn: 

O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, 
And shiver’d all the beauty of my glass, 
That I no more can see what once I was! 


‘O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer, 

If they surcease to be that should survive. 

Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger 

And leave the faltering feeble souls alive ? 

The old bees die, the young possess their hive: 
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see 
Thy father die, and not thy father thee!’ 


By this, starts Collatine as from a dream, 
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ; 
And then in key-cold Lucrece’ bleeding stream 
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, 
And counterfeits to die with her a space; 
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath 
And live to be revenged on her death. 


The deep vexation of his inward soul 

Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue; 

Who, mad that sorrow should his use control, 

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, 

Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng 
Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart’s 


ai 
That no man could distinguish what he said. 
845 


LUCRECE. 


Yet sometime ‘ Tarquin’ was pronounced plain, 
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. 
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, 
Held back his sorrow’s tide, to make it more; 
At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er: 

Then son and father weep with equal strife 


Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. 


The one doth call her his, the other his, 
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. 
The father says ‘She ’s mine.’ ‘QO, mine she is,’ 
Replies her husband: ‘do not take away 
My sorrow’s interest; let no mourner say 
He weeps for her, for she was only mine, 
And only must be wail’d by Collatine.’ 


‘O,’ quoth Lucretius, ‘I did give that life 
Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.’ 
‘Woe, woe,’ quoth Collatine, ‘she was my wife, 

I owed her, and ’t is mine that she hath kill’d.’ 
‘My daughter’ and ‘my wife’ with clamours fill’d 
The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece’ life, 
Answer’d their cries, ‘my daughter’ and 

wife.’ 


Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ side, 
Seeing such emulation in their woe, 
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, 
Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show. 
He with the Romans was esteemed so 

As Silly-jeering idiots are with kings, 

For sportive words and uttering foolish things: 


But now he throws that shallow habit by, 

Wherein deep policy did him disguise; 

And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly, 

To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes. 

‘Thou wronged lord of Rome,’ quoth he, ’arise ; 
Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, 
Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. 


846 


‘my | 


‘Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe ? 

-Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous 
| Is it revenge to give thyself a blow {deeds # 
| For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? 

_ Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds: 

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, 

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. 


‘Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart 

In such relenting dew of lamentations; 

But kneel with me and help to bear thy part, 

To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, 

; That they will suffer these abominations, 

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced, 

By ond irons arms from forth her fair streets 
chased. 


| 
| 
| 


| ‘ Now, by the Capitol that we adore, 
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain’d, 
By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store, 
By all our country rights in Rome maintain’d, 
And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complain’d 
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, 
We will revenge the death of this true wife.’ 


This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, 

And kiss’d the fatal knife, to end his vow; 

And to his protestation urged the rest, 

Who, wondering at him, did his words allow: 

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; 
And that deep vow, which Brutus made before, 
He doth again repeat, and that they swore. 


When they had sworn to this advised doom, 
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence ; 
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, 
And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence: 
Which being done with speedy diligence, 

The Romans plausibly did give consent 

To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment. 


—» t= 


- 
es eee 


“ oN Byt tig 


edit aS 


pe) Ma, Wir 
SNA ee, 


vaX _ gl? 2 
Nip easy Xe 


SONNETS. 


TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF 
THESE INSUING SONNETS 


MR.:W.) H. 


ALL HAPPINESSE 


AND THAT ETERNITIE 
PROMISED BY 

OUR EVER-LIVING POET 
WISHETH 

THE WELL-WISHING 

ADVENTURER IN 

SETTING 
FORTH 


ae 


From fairest creatures we desire increase, 
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, 
But as the riper should by time decease, 
His tender heir might bear his memory: 
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, 
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial ‘fuel, 
Making a famine where abundance lies, 
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament 
And only herald to the gaudy spring, 
Within thine own bud buriest thy content 
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. 
Pity the world, or else this glutton be, 
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee. 


II. 


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, 
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now, 
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held: 
Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies, 
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, 
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, 
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. 
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use, 
If thou couldst answer ‘ This fair child of mine 
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’ 
Proving his beauty by succession thine! 

This were to be new made when thou art old, 

And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it 

cold. 
II. 


Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest 
Now is the time that face should form another ; 
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, 
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. 
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb 
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ? 
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb 
Of his self-love, to stop posterity ? 
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee 
Calls back the lovely April of her prime: 
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see 
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. 

But if thou live, remember’d not to be, 

Die single, and thine image dies with thee. 


bees bs 


IV. 


Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend 
Upon thyself thy beauty’ s legacy ? 
Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend, 
And being frank she lends to those are free. 
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse 
The bounteous largess given thee to give ? 
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use 
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ? 
For having traffic with ‘thyself alone, 
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. 
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, 
What acceptable audit canst thou iene 
Thy unused beauty must be tomb’d with thee, 
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be. 


Wie 


Those hours, that with gentle work did frame 
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, 
Will play the tyrants to the very same 
And that unfair which fairly doth excel; 
For never-resting time leads summer on 
To hideous winter and confounds him there; 
Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, 
Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where: 
Then, were not summer’s distillation left, 
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, 
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, 
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: 
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet, 
Leese but their show : their substance still lives 
sweet. 
VI. 


Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface 
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d: 
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place 
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d. 
That use is not forbidden usury 
Which happies those that pay the willing loan; 
That ’s for thyself to breed another thee, 
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; 
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, 
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: 
Then what could death do, if ee shouldst depart, 
Leaving thee living in posterity ? 
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair 
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir. 


847 


SONNETS. 


eee 


Look, whom she best endow’d she gave the more; 


vil. Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty 
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light cherish: 
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby 
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. 
Serving with looks his sacred majesty ; 
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill, ae 
Resembling strong youth in his middle age, When I do count the clock that tells the time, 
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; 
Attending on his golden pilgrimage ; When I behold the violet past prime, 
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white; 
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, When lofty trees I see barren of leaves 
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
From his low tract and look another way: And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves 
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, 
Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son. Then of thy beauty do I question make, 
That thou among the wastes of time must go, 
Vill. Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake 
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly ? And die as fast as they see others grow; {fence 
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make de- 
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. 
gladly, ; 
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy ? ene 
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are 
By unions married, do offend thine ear, No longer yours than you yourself here live: 


They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds 


Against this coming end you should prepare, 
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. 


And your sweet semblance to some other give. 


Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, So should that beauty which you hold in lease 
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, Find no determination; then you were 
Resembling sire and child and happy mother Yourself again after yourself’s decease, 

Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. 


Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one 


Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, 
Sings this to thee: ‘thou single wilt prove none. 


Which husbandry in honour might uphold 
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day 


3 


ee And barren rage of death’s eternal cold ? 
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye | O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know 
That thou consumest thyself in single life ? You had a father: let your son say so. 


Ah! if thou issueless shall hap to die, 


The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; eed 

The world will be thy widow and still weep Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck ; 
That thou no form of thee hast left behind, And yet methinks I have astronomy, 

When every private widow well may keep But not to tell of good or evil luck, 

By children’s eyes her husband’s shape in mind. Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality ; 


Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, 
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end, Or say with princes if it shall go well, 
And kept unused, the user so destroys it. By oft predict that I in heaven find: 
No love toward others in that bosom sits But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, 
That on himself such murderous shame commits. | And, constant stars, in them I read such art 
As truth and beauty shall together thrive, 
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert ; 
Or else of thee this I prognosticate: 
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date. 


Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend | Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, 
| 


D.A 


For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any, 
Who for thyself art so unprovident. 

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, 
But that thou none lovest is most evident; 

For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate 
That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire, | Holds in perfection but a little moment, 

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows 


XV. 
Which to repair should be thy chief desire. Whereon the stars in secret influence comment ; 


When I consider every thing that grows 


O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! | When I perceive that men as plants increase, 
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love ? Cheered and check’d even by the self-same sky, 
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, 
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: And wear their brave state out of memory; 
Make thee another self, for love of me, Then the conceit of this inconstant stay 
That beauty still may live in thine or thee. Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, 
To change your day of youth to sullied night ; 
And all in war with Time for love of you, 
As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 


8-4 IG 


As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest 
In one of thine, from that which thou departest ; 
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest 
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth con- 
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase; [vertest. 
Without this, folly, age and cold decay : Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ? 

If all were minded so, the times should cease And fortify yourself in your decay 

And threescore year would make the world away. | With means more blessed than my barren rhyme ? 
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Now stand you on the top of happy hours, 

Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: And mahy maiden gardens yet unset 


848 


evan 
But wherefore do not you a mightier way 


CC , ee 


SONNETS. 


— 


With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, 
Much liker than your painted counterfeit : 
So should the lines of life that life repair, 
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen, 
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, 
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. 

To give away yourself keeps yourself still, 

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. 


XVII. 


Who will believe my verse in time to come, 
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts ? 
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb 
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. 
If I could write the beauty of your eyes 
And in fresh numbers number all your graces, 
The age to come would say ‘ This poet les; 
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’ 
So should my papers yellow’d with their age 
Be scorn’d like old men of less truth than tongue, 
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage 
And stretched metre of an antique song: 
But were some child of yours alive that time, 
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. 


XVIII. 


Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day ? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm/’d; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: 

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 

So long lives this and this gives life to thee. 


XIX. 


Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws, 
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ; 
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws, 
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood; 
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, 
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, 
To the wide world and all her fading sweets; 
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: 
O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow, 
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; 
Him in thy course untainted do allow 
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men. 
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, 
My love shall in my verse ever live young. 


BLGb. 5 


A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted 
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; 
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted 
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion ; 
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, 
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; 
A man in hue, all ‘ hues’ in his controlling, 
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. 
And for a woman wert thou first created ; 
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, 
And by addition me of thee defeated, 
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. 

But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleas- 


ure 
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure. 


XXII. 


So is it not with me as with that Muse 
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse, 


o4 


Who heaven itself for ornament doth use 
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; 
Making a couplement of proud compare, 
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems, 
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare 
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems. 
O, let me, true in love, but truly write, ~ 
And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother’s child, though not so bright 
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air: 
Let them say more that like of hearsay well; 
I will not praise that purpose not to sell. 


XXII. 


My glass shall not persuade me I am old, 

So long as youth and thou are of one date; 

But when in thee time’s furrows I behold, 

Then look I death my days should expiate. 

For all that beauty that doth cover thee 

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, 

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: 

How can I then be elder than thou art ? 

O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary 

As I, not for myself, but for thee will; 

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary 

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. 
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain ; 
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. 


XXIII. 


As an unperfect actor on the stage 
Who with his fear is put besides his part, 
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, 
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart, 
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say 
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite, 
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay, 
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might. 
O, let my books be then the eloquence 
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, 
Who plead for love and look for recompense 
More than that tongue that more hath more ex- 
press’d. 
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: 
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit. 


XXIV. 


Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d 
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart ; 
My body is the frame wherein ’t is held, 
And perspective it is best painter’s art. 
For through the painter must you see his skill, 
To find where your true image pictured lies; 
Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still, 
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. 
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: 
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me 
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun 
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; 
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art: 
They draw but what they see, know not the heart. 


XXV. 


Let those who are in favour with their stars 

Of public honour and proud titles boast, 

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 

Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most. 

Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread 

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye, 

And in themselves their pride lies buried, 

For at a frown they in their glory die. 

The painful warrior famoused for fight, 

After a thousand victories once foil’d, 

Is from the book of honour razed quite, 

And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d,; 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved 
Where I may not remove nor be removed. 


849 


SONNETS. 


XXVI. 


Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage 

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, 

To thee I send this written embassage, 

To witness duty, not to show my wit: 

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine 

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, 

But that I hope some good conceit of thine 

In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it ; 

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving 

Points on me graciously with fair aspect 

And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving, 

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect : 
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; 
Till then not show my head where thou mayst 

prove me. f 
XXVII. 

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; 

But then begins a journey in my head, 

To work my mind, when body’s work ’s expired : 

For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, 

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, 

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, 

Looking on darkness which the blind do see: 

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight 

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, 

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. 
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, 
For thee and for myself no quiet find. 


XXVIII. 


How can I then return in happy plight, 

That am debarr’d the benefit of rest ? 

When day’s oppression is not eased by night, 

But day by night, and night by day, oppress’d ? 

And each, though enemies to either’s reign, 

Do in consent shake hands to torture me; 

The one by toil, the other to complain 

How far I toil, still farther off from thee. 

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright 

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven : 

So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night, 

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even. 
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer 
And night doth nightly make grief’s strength 

seem stronger. 
; RIK, 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries 

And look upon myself and curse my fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d, 

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least ; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; 
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth 

brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 


XXX. 


When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

{ sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

lor precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, 
And weep afresh love’s long-since cancell’d woe, 
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight: 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er 


850 


The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 


XXXI. 


Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, 
Which I by lacking have supposed dead, 
And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts, 
And all those friends which I thought buried. 
How many a holy and obsequious tear 
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 
But things removed that hidden in thee lie! 
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, 
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, 
Who all their parts of me to thee did give; 
That due of many now is thine alone: 

Their images I loved I view in thee, 

And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. 


XXXII. 


If thou survive my well-contented day, [cover, 
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall 
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, 
Compare them with the bettering of the time, 
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen, 
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, 
Exceeded by the height of happier men. 

O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 
‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing 


age, 
A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 
To march in ranks of better equipage : 
But since he died and poets better prove, 
. Theirs for their style I ’l] read, his for his love,’ 


XXXII. 


Full many a glorious morning have I seen 


Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 

With ugly rack on his celestial face, 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine 

With all-triumphant splendour on my brow; 

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; 

The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain when heayven’s sun 

staineth. 
da HB 

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day 

And make me travel forth without my cloak, 

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way, 

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 

’T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, 

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 

For no man well of such a salve can speak 

That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace: 

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; 

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: 

The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief 

To him that bears the strong offence’s cross. 


Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, — 


And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. 
RORY. 


No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: 


Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud ; 
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, 
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. 
All men make faults, and even I in this, 
Authorizing thy trespass with compare, 


Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, 
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are: 
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense — 
Thy adverse party is thy advocate — 
And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence: 
Such civil war is in my love and hate 
That Ian accessary needs must be 
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. 


XXXVI. 


Let me confess that we two must be twain, 
Although our undivided loves are one: 
So shall those blots that do with me remain 
Without thy help by me be borne alone. 
In our two loves there is but one respect, 
Though in our lives a separable spite, 
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect, 
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight. 
I may not evermore acknowledge thee, 
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, 
Nor thou with public kindness honour me, 
Unless thou take that honour from thy name: 
But do not so; I love thee in such sort 
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 


XXXVII. 


As a decrepit father takes delight 
To see his active child do deeds of youth, 
So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite, 
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. 
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 
Or any of these all, or all, or more, 
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, 
I make my love engrafted to this store: 
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, 
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give 
That I in thy abundance am sufficed 
And by a part of all thy glory live. 
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee; 
This wish I have; then ten times happy me! 


XXXVIII. 


How can my Muse want subject to invent, 
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse 
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent 
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? 
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me 
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; 
For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee, 
When thou thyself dost give invention light ? 
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth 
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ; 
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth 
Eternal numbers to outlive long date. 
If my slight Muse do please these curious days, 
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. 


XX XIX. 


O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, 

When thou art all the better part of me ? 

What can mine own praise to mine own self Beene ? 

And what is ’t but mine own when I praise thee: 

Even for this let us divided live, 

And our dear love lose name of single one, 

That by this separation I may give 

That due to thee which thou deservest alone. 

O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, 

Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave 

To entertain the time with thoughts of love, 

Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive, 
And that thou teachest how to make one twain, 
By praising him here who doth hence remain! 


XL. 


Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ; 
What hast thou then more than thou hadst be- 
fore ? 


SONNETS. 


No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; 

All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. 

Then if for my love thou my love receivest, 

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest ; 

But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest 

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. 

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, 

Although thou steal thee all my poverty; 

And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief 

To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury. 
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, 
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes. 


XLI. 


Those petty wrongs that liberty commits, 
When I am sometime absent from thy heart, 
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, 

For still temptation follows where thou art. 
Gentle thou art and therefore to be won, 
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed ; 
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son 
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed ? 
Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, 


| And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, 


Who lead thee in their riot even there 

Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth, 
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, 
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. 


XLII. 


That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, 
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly ; 
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, 
A loss in love that touches me more nearly. 
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye: 
Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her; 
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, 
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. 
If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain, 
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ; 
Both find each other, and I lose both twain, 
And both for my sake lay on me this cross: 
But here’s the joy; my friend and I are one; 
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. 


XLIII. 


When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, 

For all the day they view things unrespected ; 

But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, 

And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. 

Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make 

bright, 

How would thy shadow’s form form happy show 

To the clear day with thy much clearer light, 

When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! 

How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made 

By looking on thee in the living day, 

When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade 

Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! 
All days are nights to see till I see thee, [me. 
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee 


XLIV. 


If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, 
Injurious distance should not stop my way ; 
For then despite of space I would be brought, 
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. 
No matter then although my foot did stand 
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee; 
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land 
As soon as think the place where he would be. 
But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought, 
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, 
But that so much of earth and water wrought 
I must attend time’s leisure with my moan, 
Receiving nought by elements so slow 
But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe. 


851 


SONNETS. 


XLV. 
The other two, slight air and purging fire, 
Are both with ‘thee, wherever I abide: 
The first my thought, the other my desire, 
These present-absent with swift motion slide. 
For when these quicker elements are gone 
In tender embassy of love to thee, 
My life, being made of four, with two alone 
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy ; 
Until life’s composition be recured 
‘By those swift messengers return’d from thee, 
Who even but now come back again, assured 
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: 

This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, 

I send them back again and straight grow sad. 


XLVI. 
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war 
How to divide the conquest of thy sight; 
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar, 
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. 
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,— 
A closet never pierced with crystal eyes — 
But the defendant doth that plea deny 
And says in him thy fair appearance lies. 
To ‘cide this title is impanneled 
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, 
And by their verdict is determined 
The clear eye’s moiety and the dear heart’s part: 
As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part, 
And my heart’s right thy inward love of heart. 


XLVI. 

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, 

And each doth good turns now unto the other: 

When that mine eye is famish’d for a look, 

Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, 

With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast 

And to the painted banquet bids my heart; 

Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest 

And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: 

So, either by thy picture or my love, 

Thyself away art present still with me; 

For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, 

And I am still with them and they. with thee; 
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight 
Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight. 


XLVIII. 

How careful was I, when I took my way, 

Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, 

That to my use it might unused stay 

From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! 

But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, 

Most worthy comfort, now my greatest g ovief, 

Thou, best of dearest ‘and mine only care, 

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. 

Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest, 

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, 

Within the gentle closure of my breast, 

From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part; 
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear, 
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. 


XLIx. 

Against that time, if ever that time come, 

When I shall see thee frown on my defects, 

plea as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, 
Call’d to that audit by advised respects ; 

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass 

And searcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, 

When love, converted from the thing it was, 

Shall reasons find of settled gravity,— 

Against that time do I ensconce me here 

Within the knowledge of mine own desert, 

And this my hand against myself uprear, 

To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: 


852 


To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, 
Since why to love I can aliege no cause. 


L. 
How heavy do I journey on the way, 
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end, 
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say 
‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend !” 
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, 
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, 
As if by some instinct the wretch did know 
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: 
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on 
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide; 
Which heavily he answers with a groan, 
More sharp to me than spurring to his side; 
For that same groan doth put this in my mind; 
My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 


LI. 
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence 
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: 
From where thou art why should I haste me thence ¢ 
Till I return, of posting is no need. 
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, 
When swift extremity can seem but slow? 
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind; 
In winged speed no motion shall I know: 
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; 
Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made, 
Shall neigh —no "dull flesh — in his fiery race; 
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade; 
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, 
Towards thee I ’ll run, and give him leave to go. 


LI. 


So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, 

The which he will not every hour survey, 

For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 

Therefore are feasts so solemn and So rare, 

Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, 

Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, 

Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 

So is the time that keeps you as my chest, 

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, 

To make some special instant special blest, 

By new unfolding his imprison’d pride. 
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, 
Being had, to triumph, being lack’d, to hope. 


BEL: 

What is your substance, whereof are you made, 
That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade, 
And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 
Is poorly imitated after you; 
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, 
And you in Grecian tires are painted new: 
Speak of the spring and foison of the year; 
The one doth shadow of your beauty show, 
The other as your bounty doth appear; 
And you in every blessed shape we know. 

In all external grace you have some part, 

But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 


LIv. 

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 

For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 

Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly 
When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses: 
But, for their virtue only is their show, 

They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade, 


bad . 
ee a Oe Ee ls a 


SONNETS. 


Die to themselves Sweet roses do not so; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: 

_ And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. 


LV. 


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
Than unswept stone besmear’d with sluttish time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And breils root out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
*Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find 
room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes. 


LVI. 


Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said 
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, 
Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d, 
To-morrow sharpen’d in his former might: 
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill 
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, 
To-morrow see again, and do not kill 
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. 
Let this sad interim like the ocean be 
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new 
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see 
Return of love, more blest may be the view; 
Else call it winter, which being full of care 
Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, 
more rare. 
LVU. 
Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
Upon the hours and times of your desire ? 
I have no precious time at all to spend, 
Nor services to do, till you require. 
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour 
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, 
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour 
When you have bid your servant once adieu ; 
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought 
Save, where you are how happy you make those. 
So true a fool is love that in your will, 
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. 


LVIII. 


That god forbid that made me first your slave, 
I should in thought control your times of pleasure, 
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, 
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! 
O, let me suffer, being at your beck, 
The imprison’d absence of your liberty ; 
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each.check, 
Without accusing you of injury. 
Be where you list, your charter is so strong 
That you yourself may privilege your time 
To what you will; to you it doth belong 
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. 
Tam to wait, though waiting so be hell; 
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. 


LIX. 


If there be nothing new, but that which is 
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, 
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss 
The second burden of a former child! 

O, that record could with a backward look, 
Even of five hundred courses of the sun, 


| Show me your image in some antique book, 


Since mind at first in character was done! 
That I might see what the old world could say 
To this composed wonder of your frame ; 
Whether we are mended, or whether better they, 
Or whether revolution be the same. 

O, sure I am, the wits of former days 

To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 


LX. 


Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end; 

Each changing place with that which goes before, 

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d, 

Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight, 

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth 

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, 

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: 
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 


LXI. 


Is it thy will thy image should keep open 
My heavy eyelids to the weary night ? 
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, 
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight ? 
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee 
So far from home into my deeds to pry, 
To find out shames and idle hours in me, 
The scope and tenour of thy jealousy ? 
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: 
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake; 
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, 
To play the watchman ever for thy sake: 
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, 
From me far off, with others all too near. 


LXIt. 


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye 

And all my soul and all my every part; 

And for this sin there is no remedy, 

It is so grounded inward in my heart. 

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, 

No shape so true, no truth of such account; 

And for myself mine own worth do define, 

As I all other in all worths surmount. 

But when my glass shows me myself indeed, 

Beated and chopp’d with tann’d antiquity, 

Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ; 

Self so self-loving were iniquity. 
’T is thee, myself, that for myself I praise, 
Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 


LXIIl. 


Against my love shall be, as [ am now, 

With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and 0’erworn ; 

When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his 

brow 

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn 

Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night, 

And all those beauties whereof now he’s king 

Are vanishing or vanish’d out of sight, 

Stealing away the treasure of his spring ; 

For such a time do I now fortify 

Against confounding age’s cruel knife, 

That he shall never cut from memory ‘ 

My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life: 
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, 
And they shall live, and he in them still green. 


LXIV. 


When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced 
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 


853 


SONNETS. 


When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed 

And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; 

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 

And the firm soil win of the watery main, 

Increasing store with loss and loss with store ; 

When I have seen such interchange of state, 

Or state itself confounded to decay ; 

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, 

That Time will come and take my love away. 
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 


LXV. 
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 


sea, 
But sad mortality o’ersways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? 
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out 
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ? 
O fearful meditation! where, alack, 
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid ? 
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ? 
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 

O, none, unless this miracle have might, 

That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 


LXVI. 


Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 

As, to behold desert a beggar born, 

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity, 

And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 

And gilded honour shametully misplaced, 

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 

And strength by limping sway disabled, 

And art made tongue-tied by authority, 

And folly doctor-like controlling skill, 

And simple truth miscall’d simplicity, 

And captive good attending captain ill: 
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, 
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 


LXVII. 


Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, 
And with his presence grace impiety, 
That sin by him advantage should achieve 
And lace itself with his society ? 
Why should false painting imitate his cheek 
And steal dead seeing of his living hue ? 
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek 
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? 
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, 
Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins ? 
For she hath no exchequer now but his, 
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. 
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had 
In days long since, before these last so bad. 


LXVIII. 


Thus 1s his cheek the map of days outworn, 
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, 
Before these bastard signs of fair were born, 
Or durst inhabit on a living brow; 
Before the golden tresses of the dead, 
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, 
To live a second life on second head ; 
Kre beauty’s dead fleece made another gay: 
In him those holy antique hours are seen, 
Without all ornament, itself and true, 
Making no summer of another’s green, 
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; 
And him as for a map doth Nature store, 
To show false Art what beauty was of yore. 


8o4 


LXIX. 


Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view 
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; 
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, 
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. 
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d ; 
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own 
In other accents do this praise confound 
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. 
They look into the beauty of thy mind, 
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; 
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes 
were kind, 
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: 
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, 
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow, 


LXX. 


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, 

For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair; 

The ornament of beauty is suspect, 

A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air. 

So thou be good, slander doth but approve 

Thy worth the greater, being woo’d of time; 

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, 

And thou present’st a pure unstained prime. 

Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young days, 

Either not assail’d or victor being charged ; 

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, 

To tie up envy evermore enlarged: . 
If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show, 
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe, 


Ror ai i 


No longer mourn for me when I am dead | 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell : 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it; for I love you so 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with clay, 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 
But let your love even with my life decay, 
Lest the wise world should look into your moan 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 


Ss. 


1 5P.@:4 OF 


O, lest the world should task you to recite 

What merit lived in me, that you should love 

After my death, dear love, forget me quite, 

For you in me can nothing worthy prove; 

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, 

To do more for me than mine own desert, 

And hang more praise upon deceased I 

Than niggard truth would willingly impart: 

O, lest your true love may seem false in this, 

That you for love speak well of me untrue, 

My name be buried where my body is, 

And live no more to shame nor me nor you. 
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, 
And so should you, to love things nothing worth. 


ee ee ee eee Me ee 


LXXITII. 


That time of year thou mayst in me behold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou seest the twilight of such day 

As after sunset fadeth in the west, 

Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 


SONNETS. 


As the death-bed whereon it must expire 
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by. 
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more 
strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 


LXXIYV. 


But be contented : when that fell arrest 
Without all bail shall carry me away, 
My life hath in this line some interest, 
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. 
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review 
The very part was consecrate to thee: 
The earth can have but earth, which is his due; 
My spirit is thine, the better part of me: 
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, 
The prey of worms, my body being dead, 
The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife, 
Too base of thee to be remembered. 
The worth of that is that which it contains, 
And that is this, and this with thee remains. 


LXXV. 


So are you to my thoughts as food to life, 
Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground; 
And for the peace of you I hold such strife 
As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found; 
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon 
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, 
Now counting best to be with you alone, 
Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure ; 
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight 
And by and by clean starved for a look; 
Possessing or pursuing no delight, 
Save what is had or must from you be took. 

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, 

Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 

LXXVI. 

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, 
So far from variation or quick change ? 
Why with the time do I not glance aside 
To new-found methods and to compounds strange ? 
Why write I still all one, ever the same, 
And keep invention in a noted weed, 
That every word doth almost tell my name, 
Showing their birth and where they did proceed ? 
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, 
And you and love are still my argument ; 
So all my best is dressing old words new, 
Spending again what is already spent: 

For as the sun is daily new and old, 

So is my love still telling what is told. 


LXXVII. 


Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, 
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; 
The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear, 
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. 
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show 
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; 
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know 
Time’s thievish progress to eternity. 
Look, what thy memory can not contain 
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find 
Those children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain, 
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. 

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, 

Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. 


Leo Viil: 


So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, 

And found such fair assistance in my verse, 

As every alien pen hath got my use, 

And under thee their poesy disperse. 

Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing, 
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, 


rs 


| Have added feathers to the learned’s wing, 

And given grace a double majesty. 

Yet be most proud of that which I compile, 

Whose influence is thine and born of thee: 

In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, 

And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; 
But thou art all my art and dost advance 
As high as learning my rude ignorance. 


LXXIX., 


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, 

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, 

But now my gracious numbers are decay’d 

And my sick Muse doth give another place. 

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument 

Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, 

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent 

He robs thee of and pays it thee again. 

He lends thee virtue and he stole that word 

From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give 

And found it in thy cheek; he can afford 

No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. 
Then thank him not for that which he doth 


say 
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. 
Lox Xe 


O, how I faint when I of you do write, 
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, 
And in the praise thereof spends all his might, 
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! 
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, 
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, 
My saucy bark inferior far to his 
On your broad main doth wilfully appear. 
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, 
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; 
Or, being wreck’d, I am a worthless boat, 
He of tall building and of goodly pride: 

Then if he thrive and I be cast away, 

The worst was this; my love was my decay. 


LXxXxXI. 


Or I shall live your epitaph to make, 
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; 
From hence your memory death cannot take, 
Although in me each part will be forgotten. 
Your name from hence immortal life shall have, 
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: 
The earth can yield me but a common grave, 
When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. 
Your monument shall be my gentle verse, 
Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read, 
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse 
When all the breathers of this world are dead; 
You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen— 
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths 
of men. 
LX MAT: 
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse 
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook 
The dedicated words which writers use 
Of their fair subject, blessing every book. 
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, 
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, 
And therefore art enforced to seek anew 
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. 
And do so, love; yet when they have devised 
What strained touches rhetoric can lend, 
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized | 
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend ; 
And their gross painting might be better used 
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. 


LXXXITl. 


I never saw that you did painting need 
And therefore to your fair no painting set: 


855 


SONNETS. 


I found, or thought I found, you did exceed 

The barren tender of a poet’s debt; 

And therefore have I slept in your report, 

That you yourself being extant well might show 

How far a modern quill doth come too short, 

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. 

This silence for my sin you did impute, 

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; 

For I impair not beauty being mute, 

When others would give life and bring a tomb. 
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes 
Than both your poets can in praise devise. 


LXXXIV. 


Who is it that says most ? which can say more 
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you? 
In whose confine immured is the store 
Which should example where your equal grew. 
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell 
That to his subject lends not some small glory; 
But he that writes of you, if he can tell 
That you are you, so dignifies his story, 
Let him but copy what in you is writ, 
Not making worse what nature made so clear, 
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, 
Making his style admired every where. 
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, 
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises 
worse. 
i tao... 'p 
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, 
While comments of your praise, richly compiled, 
teserve their character with golden quill 
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. 
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, 
And like unletter’d clerk still cry ‘Amen’ 
To every hymn that able spirit affords 
In polish’d form of well-refined pen. 
Hearing you praised, I say ‘’T' is so, ’tis true,’ 
And to the most of praise add something more; 
But that is in my thought, whose love to you, 
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. 
Then others for the breath of words respect, 
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. 


LXXXVI. 


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, 
Bound for the prize of all too precious you, 
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, 
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ? 
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write 
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ? 
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night 
Giving him aid, my verse astonished. 
He, nor that affable familiar ghost 
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, 
As victors of my silence cannot boast ; 
I was not sick of any fear from thence: 
But when your countenance fill’d up his line, 
Then lack’d Ll matter; that enfeebled mine. 


UXXXVII. 


Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, 

And like enough thou know’st thy estimate: 

The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 

My bonds in thee are all determirate. 

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 

And for that riches where is my deserving ? 

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 

And so my patent back again is swerving. 

Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not know- 

ing, 

Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking ; 

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 

Comes home again, on better judgment making. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, 
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 

856 


LXXXYVITII. 


When thou shalt be disposed to set me light 
And place my merit in the eye of scorn, 
Upon thy side against myself I ll fight 
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. 
With mine own weakness being best acquainted, 
Upon thy part I can set down a story 
Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted, 
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: 
And I by this will be a gainer too; 
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, 
The injuries that to myself I do, 
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. 

Such is my love, to thee I so belong, 

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong, 


LXXXIX. 


Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, 
And I will comment upon that offence; 
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, 
Against thy reasons making no defence. 
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, 
To set a form upon desired change, 
As [’ll myself disgrace: knowing thy will, 
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange, 
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue 
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, 
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong 
And haply of our old acquaintance tell. 
For thee against myself I ll vow debate, 
For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate. 
XC. 
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; 
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, 
Join with the spite of fortune,.make me bow, 
And do not drop in for an after-loss : 
Ah, do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow, 
Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe; 
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, | 
To linger out a purposed overthrow. 
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, 
When other petty griefs have done their spite, 
But in the onset come; so shall I taste 
At first the very worst of fortune’s might, 
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. 


XCI. 


Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 

Some in their wealth, some in their bodies’ force, 

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, 

Some on their hawks and hounds, some in their 

horse ; 

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, 

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest : 

But these particulars are not my measure ; 

All these I better in one general best. 

Thy love is better than high birth to me, 

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost, 

Of more delight than hawks or horses be; 

And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast: 
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take 
All this away and me most wretched make. 


XCITI. 


But do thy worst to steal thyself away, 

For term of life thou art assured mine, 

And life no longer than thy love will stay, 
For it depends upon that love of thine. 

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, 
When in the least of them my life hath end. 

I see a better state to me belongs 

Than that which on thy humour doth depend; 
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, 
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. 


« ‘ - 
r i — - ; 
ee eee ee eee ee eee 


SONNETS. 


QO, what a happy title do I find, 

Happy to have thy love, happy to die! 
But what ’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot ? 
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. 


E<OLEM: 


So shall I live, supposing thou art true, 
Like a deceived husband ; so love’s face 
May still seem love to me, though alter’d new; 
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place: 
For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. 
In many’s looks the false heart’s history 
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, 
But heaven in thy creation did decree 
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; 
Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be, 
Thy ts should nothing thence but sweetness 
ell. 
How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, 
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! | 


XCIV. 


They that have power to hurt and will do none, 
That do not do the thing they most do show, 
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, 
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces 
And husband nature’s riches from expense; 
They are the lords and owners of their faces, 
Others but stewards of their excellence. 
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, 
Though to itself it only live and die, 
But if that flower with base infection meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity: 
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; 
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 


DSA. 


How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame 

Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! 

O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! 

That tongue that tells the story of thy days, 

Making lascivious comments on thy sport, 

Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise; 

Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 

O, what a mansion have those vices got 

Which for their habitation chose out thee, 

Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot, 

And all things turn to fair that eyes can see! 
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; 
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. 


XCVI. 


Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ; 
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; 
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. 
As on the finger of a throned queen 
The basest jewel will be well esteem’d, 
So are those errors that in thee are seen 
To truths translated and for true things deem’d. 
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, 
If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 
How many gazers mightst thou lead away, 
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! 
But do not so; I love thee in such sort 
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 


XCVII. 


How like a winter hath my absence been 

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! 
What old December’s bareness every where ! 
And yet this time removed was summer’s time, 
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, 


Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, 
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease: 
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me 
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit ; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute; 
Or, if they sing, ’t is with so dull a cheer 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter ’s near. 


XCVIII. 


From you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odour and in hue 
Could make me any summer’s story tell, [grew ; 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 

Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away, 

As with your shadow I with these did play. 


XCIX. 


The forward violet thus did I chide: [smells, 
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that 
If not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair: 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both 
And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath; 
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see 

But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee, 


C. 


Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long 

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ? 

Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song, 

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light ? 

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem 

In gentle numbers time so idly spent; 

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem 

And gives thy pen both skill and argument. 

Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey, 

If Time have any wrinkle graven there; 

If any, be a satire to decay, 

And make Time’s spoils despised every where. 
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ; 
So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife. 


CI. 


O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends 

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed ? 

Both truth and beauty on my love depends; 

So dost thou too, and therein dignified. 

Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say 

‘Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d; 

Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay; 

But best is best, if never intermix’d ?’ 

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? 

Excuse not silence so; for ’t lies in thee 

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, 

And to be praised of ages yet to be. ; 
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how 
To make him seem long hence as he shows now. 


CIl. 


My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seem- 
I love not less, though less the show appear: [ing; 


857 


SONNETS. 


——— 


That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming 

The owner’s tongue doth publish every where. 

Our love was new and then but in the spring 

When I was wont to greet it with my lays, 

As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing 

And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: 

Not that the summer is less pleasant now 

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the 

night, 

But that wild music burthens every bough 

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. 
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue, 
Because I would not dull you with my song. 


CII. 


Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, 
That having such a scope to show her pride, 
The argument all bare is of more worth 
Than when it hath my added praise beside! 
O, blame me not, if I no more can write! 
Look in your glass, and there appears a face 
That over-goes my blunt invention quite, 
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. 
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, 
To mar the subject that before was well ? 
For to no other pass my verses tend 
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; 
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit 
Your own glass shows you when you look in it. 


CIV. 


To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 
For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride, 
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d 
In process of the seasons have I seen, 
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d, 
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived ; 
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived: 
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; 
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead. 


CV. 


Let not my love be call’d idolatry, 

Nor my beloved as an idol show, 

Since all alike my songs and praises be 

To one, of one, still such, and ever so. 

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, 

Still constant in a wondrous excellence; 

Therefore my verse to constancy confined, 

One thing expressing, leaves out difference. 

‘Fair, kind, and true’ is all my argument, 

‘Fair, kind, and true’ varying to other words; 

And in this change is my invention spent, 

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. 
‘Fair, kind, and true,’ have often lived alone, 
Which three till now never kept seat in one. 


CVI. 


When in the chronicle of wasted time 

I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, 

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 

1 see their antique pen would have express’d 

Even such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 

And, for they look’d but with divining eyes, 

They had not skill enough your worth to sing: 
For we, which now behold these present days, 


Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. | Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection; 


858 


CVIl. 


Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, 

Can yet the lease of my true love control, 

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom, 

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured 

And the sad augurs mock their own presage; 

Incertainties now crown themselves assured 

And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 

Now with the drops of this most balmy time 

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, 

Since, spite of him, Ill live in this poor rhyme, 

While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes: 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent. 


CVIII. 


What ’s in the brain that ink may character 
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ? 
What,’s new to speak, what new to register, 
That may express my love or thy dear merit ? 
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, 
I must each day say o’er the very same, 
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, 
Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name. 
So that eternal love in love’s fresh case 
Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, 
But makes antiquity for aye his page, 
Finding the first conceit of love there bred 
Where time and outward form would show it dead. 


CIX. 


O, never say that I was false of heart, 
Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify. 
As easy might I from myself depart 
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: 
That is my home of love: if I have ranged, 
Like him that travels I return again, 
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, 
So that myself bring water for my stain. 
Never believe, though in my nature reign’d 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 
That it could so preposterously be stain’d, 
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; 

For nothing this wide universe I call, 

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. 


CX. 


Alas, ’tis true I have gone here and there 

And made myself a motley to the view, 

SH ia own thoughts, sold cheap what is most 

ear, 

Made old offences of affections new; 

Most true it is that I have look’d on truth 

Askance and strangely: but, by all above, 

These blenches gave my heart another youth, 

And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 

Now all is done, have what shall have no end: 

Mine appetite I never more will grind 

On newer proof, to try an older friend, 

A god in love, to whom I am confined. 
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, 
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 


CXI. 


O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 

That did not better for my life provide 

Than public means which public manners breeds. 
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 

To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand: 

Pity me then and wish I weré renew’d; 

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 


<r 


SONNETS. 


a 


No bitterness that I will bitter think, 

Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 


CXII. 


Your love and pity doth the impression fill 
Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow; 
For what care I who calls me well or ill, 
So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow ? 
You are my all the world, and I must strive 
To know my shames and praises from your tongue; 
None else to me, nor I to none alive, 
That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong. 
In so profound abysm I throw all care 
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense 
To critic and to flatterer stopped are. 
Mark how with my negiect I do dispense: 

You are so strongly in my purpose bred 

That all the world besides methinks are dead. 


CXIII. 


Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; 

And that which governs me to go about 

Doth part his function and is partly blind, 

Seems seeing, but effectually is out; 

For it no form delivers to the heart 

Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch: 

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, 

Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ; 

For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight, 

The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature, 

The mountain or the sea, the day or night, 

The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature: 
Incapable of more, replete with you, 
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue. 


CXIV. 


Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you, 
Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery ? 
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, 
And that your love taught it this alchemy, 
To make of monsters and things indigest 
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, 
Creating every bad a perfect best, 
As fast as objects to his beams assemble ? 
O, tis the first; ’tis flattery in my seeing, 
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: 
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing, 
And to his palate doth prepare the cup: 

If it be poison’d, ’t is the lesser sin 

That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. 


COVE 


Those lines that I before have writ do lie, 
Even those that said I could not love you dearer: 
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why 
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. 
But reckoning time, whose million’d accidents 
Creep in ’twixt vows and change decrees of kings, 
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents, 
Divert strong minds to the course of altering 
things ; 

Alas, why, fearing of time’s tyranny, 
Might I not then say ‘ Now I love you best,’ 
When I was certain o’er incertainty, 
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest ? 

Love is a babe; then might I not say so, 

To give full growth to that which still doth grow? 


CxXVI. 


Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove: 

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 


It is the star to every wandering bark, . 
Whose worth ’s unknown, although his height be 
taken. 

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle’s compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 


CXVII. 


Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all 
Wherein I should your great deserts repay, 
Forgot upon your dearest love to eall, 
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; 
That I have frequent been with unknown minds 
And given to time your own dear-purchased right; 
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds 
Which should transport me farthest from your sight. 
Book both my wilfulness and errors down 
And on just proof surmise accumulate; 
Bring me within the level of your frown, 
But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate; 
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove 
The constancy and virtue of your love. 


CXVIII. 


Like as, to make our appetites more keen, 

With eager compounds we our palate urge, 

As, to prevent our maladies unseen, 

We sicken to shun sickness when we purge, 

Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness, 

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding 

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness 

To be diseased ere that there was true needing. 

Thus policy in love, to anticipate 

The ills that were not, grew to faults assured 

And brought to medicine a healthful state 

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured: 
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, 
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. 


CXIX. 


What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, 
Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within, 
Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears, 
Still losing when I saw myself to win! 
What wretched errors hath my heart committed, 
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! 
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted 
In the distraction of this madding fever! 
O benefit of ill! now I find true 
That better is by evil still made better ; 
And ruin’d love, when it is built anew, 
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. 
So I return rebuked to my content 
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. 


CXX., 


That you were once unkind befriends me now, 

And for that sorrow which I then did feel 

Needs must I under my transgression bow, 

Unless my nerves were brass or hammer’d steel. 

For if you were by my unkindness shaken 

As I by yours, you ’ve pass’d a hell of time, 

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken 

To weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime. 

O, that our night of woe might have remember’d 

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, 

And soon to you, as you to me, then tender’d 

The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! 
But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; 
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me 


CXXI. 
’'T is better to be vile than vile esteem’d, 
When not to be receives reproach of being, 
859 


SONNETS. 


And the just pleasure lost which is so deem’d 
Not by our feeling but by others’ seeing: 
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes 
Give salutation to my sportive blood ? 
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, 
Which in their wills count bad what I think good? 
No, lam that I am, and they that level 
At my abuses reckon up their own: 
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel; 
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; 
Unless this general evil they maintain, 
All men are bad, and in their badness reign. 


CXXII. 


Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain 

Full character’d with lasting memory, 

Which shall above that idle rank remain 

Beyond all date, even to eternity ; 

Or at the least, so long as brain and heart 

Have faculty by nature to subsist ; 

Till each to razed oblivion yield his part 

Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d. 

That poor retention could not so much hold, 

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score ; 

Therefore to give them from me was I bold, 

To trust those tables that receive thee more: 
To keep an adjunct to remember thee 
Were to import forgetfulness in me. 


CXXIiI. 


No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: 
Thy pyramids built up with newer might 
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; 
They are but dressings of a former sight. 
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire 
What thou dost foist upon us that is old, 
And rather make them born to our desire 
Than think that we before have heard them told. 
Thy registers and thee I both defy, 
Not wondering at the present nor the past, 
For thy records and what we see doth lie, 
Made more or less by thy continual haste. 
This I do vow and this shall ever be; 
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. 


CXXIV. 


If my dear love were but the child of state, 

It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d, 

As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate, 
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gath- 


No, it was builded far from accident ; 
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls 
Under the blow of thralled discontent, 
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls: 
It fears not policy, that heretic, 
Which works on leases of short-number’d hours, 
But all alone stands hugely politic, [Showers. 
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with 
To this I witness call the fools of time, 
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. 
Oxxy. 
Were ’t aught to me I bore the canopy, 
With my extern the outward honouring, 
Or laid great bases for eternity, 
W hich prove more short than waste or ruining ? 
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour 
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, 
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour, 
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ? 
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, 
And take thou my oblation, poor but free, 
Which is not mix’¢ with seconds, knows no art, 
But mutual render,’only me for thee. 
Hence, thou suborn’d informer! a true soul 
When most impeach’d stands least in thy control. 


860 


: 
TE ——————————————— —— rnnmn—_10000000 


CXXVI. 


O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power 

Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his sickle, hour ; 
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st 
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow’st ; 
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, 

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, 
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill 
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. 
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure ! 
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: 
Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be, 
And her quietus is to render thee. 


CXXVII. 


In the old age black was not counted fair, 
Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name ; 
But now is black beauty’s successive heir, 
And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame: 
For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, 
Fairing the foul with art’s false borrow’d face, 
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, 
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. 
Therefore my mistress’ brows are raven black, 
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem 
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, 
Slandering creation with a false esteem : 
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, 
That every tongue says beauty should look so. 


CXXVIII. 


How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, 
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds 
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st 
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, 
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap 
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, 
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, 
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand! 
To be so tickled, they would change their state 
And situation with those dancing chips, 
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, 
Making dead wood more blest than living lips. 
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, 
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 


CXXIX. 


The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 

Is lust in action; and till action, lust 

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, 

Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight, 

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had 

Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad; 

Mad in pursuit and in possession so: 

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; 

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; 

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. [well 
All this the world well knows; yet none knows 
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 

CES. 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; 

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red ; 

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 

I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, 

But no such roses see I in her’cheeks; 

And in some perfumes is there more delight 

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 

That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 


on pl. eed” 6 ee te 


SONNETS. 


I grant I never saw a goddess go: 
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the 
ground: 
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
As any she belied with false compare. 
OMRRT. 
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, 
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; 
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart 
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. 
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold 
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan: 
To say they err I dare not be so bold, 
Although I swear it to myself alone. 
And, to be sure that is not false I swear, 
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, 
One on another’s neck, do witness bear 
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place. 
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, 
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. 


CXXXIT. 


Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, 
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, 
Have put on black and loving mourners be, 
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. 
And truly not the morning sun of heaven 
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, 
Nor that full star that ushers in the even 
Doth half that glory to the sober west, 
As those two mourning eyes become thy face: 
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart 
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, 
And suit thy pity like in every part. 
Then will I swear beauty herself is black 
And all they foul that thy complexion lack. 


CXXXITI. 


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan 
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! 
Is ’t not enough to torture me alone, 
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be ? 
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, 
And my next self thou harder hast engross’d: 
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; 
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross’d. 
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward, 
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail ; 
Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; 
Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol: 
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, 
Perforce am thine, and- all that is in me. 


CXXXIV. 


So, now I have confess’d that he is thine, 
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will, 
Myself I ’ll forfeit, so that other mine 
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still: 
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, 
For thou art covetous and he is kind ; 
He learn’d but surety-like to write for me 
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. 
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, 
Thou usurer, that put’st forth all to use, 
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake ; 
So him I lose through my unkind abuse. 
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me: 
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. 


CXXXYV. 


Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘ Will,’ 
And ‘ Will’ to boot, and ‘ Will’ in overplus; 
More than enough am I[ that vex thee still, 
To thy sweet will making addition thus. 
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, 
Not once yvouchsafe to hide my will in thine ? 


Shall will in others seem right gracious, 

And in my will no fair acceptance shine ? 

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still 

And in abundance addeth to his store; 

So thou, being rich in ‘ Will,’ add to thy ‘ Will’ 

One will of mine, to make thy large ‘ Will’ more. 
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; 
Think all but one, and me in that one ‘ Will.’ 


CXXXVI. 


If thy soul check thee that I come so near, 

Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ‘ Will,’ 

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; 

Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. 

‘Will’ will fulfil the treasure of thy love, 

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. 

In things of great receipt with ease we prove 

Among a number one is reckon’d none: 

Then in the number let me pass untold, 

Though in thy stores’ account I one must be; 

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold 

That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: 
Make but my name thy love, and love that still, 
And then thou lovest me, for my name is ‘ Will.’ 


CXXXVII. 


Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, 
That they behold, and see not what they see? 
They know what beauty is, see where it lies, 
Yet what the best is take the worst to be. 
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks 
Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride, 
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks, 
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ? 
Why should my heart think that a several plot 
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common 
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this isnot, [place? 
To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? 
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, 
And to this false plague are they now transferr’d. 


CXXXVIII. 


When my love swears that she is made of truth 

I do believe her, though I know she lies, 

That she might think me some untutor’d youth, 

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. 

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 

Although she knows my days are past the best, 

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: 

On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d. 

But wherefore says she not she is unjust ? 

And wherefore say not I that [am old? 

O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, 

And age in love loves not to have years told: 
Therefore I lie with her and she with me, 
And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be. 


CXXXIX. 


O, call not me to justify the wrong 
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; 
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue; 
Use power with power and slay me not by art. 
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight, 
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: 
What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy 
might 

Is more than my o’er-press’d defence can bide? 
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows 
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, 
And therefore from my face she turns my foes, 
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: 

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, | 

Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain. 


CXL. 


Be wise as thou art cruel; donot press 
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; 


861 


SONNETS. 


Lest sorrow lend me words and words express 
The manner of my pity-wanting pain. 
If I might teach thee wit, better it were, 
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so; 
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, 
No news but health from their physicians know; ° 
For if I should despair, I should grow mad, 
And in my madness might speak ill of thee: 
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, 
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. 
That I may not be so, nor thou belied, 
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart 
go wide. 
CXLI. 
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, 
For they in thee a thousand errors note; 
But ’t is my heart that loves what they despise, 
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote ; 
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune de- 
lighted, 
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, 
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited 
To any sensual feast with thee alone: 
But my five wits nor my five senses can 
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, 
Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man, 
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be: 
Only my plague thus far I count my gain, 
That she that makes me sin awards me pain. 


CXLII. 


Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate, 
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: 
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, 
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; 
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, 
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments 
And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine, 
Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. 
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those 
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: 
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows 
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. 
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, 
By self-example mayst thou be denied! 


CXLIII. 


Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch 

One of her feather’d creatures broke away, 

Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch 

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay, 

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, 

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent 

To follow that which flies before her face, 

Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent ; 

So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee, 

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; 

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, 

And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind: 
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘ Will,’ 
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. 


CLXAIV. 


Two loves I have of comfort and despair, 
Which like two spirits do suggest me still: 
The better angel is a man right fair, 
The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. 
To win me soon to hell, my female evil 
Tempteth my better angel from my side, 
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, 
Wooing his purity with her foul pride. 
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend 
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; 
But being both from me, both to each friend, 
[ guess one angel in another’s hell: 
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt, 
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 


862 


/ 
OxiLv. 

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make 
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’ 
To me that languish’d for her sake; 
But when she saw my woeful state, 
Straight in her heart did mercy come, 
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet 
Was used in giving gentle doom, 
And taught it thus anew to greet; 
‘T hate’ she alter’d with an end, 
That follow’d it as gentle day 
Doth follow night, who like a fiend 
From heaven to hell is flown away; 

‘I hate’ from hate away she threw, 

And saved my life, saying ‘not you.’ 


CXLVI. 


Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
... . these rebel powers that thee array, 
Vhy dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 

Painting thy outward wall so costly gay ? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end ? 

Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss, 

And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 

Within be fed, without be rich no more: 
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, 
And Death once dead, there ’sno more dying then. 


CXLVII. 


My love is as a fever, longing still 
For that which longer nurseth the disease, 
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, 
The uncertain sickly appetite to please. 
My reason, the physician to my love, 
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, 
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve 
Desire is death, which physic did except. 
Past cure I am, now reason is past care, 
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; 
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, 
At random from the truth vainly express’d ; 
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee 


bright, 
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 


CXLVIII. 


O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, 

Which have no correspondence with true sight! 

Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, 

That censures falsely what they see aright ? 

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 

What means the world to say it is not so? 

If it be not, then love doth well denote 

Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s ‘ No.’ 

How can it? O, how can Love’s eye be true, 

That is so vex’d with watching and with tears ? 

No marvel then, though I mistake my view; 

The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. {blind, 
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me 
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. 


CXLIX. 


Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, 
When I against myself with thee partake ? 
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot 
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake ? 
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ? 
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon ? 
Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend 
Revenge upon myself with present moan ? 
What merit do I in myself respect, 

| That is so proud thy service to despise, 


A LOVER’S 


When all my best doth worship thy defect, 
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ? 
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind; 
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. 


CL. 


O, from what power hast thou this powerful might 
With insufficiency my heart to sway ? 
To make me give the lie to my true sight, 
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day ? 
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, 
That in the very refuse of thy deeds 
There is such strength and warrantise of skill 
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds ? 
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more 
The more I hear and see just cause of hate ? 
O, though I love what others do abhor, 
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state: 

If thy unworthiness raised love in me, 

More worthy I to be beloved of thee. 


CLI. 


Love is too young to know what conscience is: 
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love ? 
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, 
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: 
For, thou betraying me, I do betray 
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason ; 
My soul doth tell my body that he may 
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason ; 
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee 
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, 
He is contented thy poor drudge to be, 
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. 
No want of conscience hold it that I call 
Her ‘ love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall. 


CLII. 


In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn, 

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing, 
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn 

In vowing new hate after new love bearing. 

But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee, 
When I break twenty ? Iam perjured most ; 


COMPLAINT. 


For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee 

And all my honest faith in thee is lost, 

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, 

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, 

And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, 

Or made them swear against the thing they see; 
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I, 
To swear against the truth so foul a lie! 


CLIiI. 


Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep: 
A maid:of Dian’s this advantage found, 
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep 
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground; 
Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love 
A dateless lively heat, still to endure, 
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove 
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. 
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired, 
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast ; 
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, 
And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest, 
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies 
Where Cupid got new fire— my mistress’ eyes. 


CLIV. 


The little Love-god lying once asleep 

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, 

Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep 

Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand 

The fairest votary took up that fire 

Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d; 

And so the general of hot desire 

Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm/’d. 

This brand she quenched in a cool well by, 

Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, 

Growing a bath and healthful remedy 

For men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall, 
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, 
Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love. 


OOO SER TIO —_— 


A LOVER’S COMPLAINT. 


F Rom off a hill whose concave womb re-worded 
A. plaintful story from a sistering vale, 

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, 
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale; 

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, 

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, 
Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain. 


Upon her head a platted hive of straw, 

Which fortified her visage from the sun, 

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw 
The carcass of a beauty spent and done: 

Time had not scythed all that youth begun, 

Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven’s fell rage, 
Some beauty peep’d through lattice of sear’d age. 


Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, 
Which on it had conceited characters, 
Laundering the silken figures in the brine 
That season’d woe had pelleted in tears, 
And often reading what contents it bears ; 
As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe, 
In clamours of all size, both high and low. 


Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, 
As they did battery to the spheres intend ; 
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied 

To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend 
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend 

To every place at once, and, nowhere fix’d, 
The mind and sight distractedly commix’d. 


Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, 
Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride 

For some, untuck’d, descended her sheaved hat, 
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ; 

Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, 

And true to bondage would not break from thence, 
Though slackly braided in loose negligence. 


A thousand favours from a maund she drew 

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, 

Which one by one she in a river threw, 

Upon whose weeping margent she was set; 

Like usury, applying wet to wet, 

Or monarch’s hands that let not bounty fall 
Where want cries some, but where excess begs all. 


863 


A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 


Of folded schedules had she many a one, 

Which she perused, sigh’d, tore,and gave the flood; 
Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone, 
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; 
Found yet moe letters sadly penn’d in blood, 

With sleided silk feat and affectedly 
Enswathed, and seal’d to curious secrecy. 


These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, 

And often kiss’d, and often ’gan to tear; 

Oried ‘O false blood, thou register of lies, 

What unapproved witness dost thou bear! 

Ink would have seem’d more black anddamnedhere!’ 
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, 

Big discontent so breaking their contents. 


A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh — 
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew 
Of court, of city, and had let go by 

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew — 
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew, 
And, privileged by age, desires to know 

In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. 


So slides he down upon his grained bat, 

And comely-distant sits he by her side; 
When he again desires her, being sat, 

Her grievance with his hearing to divide: 

If that from him there may be aught applied 
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, 

*T is promised in the charity of age. 


‘ Father,’ she says, ‘ though in me you behold 
The injury of many a blasting hour, 

Let it not tell your judgment I am old; 

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power: 

I might as yet have been a spreading flower, 
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied 

Love to myself and to no love beside. 


‘But, woe is me! too early I attended 

A youthful suit—it was to gain my grace— 

Of one by nature’s outwards so commended, 
That maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face: 

Love lack’d a dwelling, and made him her place ; 
And when in his fair parts she did abide, 

She was new lodged and newly deified. 


‘His browny locks did hang in crooked curls; 
And every light occasion of the wind 

Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. 
What ’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find: 
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind, 
For on his visage was in little drawn 

What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. 


‘Small show of man was yet upon his chin ; 

His pheenix down began but to appear 

Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin 

Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seem’d to wear: 
Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear ; 
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt 

If best were as it was, or best without. 


‘His qualities were beauteous as his form, 

For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free ; 
Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm 

As oft ’twixt May and April is to see, 

When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. 
His rudeness so with his authorized youth 

Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. 


‘ Well could he ride, and often men would say 
‘That horse his mettle from his rider takes: 
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, ° 

W hat rounds, what bounds, what course, what stophe 
And controversy hence a question takes, [makes!”’ 


864 


Whether the horse by him became his deed, 
Or he his manage by the well-doing steed. 


‘But quickly on this side the verdict went: 

His real habitude gave life and grace 

To appertainings and to ornament, 
Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case: 

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, 
Came for additions; yet their purposed trim 
Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. 


‘So on the tip of his subduing tongue 

All kind of arguments and question deep, 
All replication prompt, and reason strong, 
For his advantage still did wake and sleep: 
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, 
He had the dialect and different skill, 
Catching all passions in his craft of will: 


‘That he did in the general bosom reign 

Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted, 

To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain 

In personal duty, following where he haunted: 
Consents bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted ; 
And dialogued for him what he would say, 
Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey. 


‘Many there were that did his picture get, 

To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind; 

Like fools that in th’ imagination set 

The goodly objects which abroad they find 

Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d 
And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them 
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them: 


‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand, 
Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. 
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand, 
And was my own fee-simple, not in part, 
What with his art in youth, and youth in art, 
Threw my affections in his charmed power, 
Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower. 


‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did, 

Demand of him, nor being desired yielded ; 
Finding myself in honour so forbid, 

With safest distance I mine honour shielded: 
Experience for me many bulwarks builded 

Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil 
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. 


‘But, ah, who ever shunn’d by precedent 
The destined ill she must herself assay ? 

Or forced examples, ’gainst her own content, 
To put the by-past perils in her way ? 
Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; 
For when we rage, advice is often seen 

By blunting us to make our wits more keen. 


‘Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, 

That we must curb it upon others’ proof; 

To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, 
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. 

O appetite, from judgment stand aloof! 

The one a palate hath that needs will taste, 
Though Reason weep, and cry ‘‘ It is thy last.” 


‘For further I could say ‘‘ This man.’s untrue,”’ 
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; 
Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew, 
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling ; 
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling ; 
Thought characters and words merely but art, 
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. 


‘And long upon these terms I held my city, 
Till thus he gan besiege me: ‘‘ Gentle maid. 


A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 


Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, 
And be not of my holy vows afraid: 

That ’s to ye sworn to none was ever said; 
For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, 
Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo. 


“* All my offences that abroad you see 

Are errors of the blood, none of the mind; 

Love made them not: with acture they may be, 
Where neither party is nor true nor kind: 

They sought their shame that so their shame did find; 
And so much less of shame in me remains, 

By how much of me their reproach contains. 


‘“¢ Among the many that mine eyes have seen, 

Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm’d, 
Or my affection put to the smallest teen, 

Or any of my leisures ever charm’d: 

Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harm’d; 
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, 
And reign’d, commanding in his monarchy. 


-“ Took here, what tributes wounded fancies sent 
Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood; [me, 
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me 
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood 

In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood ; 
Effects of terror and dear modesty, 

Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly. 


‘** And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, 
With twisted metal amorously impleach’d, 

IT have received from many a several fair, 
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d, 
With the annexions of fair gems enrich’d, 
And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify 
Each stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality. 


‘“The diamond,— why, ’t was beautiful and hard, 
Whereto his invised properties did tend; 

The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard 
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; 

The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend 
With objects manifold: each several stone, 

With wit well blazon’d, smiled or made some moan. 


‘** To, all these trophies of affections hot, 

Of pensived and subdued desires the tender, 
Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, 
But yield them up where I myself must render, 
That is, to you, my origin and ender; 

For these, of force, must your oblations be, 
Since I their altar, you enpatron me. 


‘“Q, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand, 
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; 
Take all these similes to your own command, 
Hallow’d with sighs that burning lungs did raise ; 
What me your minister, for you obeys, 

Works under you; and to your audit comes 

Their distract parcels in combined sums. 


«“ To, this device was sent me from a nun, 

Or sister sanctified, of holiest note; 

Which late her noble suit in court did shun, 
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; 
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, 
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, 
To spend her living in eternal love. 


‘“* But, O my sweet, what labour is ’t to leave 

The thing we have not, mastering what not strives, 
Playing the place which did no form receive, 
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves ? 
She that her fame so to herself contrives, 

The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight, 

And makes her absence valiant, not her might. 


55 


‘**Q, pardon me, in that my boast is true: 
The accident which brought me to her eye 
Upon the moment did her force subdue, 
And now she would the caged cloister fly : 
Religious love put out Religion’s eye: 

Not to be tempted, would she be immured, 
And now, to tempt, all liberty procured. ° 


‘** How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell! 

The broken bosoms that to me belong 

Have emptied all their fountains in my well, 

And mine I pour your ocean all among: 

I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong, | 
Must for your victory us all congest, 

As compound love to physic your cold breast. 


‘** My parts had power to charm a sacred nun, 
Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, 
Believed her eyes when they to assail begun, 
All vows and consecrations giving place: 

O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space, 
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, 
For thou art all, and all things else are thine. 


|“ When thou impressest, what are precepts worth 


Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, 

How coldly those impediments stand forth 

Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! 

Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense, 
*gainst shame, 

And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears, 

The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. 


‘** Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, 
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine; 
And supplicant their sighs to you extend, 

To leave the battery that you make ’gainst mine, 
Lending soft audience to my sweet design, 

And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath 
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.”’ 


| ‘This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, 
| Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face; 
‘ Each cheek a river running from a fount 


With brinish current downward flow’d apace: 

O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! 

Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses 

That Aap through water which their hue en- 
closes. 


‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies 

In the small orb of one particular tear! 

But with the inundation of the eyes 

What rocky heart to water will not wear ? 
What breast so cold that is not warmed here ? 
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, 

Both fire from hence and chill extineture hath. 


‘For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, 

Even there resolved my reason into tears ; 

There my white stole of chastity I daff’d, 

Shook off my sober guards and civil fears; 

Appear to him, as he to me appears, 

All melting; though our drops this difference 
bore, 

His poison’d me, and mine did him restore. 


‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter, 

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, 
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, 

Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, 
In either’s aptness, as it best deceives, 

To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, 

Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows: 


‘That not a heart which in his level came 
Could ’scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, 


865 


THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 


Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; 

And, veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim: 
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; 
When he most burn’d in heart-wish’d luxury, 

He preach’d pure maid, and praised cold chastity. 


‘Thus merely with the garment of a Grace 

The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d; 

That th’ unexperient gave the tempter place, 
Which like a cherubin above them hover’d. 

Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d ? 


Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make 
What I should do again for such a sake. 


‘O, that infected moisture of his eye, 
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d, 
O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, 
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d, 
O, all that borrow’d motion seeming owed, 
Would yet again betray the fore-betray’d, 
And new pervert a reconciled maid! ’ 


THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 


I. 


WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth, 

I do believe her, though I know she lies, 

That she might think me some untutor’d youth, 

Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. 

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 

Although I know my years be past the best, 

I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, 

Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. 

But wherefore says my love that she is young ? 

And wherefore say not I that I am old ? 

O, love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, 

And age, in love, loves not to have years told. 
Therefore I ll lie with love, and love with me, 
Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be. 


Il. 


Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, 
That like two spirits do suggest me still; 
My better angel is a man right fair, 
My worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. 
To win me soon to hell, my female evil 
Tempteth my better angel from my side, 
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, 
Wooing his purity with her fair pride. 
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, 
Suspect [I may, yet not directly tell: 
For being both to me, both to each friend, 
I guess one angel in another’s hell ; 
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, 
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 


Iil. 


Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 
*Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, 
Persuade my heart to this false perjury ? 
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 
A woman I forswore; but I will prove, 
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: 
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; 
Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me. 
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; 
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, 
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is: 
If broken, then it is no fault of mine. 

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise 

To break an oath to win a paradise ? 


IV. 
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook 
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, 
Did court the lad with many a lovely look, 
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen. 
866 


She told him stories to delight his ear; 

She show’d him favours to allure his eye ; 

To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there,— 

Touches so soft still conquer chastity. 

But whether unripe years did want conceit, 

Or he refused to take her figured proffer 

The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, 

But smile and jest at every gentle offer: 
Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward: 
He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward! 


Vie 


If pe pa me forsworn, how shall I swear to 
ove t 

O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d: 

Though to myself forsworn, to thee L’ll constant 
prove ; 

Those Uae to me like oaks, to thee like osiers — 

ow’d. 

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, 

Where all those pleasures live that art can compre- 
hend. 

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suf- 


fice ; 
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee com- 


mend ; 

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without 

wonder ; 

Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire: 

Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his 

dreadful thunder, 

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. 
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, 
To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly 

tongue. 
VI. 

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, 

And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, 

When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, 

A longing tarriance for Adonis made 

Under an osier growing by a brook, 

A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen : 

Hot was the day; she hotter that did look 

For his approach, that often there had been. 

Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, 

And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim: 

The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye, 

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. 

He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood : 
‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood!’ 


VII. 


Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ; 
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ; 


THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 


Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle; 
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: 
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, 
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. 


Her lips to mine how often hath she join’d, 
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! 
How many tales to please me hath she coin’d, 
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing ! 
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, 
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were 
jestings. 
She burn’d with love, as straw with fire flameth ; 
She burn’d out love, as soon as straw out-burneth ; 
She framed the love, and yet she foil’d the fram- 


ing; 
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. 
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether ? 
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. 


VIIl. 


If music and sweet poetry agree, 
As they must needs, the sister and the brother, 
Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, 
Because thou lovest the one, and I the other. 
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch 
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; 
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such 
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. 
Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound 
That Phoebus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; 
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d 
When as himself to singing he betakes. 

One god is god of both, as poets feign ; 

One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. 


1x; 
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, 
* * * * * * * 


Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, 

For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild ; 

Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill: 

Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; 

She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will, 

Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds: 

‘Once,’ quoth she, ‘ did I see a fair sweet youth 

Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, 

Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! 

See, in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘ here was the sore.’ 
She show’d hers: he saw more wounds than one, 
And blushing fled, and left her all alone. 


Xs 


Sweet ae, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon 
vaded, 
Pluck’d in the bud, and vaded in the spring! 
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded ! 
Fair SPAS kil’d too soon by death’s sharp 
sting! j 
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, 
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be. 


I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; 
For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will: 
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave; 
For why I craved nothing of thee still: 
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, 

Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. 


eg 


Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her 

Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him: 

She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, 

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. 

‘Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘ the warlike god embraced 
m 


e. 
And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms; 


‘Even thus,’ quoth she,‘the warlike god unlaced me,’ 
As if the boy should use like loving charms; 
* Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘he seized on my lips,’ 
And with her lips on his did act the seizure: 
And as she fetched breath, away he skips, 
And would not take her meaning nor, her pleasure. 
Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, 
To kiss and clip me till I run away! 


xT. 


Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: 
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; 
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; 
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. 
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; 
Youth is nimble, age is lame; 
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; 
Youth is wild, and age is tame, 
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; 
O, my love, my love is young! 
Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, 
or methinks thou stay’st too long. 


XII. 


Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; 
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly ; 
A. flower that dies when first it gins to bud; 
A brittie glass that’s broken presently: 
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, 
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. 


And as goods lost are seld or never found, 
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, 
As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground, 
As broken glass no cement can redress, 
So beauty blemish’d once ’s for ever lost, 
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost. 


XIV. 


Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share: 
She bade good night that kept my rest away ; 
And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, 
To descant on the doubts of my decay. 
‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again to-mor- 


row: 
Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow. 


Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, 
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether: 
”T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, 
”T may be, again to make me wander thither: 
‘Wander,’ a word for shadows like myself, 
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. 
XV. 
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! 
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise 
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. 
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, 
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, 
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark ; 
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, 
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night: 
The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty; 
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight : 
Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix’d with sor- 


row ; 
For why, she sigh’d and bade me come to-morrow. 


Were I with her, the night would post too soon; 
But now are minutes added to the hours; 
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon; 
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers ! 
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now 
borrow : 
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to- 
morrow. 
867 


SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC. 


[XvI.] 


Ir was alording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, 
That liked of her master as well as well might be, 
Till looking on an Englishman, the fair’st that eye 
could see, 
Her fancy fell a-turning. 
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love 
did fight, 
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant 
knight: 
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite 
Unto the silly damsel! 
But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain 
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, 
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with 
disdain: 
Alas, she could not help it! 
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the 


day, 
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away: 
Then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay ; 
For now my song is ended. 


XVII. 


On a day, alack the day! 

Love, whose month was ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair, 
Playing in the wanton air: 
Through the velvet leaves the wind, 
All unseen, gan passage find ; 

That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath, 
‘ Air,’ quoth he, ‘thy cheeks may blow; 
Air, would I might triumph so! 
But, alas! my hand hath sworn 
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: 
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet: 
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. 
Thou for whom Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were; 

And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love.’ 


[X vi. ] 


My fiocks feed not, 
My ewes breed not, 
My rams speed not, 
All is amiss: 
Love’s denying, 
Faith ’s defying, 
Heart’s renying, 
Causer of this. 
All my merry jigs are quite forgot, 
All my lady’s love is lost, God wot: 
Where her faith was firmly fix’d in love, 
There a nay is placed without remove. 
One silly cross 
Wrought all my loss; 
O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame! 
For now I see 
Inconstancy ; 
More in women than in men remain. 


In black mourn I, 
All fears scorn I, 
Love hath forlorn me, 


868 


Living in thrall: 
Heart is bleeding, 
All help needing, 
O cruel speeding, 
Fraughted with gall. 
My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal; 
My wether’s bell rings doleful knell; 
My curtail dog, that wont to have play’d, 
Plays not at all, but seems afraid; 
My sighs so deep 
Procure to weep, 
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. 
How sighs resound 
Through heartless ground, 
veasis eae any vanquish’d men in bloody 
ght! 


Clear wells spring not, 
Sweet birds sing not, 
Green plants bring not 
Forth their dye; 
Herds stand weeping, 
Flocks all sleeping, 
Nymphs back peeping 
Fearfully : 
All our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
All our merry meetings on the plains, 
All our evening sport from us is fled, 
All our love is lost, for Love is dead. 
Farewell, sweet lass, 
Thy like ne’er was 
For asweet content, the cause of all my moan: 
Poor Corydon 
Must live alone; 
Other help for him I see that there is none. 


XIX. 


When as thine eye hath chose the dame, 
And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike, 
Let reason rule things worthy blame, 
As well as fancy partial might: 
Take counsel of some wiser head, 
Neither too young nor yet unwed. 


And when thou comest thy tale to tell, 
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, 
Lest she some subtle practice smell,— 
A cripple soon can find a halt ;— 
‘But plainly say thou lovest her well, 
And set thy person forth to sell. 


What though her frowning brows be bent, 
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night: 
And then too late she will repent 
That thus dissembled her delight; 

And twice desire, ere it be day, 

That which with scorn she put away. 


What though she strive to try her strength, 
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, 
Her feeble force will yield at length, 
When craft hath taught her thus to say, 
‘Had women been so strong as men, 
In faith, you had not had it then.’ 


And to her will frame all thy ways; 
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there 


Did a ASL ON A BR LTC Mi: 


Where thy desert may merit praise, 

By ringing in thy lady’s ear: 
The strongest castle, tower, and town, 
The golden bullet beats it down. 


Serve always with assured trust, 

And in thy suit be humble true; 

Unless thy lady prove unjust, 

Press never thou to choose anew: 
When time shall serve, be thou not slack 
To proffer, though she put thee back. 


The wiles and guiles that women work, 
Dissembled with an outward show, 

The tricks and toys that in them lurk, 
The cock that treads them shall not know. 
Have you not heard it said full oft, . 

A woman’s nay doth stand for nought ? 


Think women still to strive with men, 
To sin and never for to saint: 
There is no heaven, by holy then, 
When time with age doth them attaint. 
Were kisses all the joys in bed, 
One woman would another wed. 


But, soft! enough, too much, I fear; 
Lest that my mistress hear my song, 
She will not stick to round me i’ the ear, 
To teach my tongue to be so long: 

Yet will she blush, here be it said, 

To hear her secrets so bewray’d. 


Pex] 


Live with me, and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 
And all the craggy mountains yields. 


There will we sit upon the rocks, 

And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, by whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 


There will I make thee a bed of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle. 


A belt of straw and ivy buds, 

With coral clasps and amber studs; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 


LOVE’S ANSWER. 


If that the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 


[XXI.] 

As it fell uponaday . 
In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade ; 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 
Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 
Every thing did banish moan, 
Save the nightingale alone: 
She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, 
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, 
That to hear it was great pity: 
‘ Fie, fie, fie,’ now would she cry; 
‘ Tereu, tereu!’ by and by; 
That to hear her so complain, 
Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
For her griefs, so lively shown, 
Made me think upon mine own. 
Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain] 
None takes pity on thy pain: 
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee; 
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: 
King Pandion he is dead ; 
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead; 
All thy fellow birds do sing, 
Careless of thy sorrowing. 
Even so, poor bird, like thee, 
None alive will pity me. 
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, 
Thou and I were both beguiled. 

Every one that flatters thee 
Is no friend in misery. 
Words are easy, like the wind; 
Faithful friends are hard to find: 
Every man will be thy friend 
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; 
But if store of crowns be scant, 
No man will supply thy want. 
If that one be prodigal, 
Bountiful they will him call, 
And with such-like flattering, 
‘Pity but he were a king ;’ 
If he be addict to vice, 
Quickly him they will entice ; 
If to women he be bent, 
They have at commandement: 
But if Fortune once do frown, 
Then farewell his great renown; 
They that fawn’d on him before 
Use his company no more. 
He that is thy friend indeed, 
He will help thee in thy need: 
If thou sorrow, he will weep; 
If thou wake, he cannot sleep ; 
Thus of every grief in heart 
He with thee doth bear a part. 
These are certain signs to know 
Faithful friend from flattering foe. 


869 


THE PHGQINIX AND THE TURTLE. 


LEr the bird of loudest lay, 

On the sole Arabian tree, 

Herald sad and trumpet be, 

To whose sound chaste wings obey. 


But thou shrieking harbinger, 
Foul precurrer of the fiend, 
Augur of the fever’s end, 

To this troop come thou not near! 


From this session interdict 
Every fowl of tyrant wing, 
Save the eagle, feather’d king: 
Keep the obsequy so strict. 


Let the priest in surplice white, 
That defunctive music can, 
Be the death-divining swan, 
Lest the requiem lack his right. 


And thou treble-dated crow, 

That thy sable gender makest 

With the breath thou givest and takest, 
*Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. 


Here the anthem doth commence: 
Love and constancy is dead ; 
Phoenix and the turtle fled 

In a mutual flame from hence. 


So they loved, as love in twain 
Had the essence but in one; 
Two distincts, division none; 
Number there in love was slain. 


Hearts remote, yet not asunder ; 
Distance, and no space was seen 
*Twixt the turtle and his queen; 
But in them it were a wonder. 


So between them love did shine, 

That the turtle saw his right 

Flaming in the pheenix’ sight; 

Either was the other’s mine. 
870 


Property was thus appall’d, 
That the self was not the same; 
Single nature’s double name 
Neither two nor one was call’d. 


Reason, in itself confounded, 
Saw division grow together, 

To themselves yet either neither, 
Simple were so well compounded, 


That it cried, How true a twain 
Seemeth this concordant one! 
Love hath reason, reason none, 
If what parts can so remain. 


Whereupon it made this threne 
To the pheenix and the dove, 
Co-supremes and stars of love, 
As chorus to their tragic scene. 


THRENOS. 


Beauty, truth, and rarity, 
Grace in all simplicity, 
Here enclosed in cinders lie. 


Death is now the phenix’ nest; 
And the turtle’s loyal breast 
To eternity doth rest, 


Leaving no posterity : 
*T was not their infirmity, 
It was married chastity. 


Truth may seem, but cannot be; 
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; 
Truth and beauty buried be. 


To this urn let those repair 
That are either true or fair; 
For these dead birds sigh a prayer. 


GLOSSARY TO SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS. 


Abate, v.t. to shorten. M. N’s Dr. III. 2. 
To cast down. Cor. 11. 8. To blunt. R. 
III. v. 4. 

Abatement, sb. diminution. Lear, I. 4. 

Abide, v.i. to sojourn. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 
v.t. to expiate (a corruption of ‘Aby’). 
Ja Ci titel + Ubigs it: 2; 

Able, v.t. to uphold. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Abridgment, sb. a short play. Ham. It. 2. 

Abrook, v.t. to brook, abide. 2 H. VI. It. 4. 

Absey-Book, sb. a primer, John, I. 1. 

Absolute, adj. positive, certain. Cym. IV. 
2; Ham. v.2. Complete. Temp. I. 2. 

Abuse, v.t. to deceive. Lear, Iv. 7. 

Abuse, sb. deception. M. for M. v.1. 

Aby, v.t. to expiate a fault. M. N’s Dr. 111. 2. 

Abysm, sb. abyss. Temp. I. 2. 

Accite, v.t. to cite, summon. 2 H, IV. v. 2. 

Accuse, sb. accusation. 2 H. VI. 11. 1. 

Achieve, v. to obtain. H. V. Iv. 3. 

Acknown, p.p.‘*to be acknown’ is to ac- 
knowledge. Oth. III. 3. 

Acquittance, sb. a receipt or discharge. 
Ham. Iv. 2. 

Action-taking, adj. litigious. Lear, II. 2. 

Acture, sb. action. Lover’s Com. 

Addition, sb. title, attribute. All’s Well, 
Hieote pau Ore 112; 

Address, v.r. to prepare oneself. 2 H. VI. 
Va2seHam 5,2. 

Addressed, part. prepared. L’s L’s L. 11.1. 

Advance, v.t. to prefer, promote to honour. 
Tims 1; 2: 

Advertisement, sb. admonition. Much 
Ado, &e¢. V. 1. 

Advertising, pr. p. attentive. M. for M. 
Vike 

Advice, sb. consideration, discretion. Two 
Gent. 11.4; M. for M. v. 1. 

Advise, v. sometimes neuter, Sometimes re- 
flective, to consider, reflect. Tw. N. Iv. 2. 
Advised, p.p. considerate. Com. of E. v. 1. 
Adwocation, sb. pleading, advocacy. Oth. 

mi. 4. 

Afeard, adj. afraid. Merry Wives, rt. 4. 

Affect, v.t. to love. Merry Wives, 11. 1. 

Ajfeered, p.p. assessed, confirmed. Mac. 
Iv. 3: 

Affy, v.t. to affiance. 2 H. VI. Iv. 1. To 
orust. TS A. TL: 

Afront, adv. in front. 1 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Agazed, p.p. looking in amazement. 1 H. 
BVili tate c Ls 

Aglet-baby, sb. the small figure engraved 
on a jewel. Tam. ofS. 1. 2. 

Agnise, v.t. to acknowledge, confess. Oth. 
1g” 

A-good, adv. a good deal, plenteously. Two 
Gent. Iv. 4. 

A-hold, adj. a sea-term. Temp. I. 1. 

Aiery, sb. the nest of a bird of prey. R. 
at Se 

Aim, sb. a guess. Two Gent. tm. 1. 

Alder-liefest, adj. most loved of all. 2 H. 
Viet; 


Ale, sb. alehouse. Two Gent. It. 5. 

Allow, v. to approve. Tw. N. I. 2. 

Allowance, sb. approval. Cor. It. 2. 

Ames-ace, sb. two aces, the lowest throw 
of the dice. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Amort, adj. dead, dejected. Tam. of S. Iv.3. 

An, conj. if. Much Ado, 1. 1. 

Anchor, sb, an anchorite, hermit. Ham. 
Hy: 

Ancient, sb.an ensign-bearer, 1 H.1V.Iv.2. 

Angel, sb. a coin, so called because it bore 
the image of an angel. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Anight, adv. by night. As you Like it, 11.4. 

Answer, sb. retaliation. Cym. Vv. 3. 

Anthropophaginian, sb. a cannibal. 
Merry Wives, Iv. 5. 

Antick, sb. the fool in the old plays. R. II. 
TH. 2. 

Antre, sb. a cave. Oth. I. 3. 

Apparent, sb. heir-apparent. Wint. Tale, 
I. 2, 

Appeal, sb. accusation. M. for M. v. 1, 

Appeal, v.t. to accuse. R. II. 1. 1. 

Appeared, p.p. made apparent. Cor. IV. 3. 

Apple-John, sb.a kind of apple. 1 Hen. 
IV. itl. 3. 

Appointment, sb. preparation. M. for M. 
Il. 1. 

Apprehension, sb. opinion. Much Ado, 
Tir. 4. 

Apprehensive, adj. apt to apprehend or 
understand. J. C. 11. 1. 

Approbation, sb. probation. Cym. I. 5. 

Approof, sb. approbation, proof. All’s 
Well, 1.2; Temp. 11. 5. 

Approve, v.t. to prove. R. II. 1.3. To jus- 
tify, make good. Lear, 11. 4. 

Approver, sb. one who proves or tries. 
Cym. It, 4. 

Arch, sb. chief. Lear, 11. 1. 

Argal,a ridiculous word intended for the 
Latin ergo. Ham. v. 1. 

Argentine, adj. silver. Per. v. 2. 

Argier, sb. Algiers. Temp. I. 2. 

Argosy, sb. originally a vessel of Ragusa 
or Ragosa, a Ragosine; hence any ship 
of burden. M. of V.1. 1. 

Argument, sb. subject. Much Ado, I. 3. 

Armigero, a mistake for Armiger, the 
Latin for Esquire. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Aroint, v.r. found only in the imperat. 
mood, get thee gone. Mac. 1.38; Lear, 111.4. 

A-row, adv. in a row, Com, of E. v. 1. 

Articulate, vi. to enter into articles of 
agreement. Cor.1.9. v.t. to exhibit in ar- 
ticlesyl HELV .\V.-2: 

Ask, v.t. to require. 2 H. VI. 1. 2. 

Aspect, sb. regard. looks. A. & C, 1. 5. 

Aspersion, sb. sprinkling ; hence blessing, 
because before the Reformation benedic- 
tion was generally accompanied by the 
sprinkling of holy water. Temp. 11. 3. 

Assay, sb. attempt. M. for M. 11. 1. 

Assay, v.t. to attempt, test, make proof of. 
Merry Wives, iI. 1. 


| Assinego, sb. an ass. T. & Cr. I. 1. 
Assubjug ate, v.t. tosubjugate. T. & Cr. 11.3. 
Assurance, sb. deed of assurance. Tam. 

of 8. Iv. 2. 

Assured, p.p. betrothed. Com. of E, 1. 2. 

Atomy, sb.an atom. As you Like it, 111, 2. 
Used in contempt of a small person. 2 H. 
IV. v. 4. 

Atone, v. t. to put people at one, to recon- 
cile. R. II. 1.1. v.2. to agree. Cor. Iv. 6. 
Attach, v.t. to seize, lay hold on. Temp. 

1.3; Com. of E. rv. 1. 

Attasked, p.p. taken to task, reprehended. 
Lear, I. 4. 

Attend, v.t. to listen to. Temp. I. 2; M. of 
Vitve de 

Attent, adj. attentive. Ham. I. 2. 

Attorney, sb. an agent. R. III. Iv. 4. 

Attorney, v.t.to employ as an agent. M. 
for M. v. 1. To perform by an agent. 
Wint. Tale, 1. 1. 

Audacious, adj. spirited, daring, but with- 
out any note of blame attached to it. L’s 
Psp lnivie L, 

Augur, sb. augury. Mac. Itt. 4. 

Authentic, adj. clothed with authority. 
Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Avaunt,int.be gone, a word of abhorrence. 
Com. of E, Iv. 3. 

Ave, int. the Latin for hail; hence accla- 
mation. M. for M.1.1. 

Ave-Mary, sb. the angelic salutation ad- 
dressed to the B. Virgin Mary. 2 H. VI. 
I. 3. 

Averring, pr.p. confirming. Cym. Vv. 5. 

Awful, adj. worshipful. Two Gent. Iv. 1. 

Awkward, adj. contrary. 2 H. V1. II. 2. 


Baccare, int. keep back. Tam. ofS. 11. 1. 

Backward, sb. the hinder part; hence, 
when applied to time, the past. Temp. I. 2. 

Balked, p.p. heaped, as on a ridge. 1 H. 
WV eatail: 

Ballow, sb. a cudgel. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Balm, sb. the oil of consecration. R. II. 
TVs Wyo Ey Viernes 2. 

Ban, v.t. to curse. Lucr. 

Bank, v.t. to sail by the banks. John, v. 2. 

Barm, sb. yeast. M. N’s Dr. 11. 1. 

Barn, sb. a child. 1 H. IV. 11. 3. 

Barnacle, sb. a shell-fish, supposed to 
produce the sea-bird of the same name. 
Temp. Iv. 1. 

Base, sb. a game, sometimes called Pris- 
oners’ base. Cym. V. 3. 

Bases, sb. an embroidered mantle worn 
by knights on horseback, and reaching 
from the middle to below the knees. 
Pers 11: 

Basilisk, sb. a kind of ordnance. 1 H.IV. 
Iv. 3. 

Basta, int. (Italian) enough. Tam. ofS. 1.1. 

Bastard, sb. raisin wine. M. for M. I. 2. 

Bat-fowling, part. catching birds with a 
clap-net by night. Temp. I. 1. 


871 


Baée,v.i.to flutter, asahawk. 1 H.IV.trv.1. 

Bate, v.t. to except. Temp. 11. 1. To abate. 
Much Ado, 11. 3. 

Batlet, sb. a small bat, used for beating 
clothes. As you Like it, 11. 4. 

Battle, sb. army. 1 H. IV. tv. 1. 

Bavin, sb. used as an adj. a piece of waste 
wood, applied contemptuously to any- 
thing worthless. 1 H. IV. 111. 2. 

Buwcock, sb. a fine fellow. Tw. N. m1. 4. 

Bay, sb. the space between the main tim- 
bers of the roof. M. for M. 11. 1. 

Beadsman, sb. one who bids bedes, that is, 
prays prayers for another. Two Gent.1.1. 

Bearing-cloth, sb. a rich cloth in which 
children were wrapt at their christen- 
ing. Wint. Tale, 111. 3. 

Beat, v.i. to flutter as a falcon, to meditate, 
consider earnestly. Temp. I. 2. 

Beaver, sb. the lower part of a helmet. 
LPHOVetve 

Beetle, sb. a mallet. 2H. IV. 1. 2. 

Being, sb. dwelling. Cym. I. 6. 

Being, conj. since, inasmuch as. A. & C. 
Ill. 6. 

Be-mete, v.t. to measure. Tam, of S. Iv. 8. 

Be-moiled, pp. daubed with dirt. Tam. 
of S. Iv. 1. 

Bending, pr.p. stooping under a weight. 
H. V. v. Chorus. 

Benvenuto, sb. (Italian), welcome. L’s L’s 
Tava. 

Bergomask, adj. a rustic dance. M. N’s 
DYave dl. 

Beshrew, int. evil befal. Com. of E. 1. 1. 

Bestraught, p.p. distraught, distracted. 
Induct. to Tam. of 8. 

Beteem, v.t. to pour out. M. N’s Dr. 1. 1. 

Betid, p.p. happened. Temp. I. 2. 

Bezonian, sb. a beggarly fellow. 2 H. IV. 
Vv. 3. 

Biding, sb. abiding-place. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Biggen, sb. a night-cap. 2 H. IV. Iv. 5. 

Bilberry, sb. the whortleberry. Merry 
Wives, v. 5. 

Bilbo, sb. a sword, from Bilboa, a town in 
Spain where they were made. Merry 
Wives, I. 1. 

Bilboes, sb. fetters or stocks. Ham. v. 2. 

Biil, sb. a bill-hook, a weapon. Much Ado, 
Ill. 3. 

Bin = been, are. Cym. Il. 3. 

Bird-bolé, sb. a bolt to be shot from a cross- 
bow at birds. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Birding, part. hawking at partridges. 
Merry Wives, III. 3. 

Bisson, adj. blind. Cor. 1. 1. 

Blank, sb. the white mark in the middle 
of a target; hence, metaphorically, that 
which is aimed at. Wint. Tale, 11. 3. 

Blench, vi. to start aside, flinch, M. for M. 
IV. 5. 

Blent, p.p. blended. M. of V. 111. 2. 

Blood-boléered, part. smeared with blood. 
Mace. Iv. 1. 

Blow, v.t. to inflate. Tw. N. 1. 5. 

Board, v.t. to aceost. Tam. of S. 1. 2. 

Bob, sb. a blow, metaph. a sarcasm. As 
you Like it, 11. 7. 

Bob, v.t. to strike, metaph. to ridicule, or 
to obtain by raillery. T. & Cr. m1. 1.; Oth. 
¥.1. 

Bodge, v. to botch, bungle, 3 H. VI. 1. 4. 

Bodikin, sb. a corrupt word used as an 
oath. ’Od’s Bodikin, God’s little Body. 
Ham. It. 2. 

Boitier vert (French), green box. Merry 
Wives, I. 4. 

Bold, v.t. to embolden. Lear, vy. 1. 

Bollen, adj. swollen. Luer. 

Bolted, p.p. sifted, refined. H. V. 11. 2. 

Bolter, sb. a sieve. 1 H. IV. 11. 3. 


872 


GLOSSARY. 


Bolting-hutch, sb. a hutch in which meal 
was sifted. 1 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Bombard, sb. a barrel, a drunkard. Temp. 
10 Hs 

Bombast, sb. padding. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Bona-roba, sb. a harlot. 2 H. LY. rt. 2. 

Bond, sb. that to which one is bound. 
Lear, I. 1. 

Book, sb. a paper of conditions. 1 H. IV. 
nd aad be 

Boot, sb. help, use. Tam. of S. v. 2. 

Boot, v.t. to help, to avail. Two Gent. 1. 1. 

Bootless, adj. without boot or advantage, 
useless. Temp. I. 2. 

Boots, sb. bots, a kind of worm. Two Gent. 
tals 

Bore, sb. calibre of a gun; hence, metaph. 
size, Weight, importance. Ham. Iv. 6. 

Bosky, adj. covered with underwood. 
Temp. III. 3. 

Bosom, sb. wish, heart’s desire. M. for M. 
IV. 3. 

Bots, sb. worms which infest horses. 1 H. 
aS ini bs 

Bourn, sb. a boundary. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 
A brook. Lear, III. 6. 

Brace, sb. armour for the arm, state of de- 
fence. Oth. 1.3; Per. 11. 1. 

Brach, sd. a hound bitch. Induce. to Tam. 
of S. 

Braid, adj. deceitful. All’s Well, Iv. 2. 

Brave, adj.handsome,well-dressed. Temp. 
12. 

Brave, sb. boast. John, v. 2. 

Bravery, sb. finery. Tam. ofS. Iv. 3. Boast- 
fulness. Ham. v. 2. 

Brawl, sb. a kind of dance. L’s L’s L. m1. 1. 

Breast, sb. voice. Tw. N. It. 3. 

Breathe, v.t. to exercise. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Breathing, pr.p. exercising. Ham. vy. 2. 

Breeching, adj. liable to be whipt. Tam. 
of S. 111. 1. 

Breed-bate, sb. a breeder of debate, a fo- 
menter of quarrels. Merry Wives, I. 4. 

Breese, sb. the gadfly. A. & C. II. 8. 

Bribe-buck, sb. a buck given away in 
presents. Merry Wives, v. 5. 

Bring, v.t. to attend one on a journey. M. 
fOr Moat, 

Brock, sb.a badger, a term of contempt. 
Tw. N. 11. 5. 

Broke, v.i. to act as a procurer. All’s Well, 
Tir. 5. 

Broken, p.p. having lost some teeth by 
age. All’s Well, I1. 3. 

Broken music, the music of stringed in- 
struments. T. & Cr. 1. 1. 

Broker, sb, an agent. Two Gent. I. 2. 

Brotherhood, sb. trading company. T. & 
Orolo 

Brownist, sb. a sectary, a follower of 
Brown, the founder of the Independents. 
Tw. N. II. 2. 

Bruit, sb. noise, report, rumour. 3 H. VI. 
IV ,ia2 

Bruit, v.t. to noise abroad. Mac. v. 7. 

Brush, sb. rude assault. 2H. VI. v.3; Tim. 
IV. 3. 

Buck, sb. suds or lye for washing clothes 
in. Merry Wives, 111. 3; 2H. VI. Iv. 2. 

Buck-basket, sb. the basket in which 
clothes are carried to the wash. Merry 
Wives, III. 5. 

Bucking, sb. washing. Merry Wives, III. 3. 

Buck-washing, sb. washing in lye. Merry 
Wives, III, 3. 

Bug, sb. a bugbear, a spectre. 3 H. VI. v. 
2; Cym. v. 3. : 

Bully-rook, sb.a bragging cheater. Merry 
Wives, I. 3. 

Burgonet, sb.a kind of helmet. 2 H. VI. 
Viel. 


Burst, v.t. to break. Ind. to Tam. of S. 

Busky, adj. bushy. 1 H. TV. v. 1. 

Butt-shaft, sb. a light arrow for shooting 
ata butt. L’s L’s L. 1. 2. 

Buxom, adj. obedient. H. V. m1. 6. 

By’ rlakin, int, by our little Lady: an oath. 
MONS Drv 


Caddis, sb. worsted galloon, so called 
because it resembles the caddis-worm. 
Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Cade, sb. a cask or barrel. 2 H. VI. ry. 2. 

Cage, sb. a prison. Cym. III. 3. 

Cain-coloured, adj. red (applied to hair). 
Merry Wives, I. 4. 

Caitiff, a captive, a slave; hence, a witch 
All’s Well, 111. 2. 

Calculate, v.t. prophesy. J. C. 1. 3. 

Caliver, sb, a hand-gun. 1 H. IV. rv. 2. 

Callet, sb. a trull. Oth. Iv. 2. 

Calling, sb. appellation. As you Like it, 

Te 


Calm, sb. qualm. 2 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Can, v.t. to know, be skilfulin. Ham. 1y. 7. 

Canakin, sb. a little can. Oth. 1. 3. 

Canary, sb. a Wine brought from the Can- 
ary Islands. Merry Wives, III. 2. 

Candle-wusters, sb. persons who sit up 
all night.to drink. Much Ado, v. 1. 

Canker, sb. a caterpillar. Two Gent. 1. 1. 
The dog-rose. Much Ado, I. 8. 

Canstick, sb, a candlestick. 1 H. IV. 111. 1b. 

Cantle, sb. a slice, corner. 1 H. IV. tr. 1. 

Canton, sb. a canto. Tw. N. 1. 5. 

Canvas, v.t. to sift; hence, metaphori- 
cally, to prove. 2 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Capable, adj. subject to. John, 11.1. In- 
telligent. T. & Cr. 111. 3. Capable of in- 
heriting. Lear, 11.1. Ample, capacious. 
Oth. 11. 3. 

Capitulate, v.i. make head. 1 H. IV, m1. 2. | 

Capocchia, sb. a simpleton. T, & Cr. Iv. 2. 

Capricio, sb. (Italian) caprice. All’s Well, 
1/3. 

Capricious, adj. lascivious. As you Like 
it saaiess 

Captious, adj. capacious. All’s Well, 1. 3. 

Carack, sb. a large ship of burden. Com. 
of E. It. 2. 

Carbonado, sb. meat scotched for broil- 
ing. 1H. IV. v. 3. 

Carbonado, v.t. to scotch for broiling. 
Lear, It. 2. 

Card, sb. the paper on which the points 
of the compass are marked under the 
mariner’s needle. Ham. v. 1. 

Careire, sb. the curvetting of a horse. 
Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Carkanet, sb. a necklace. Com. of E. m1. 1. 

Carl, sb. a churl. Cym. v. 2. 

Carlot, sb. a churl. As you Like it, m1. 5. 

Castilian, sb. a native of Castile; used as 
a cant term. Merry Wives, I1. 3. 

Castiliano vulgo, a cant term, meaning, 
apparently, to use discreet language. 
Tw. NL. 33 

Cataian, adj. a native of Cathay, a cant 
word. Tw. N. Il. 3. 

Catling, sb. cat-gut. T. & Cr. Im. 3. 

Cautel, sb. deceit. Ham. I. 3. 

Cautelows, adj. insidious. Cor. Ty. 1. 

Cawalero, sb.a cavalier, gentleman. 2 H. 
IV. v. 3. 

Cawiare, sb. the roe of sturgeon pickled; 
metaph. a delicacy not appreciated by 
the vulgar. Ham. II. 2. 

Cease, sb. decease. Ham. IIt. 3. 

Cease, p.p. put off, made to cease. Tim. 11. 1. 

Censure, sb. judgment. 1 H. VI. 11. 3. 

Censure, v.t. to judge, criticise. Two Gent. 
cia 


l Century, sb. a hundred of anything, 


GLOSSARY. 


whether men, prayers, or anything else. 
Cor. 1.7; Cym. Iv. 2, 

‘Ceremony, sb. a ceremonial vestment, re- 
ligious rite, or anything ceremonial. J. 
C..1, 1; Mac, 4, 4. 

Certes, adv. certainly. Oth. I. 1. 

Cess, sb. rate, reckoning. 1 H. IV. 11.1. 

Chace, sb. a term at tennis. H. V. I. 2. 

Chamber, sb. a species of great gun. 2 H. 
TV. 11. 4. 

Chamberer, sb. an effeminate man. Oth. 
I. 3. 

Chanson, sb. a song. Ham. Il. 2. 

Charact, sb. affected quality. M. for M. v.1. 

Character, sb. aletter, handwriting. Lear, 
TDs 

Character, v.t. to carve or engrave. Two 
Gent. 11. 7; Ham. tf. 3. 

Charactery, sb. handwriting. Merry 
Wives, v. 5. That which is written. J.C. 
Td. 

Chare, sb. a turn of work. A. & C. Iv. 13. 

Charge-house, sb. a free-school. L’s L’s 
LoVe. 

Charles’ wain, sb. the constellation called 
also Ursa Major, or the Great Bear. 1 H. 
LVeit st 

Charneco, sb. a species of sweet wine. 2 
HeOVAsdT. 3: 

Chaudron, sb. entrails. Mac. Iv. 1. 

Cheater, sb. for escheator, an officer who 
collected the fines to be paid into the 
Exchequer. Merry Wives, I. 3. A decoy. 
PEE EW), Tse. 

Check, v.i.a technical term in falconry; 
when a falcon flies at a bird which is 


not her proper game she is said to check . 


at it. Tw. N. 1. 5. 

Checks, sb. perhaps intended for ethics. 
(RamerOres Tek. 

Cheer, sb. fortune, countenance. Temp.I.1. 

Cherry-pit, sb.agame played with cherry- 
stones. Tw. N. m1. 4. 

Cheveril, sb. kid leather. R. & J. I. 4. 

Chewit, sb. chough. 1 H. IV. v. 1. 

Chiiding, adj. pregnant. M. N’s Dr. I. 2. 

Chill, vulgar for ‘I will.’ Lear, Iv. 6. 

Chirurgeonly, adv. in a manner becom- 
ing a surgeon. Temp. II. 1. 

Chopin, sb. a high shoe or clog. Ham. II. 2. 

Christendom, sb. the state of being a 
Christian. John, Iv. 1. Name. All’s Well, 
Tad. 

Christom, adj. clothed with a chrisom, 
the white garment which used to be put 
on newly-baptized children. H. V. It. 3. 

Chuck, sb. chicken, a term of endearment. 
Mac. Iii. 2. 

Chaff, sb. a coarse blunt clown. 1 H. IV. 
Ty) 2: 

Cinque pace, sb. a kind of dance. Much 
Ado, I. 1. 

Cipher, v.t. to decipher. Lucr. 

Circumstance, sb. an argument. 
Gent. 1.1; John, 11. 1. 

Cital, sb. recital. 1 H. IV. v. 2. 

Cite, v. to incite. Two Gent. 11.4; 3 H. VI. 
Teal 5 

Cittern, sb. a guitar. L's L’s L. v. 2. 

Clack-dish, sb. a beggar’s dish. M. for M. 
WT: /2: 

Clap Vv the clout, to shoot an arrow into 
the bull’s eye of the target. 2 H. IV. 111. 2. 

Claw, v.t. to flatter. Much Ado, I. 3. 

Clepe, v.t. to call. Ham. I. 4. 

Cliff, sb. clef, the key in music. T. & Cr. v. 2. 

Cling, v.t. to starve. Mac, v. 5. 

Clinquant, adj. glittering. H. VIII. 1. 1. 

Clip, v.t. to embrace, enclose. 2 H. VI. Iv. 
Le COPSLVO OLD, A118. 

Clout, sb. the mark in the middle ofa tar- 
get. L’s L’s L. Iv. 1. 


Two 


Coast, v.i. to advance. V. & A. 

Cobloaf, sb. a big loaf. T. & Cr, 11. 1. 

Cock, sb. a cockboat. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Cock, sb.a euphemism for God. Tam. of 
Vitis 

Cock-and-pie, an oath. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Cockle, sb. tares or darnel. L’s L’s L. Iv. 3. 

Cockney, sb. a cook. Lear, I. 4. 

Cock-shut-time, sb. the twilight, when 
cocks and hens go to roost. R. III. v. 3. 

Cog, v.i. to cheat, dissemble. Merry Wives, 
III. 3. 

Cognizance, sb. badge, token. 1 H. VI. 11.4. 

Coign,sb. projecting corner-stone. Mac. 1.6. 

Coil, sb. tumult, turmoil. Temp. I. 2. 

Collection, sb. drawing a conclusion. Ham. 
Iv. 5. 

Collied, p.p. blackened. Oth. 11.3; M. N’s 
Drains 

Colour, sb. pretence. L’s L’s L. Iv. 2. 

Colourable, adj. specious. Ibid. 

Cole, v.t. to defraud, befool. 1 H. IV. 11. 2. 

Co-mart, sb. a joint bargain. Ham. 1. 1. 

Combinate, p.p. betrothed. M. for M. 111.1. 

Combine, v.t. to bind. M. for M. tv. 3. 

Commodity, sb. interest, profit. M. of V. 
Tip...3: 

Commonty, sb. used ludicrously for com- 
edy. Induction to Tam. ofS, 

Compact, p.p. compacted, composed. M. 
N’s Dr. v. 1. 

Comparative, adj. drawing comparisons, 
Ws RVing: 2: 

Comparative, sb..rival. 1 H. IV. 111. 2. 

Compare, sb. comparison. T., & Cr. I. 2. 

Compassionate, adj. moving comparison. 
Rides: 

Competitor, sb. one who seeks the same 
thing, an associate in any object. Two 
Gent. II. 6. 

Complement, sb.accomplishment. L’s L’s 
Pieces 

Complexion, sb. passion. Ham. I. 4. 

Compose, v.i. to agree. A. & C, II. 2. 

Composition, sb. composition, Tim. Iv. 3, 

Comptible, adj. tractable. Tw. N. 1. 5. 

Con, v.t. to learn by heart. M. N’s Dr, I. 2. 
To acknowledge. All’s Well, Iv. 3. 

Conceit, sb. conception, opinion, fancy. 
Two Gent. III. 2. 

Concupy, sb. concubine. T. & Cr. v. 2. 

Condition, sb. temper, quality. M. of Y. 
1.2; Lear, ¥. 1. 

Condolement, sb. grief. Ham. I. 2. 

Conduct, sb. escort. John, I. 1. 

Confect, v. to make up into sweetmeats. 
Much Ado, Iv. 1. 

Confound, v.t. to consume, destroy. 1 H. 
LViud3 2 Cor, t..6.3). Gym. 6. 

Conject, sb. conjecture. Oth. II. 3. 

Consign, v. to sign a common bond, to 
confederate, 2 H. IV. Iv. 1. 

Consort, sb. company. Two Gent. Iv. 1. 

Consort, v.t.to accompany. L’s L’s L. 11.1. 

Constancy, sb. consistency. M.N’s Dr. v.1. 

Constant, adj. settled, determined. Temp. 
TW. 22) Lear, Vv... 

Constantly, adv. firmly. M. for M. Iv. 1. 

Conster, v.t. to construe, Tw. N. I. 4. 

Contemptible, adj. contemptuous. Much 
Ado, II. 3. 

Continent, sb. that which contains any- 
thing. Lear, 111.2; M. N's Dr. 11. 2.: That 
which is contained. 2 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Continuate, adj. uninterrupted. Tim. 1. 1. 

Contraction, sb. the marriage contract. 
Ham. Ill. 4. 

Contrary, v.t. to oppose, R. & J. 1. 5. 

Contrive, v.i. to conspire. J. C. I. 3. v.t. to 
wear away. Tam. ofS. I. 2. 

Control, v.t. to confute. Temp. I. 2. 

Convent, v.t. to convene, summon. H. 


VIII. v. 1. vz. to be convenient. Tw. N. 
Vale 

Convert, v.i. to change. Tim. rv. 1. 

Convertite, sb. a convert. As you Like it, 
v.4. 

Convey, v.t.to manage. Lear, 1.2. To filch. 
Merry Wives, I. 3. i 

Conveyance, sb. theft, fraud. 1 H. VI. 1. 3. 

Convict, p.p. convicted. R., III. 1. 4. 

Convicted, p.p. overpowered, vanquished. 
John, m1. 4. A doubtful word. 

Convince, v.t. to conquer, subdue. Cym.1.5. 

Convive,v.i. to feast together. T. & Cr, 1v. 5. 

Convoy, sb. escort. All’s Well, rv. 3. 

Cony-catch, v.i. to cheat. Tam. of S. v. 1. 

Cony-catching, pr.p. poaching, pilfering. 
Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Cooling card, sb. used metaphorically for 
an insurmountable obstacle. 1 H. VI. v.3. 

Copatain hat, a high-crowned hat. Tam. 
of S. v. 1. 

Cope, v.t. to reward, to give in return. M. 
of V. Iv. 1. 

Copped, p.p. rising to a cop or head. Per. 
TH 

Copy, sb. theme. Com. of E. v. 1. 

Coragio (Italian), int. courage! Temp. v. 1. 

Coram, an ignorant mistake for Quorum. 
Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Coranto, sb. a lively dance. H. V. Ill. 5. 

Corinth, sb. a cant term for a brothel. 
ERIN Tie 324 

Corinthian, sb. a wencher. 1 H. IY. 11. 4. 

Corky, adj. dry like cork. Lear, 111. 7. 

Cornuto (Italian), sb. a cuckold. Merry 
Wives, III. 5. 

Corollary, sb. a surplus. Temp. Iv. 1. 

Corporal, adj. corporeal, bodily. M. for 
Meaty ty: 

Corporal of the field, an aide-de-camp. 
L’s L's L117. 1. 

Corriwal, sb. rival. 1 H. IV. 1.3. 

Costard, sb. the head. R. III. 1. 4. 

Coster-monger,adj. peddling, mercenary. 
QIAO V irs, 2) 

Cote, sb. a cottage. As you Like it, IT. 2. 

Cote, v.t. to quote, instance. L’s L’s L. 1v.3. 

Cote, v.t. to come alongside, overtake. 
Ham, Il. 2. 

Cot-quean, sb. an effeminate man, molly- 
coddle. R. & J. Iv. 4. 

Couchings, sb. crouchings. J. C, II. 1. 

Count conjfect, sb. a nobleman composed 
of affectation. Much Ado, Iv. 1. 

Countenance, sb. fair shew. M.for M. v.1. 

Counterfeit, sb. portrait. M. of V. IIt. 2. 
A piece of base coin. 1 H. IV. 1. 4. 

Counterpoint, sb.a counterpane. Tam. of 
Satie: 

Countervail, v.t. to counterpoise, out- 
weigh. R. & J. I. 6. 

Country, adj. belonging to one’s country, 
Oth. 111. 3; Cym. I. 5. 

County, sb. count, earl. R. & J. 1. 3. 

Couplement, sb. union. L’s L’s L. V. 2; 
Son. 19. 

Court holy-water, sb. flattery. Lear, III. 2. 

Covent, sb. a convent. M. for M. Iv. 3. 

Cover, v.t. to lay the table for dinner. M. 
of V. mr. 5; As you Like it, 11. 5. 

Cowish, adj. cowardly. Lear, Iv. 2. 

Cowl-staff, sb. the staff on which a vessel 
is supported between two men. Merry 
Wives, III. 3. 

Cox my passion, an oath, a euphemism 
for “God's Passion.” All’s Well, v. 2. 

Coy, v.t. to stroke, fondle. M. N’s Dr. Iv. 1. 
v.21. to condescend with difficulty. Cor. v.1. 

Coystril, sb. a kestrel, a cowardly kind of 
hawk. Tw. N. I. 3. 

Cozen, v.t. to cheat. M. of V. 1. 9. 

Cozenage, sb. cheating. Merry Wives, tv. 5, 


873 


GLOSSARY. 


Cozener, sb. a cheater. 1 H. IV. 1. 3. 

Cozier, sb. a tailor. Tw. N. II. 3. 

Crack, v.i. to boast. L’s L’s L. Iv. 3. 

Crack, sb. a loud noise, clap. Mac. Iv. 1. 
A forward boy. 2 H. IV. 111. 2. 

Cracker, sb. boaster. John, 1. 1. 

Crack-hemp, sb. a gallows-bird. Tam. of 
SVL 

Crank, sb. a winding passage. Cor. I. 1. 

Cranking, pr.p. winding. 1 H. IV. 11. 1. 

Crants, sb. garlands. Ham. v. 1. A doubt- 
ful word. 

Crare, sb. a ship of burden. Cym. Iv. 2. 

Craven, sb.a dunghill cock. Tam. ofS. 1,1. 

Create, p.p. formed, compounded. H. V. 
Tis, 

Credent, adj. creditable. M. for M. Iv. 4. 
Credible. Wint. Tale, I. 2. Credulous, 
Ham. I. 3. 

Credit, sb. report. Tw. N. Iv. 3. 

Crescive, adj. increasing. H. V. 1. 1. 

Crestless, adj. not entitled to bear arms, 
lowborn. 1 H. VI. 11. 4. 

Crisp, adj. curled, winding. Temp. Iv. 1. 

Cross, sb. a piece of money, so called be- 
cause coin was formerly stamped with a 
cross. As you Like it, 11. 4. 

Crow-keeper, sb. one who scares Crows. 
Lear, IV. 6. 

Crowner, sb. a coroner. Ham. Vv. 1. 

Crownet, sb. a coronet. A. & C. Vv. 2. 

Cry, sb. the yelping of hounds. M. N’s Dr. 
Iv. 1. A pack of hounds. Ibid.Iy.1. A 
company, used contemptuously. Ham. 
Ti 2. 

Cry aim, v.t. to encourage. John, Ir. 1. 

Cue, sb. the last words of an actor’s speech, 
which is the signal for the next actor to 
begin. Lear, I. 2. 

Cuisses, sb. pieces of armour to cover the 
thighs. 1 H. IV. tv. 1. 

Cullion, sb. a base fellow. Tam. of S. Iv. 2. 

Cunning, sb. skill. Induction to Tam. ofS. 

Cunning, adj. skilful. Ibid. 

Curb, v.i. to bend, truckle. Ham. 1m. 4. 

Currents, sb. occurrences. 1 H. LY. m1. 3. 

Curst, adj. petulant, shrewish. Tam. of S. 
Teen 

Curstness, sb. shrewishness. A. &. C. II. 2. 

Curtail, sb. a cur. Com. of E, rt. 2. 

Curtal, sb.a docked horse. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Curtal-axe, sb. a cutlass. As you Like it, 
1. 3. 

Custalorum, a ludicrous mistake for Cus- 
tos Rotulorum. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Custard-coffin, sb. the crust of a custard- 
pudding. Tam. ofS. Iv. 3. 

Customer, sb.a common woman. Oth.tIv.1. 

Cut, sb. a cheat. Tw. N. 11. 3. ‘To draw 
cuts’ is to draw lots. Com. of E. v. 1. 

Cypress, sb. a kind of crape. Tw. N. m1. 1. 


Daff, v.t. to befool. Much Ado, ty. 1. To 
put off; this seems to be a corruption of 
‘doff.’ Ibid. 11. 3. 

Damn, v.t. to condemn, J. C. rv. 1. 

Danger, sb. reach, control, power. M. of 
Vi. IVA 

Dansner, sb. a Dane. Ham. 11. 1. 

Pare, v.t. to challenge. 2 H. VI. 111. 2. 

Darkling, adv. in the dark. M.N’s Dr. 
1.2, 

Darraign, v.t. to set in array. 3 H. VI. 11. 2. 

Daud, v.t. to disguise. Lear, Iv. 1. 

Daubery, sb. imposition. Merry Wives, 
1Vigs: 

Day-woman, sb. a dairy-maid. L’s L’s L. 
> apt 

Dear, adj. dire. Tim. v. 1. That which 
has to do with the affections. R. II. 1.1; 
R. & J. 11.3. Piteous. T. A. 11.1. Im- 
portant. Lear, Iv. 3. 


874 


Dearn, adj. lonely. Per. 111. (Gower). 

Deboshed, p.p. debauched, drunken. 
Temp, III. 2. 

Deck, v.t. to bedew. This is probably a 
form of the verb ‘to dag,’ now a provin- 
cial word. Temp. I. 2. 

Deck, sb. a pack of cards. 3H. VI. v. 1. 

Decline, v.t. to enumerate, as in going 
through the cases of anoun. T. & Cr, II. 3. 

Declined, p.p. fallen. T. & Cr, Ill. 3. 

Deem, sb. doom, judgment. T. & Cr, Iv. 4. 

Defeat, v.t.to undo, destroy. Oth. 1.3; Iv. 2. 

Defeat, sb. destruction. Much Ado, Iv. 1. 

Defeature, sb. disfigurement. Com. of E. 
igh Ob 

Defence, sb. art of fencing. Tw. N. Ill. 4. 

Defend, v.t. to forbid. Much Ado, It. 1. 

Defensible, adj. having the power to de- 
fend. 2 H. IV. 11. 3. 

Defétly, adv. dexterously. Mac. Iv. 1. 

Defy, v.t. renounce. 1H. IV. 1. 3. 

Degrees, sb. a step. J. C. 11.1. 

Delay, v.t. to let slip by delaying. Cor. 1. 6. 

Demerit, sb. merit, desert. Oth. 1. 2. 

Demurely, adv. solemnly. A. & C. Iv. 9. 

Denay, sb. denial. Tw. N. 11. 4. 

Denier, sb. the 12th part of a French sol. 
ROTTS 2: 

Denotement, sb. marking. Oth. 11.3. Note 
or manifestation. Ibid. 11. 3. 

Deny, v.t. to refuse. Tim. rm. 2. 

Depart, sb. departure. 2 H. VI. 1.1. 

Depart, v.t. to part. L’s L’s L. 11. 1. 

Departing, sb. parting, separation. 8 H. 
VIL II. 6. 

Depend, v.i. to be in service. Lear, I. 4. 


Derived, p.p. born, descended. Two Gent. |, 


v. 4. 

Derogate, p.p. degraded. Lear, I. 4. 

Descant, sb. a variation upon a melody, 
hence, metaphorically, a comment on a 
given theme. Two Gent. I. 2. 

Design, v.t. to draw up articles. Ham. 1.1. 

Despatch, v.t. to deprive, bereave. Ham. 
I. 5. 

Desperate, adj. determined, bold. R. & J. 
Ti. 4. 

Detect, v.t. to charge, blame. M. for M. 111. 2. 

Determine, v.t. to conclude. Cor. rt. 8. 

Dich, v.i. optative mood, perhaps con- 
tracted for ‘do it.’ Tim. I. 2. 

Diet, sb. food regulated by the rules of 
medicine. Two Gent. I. 1. 

Diet, v.t. to have one’s food regulated by 
the rules of medicine, All’s Well, Iv. 38. 
Diffused, p.p.confused. Merry Wives, Iv. 4. 
Digressing, pr.p. transgressing, going out 

of the right way. R. II. v. 3. 
Digression, sb. transgression. L’s L’s L.1.2. 
Dig-you-good-den, int. give you good 

evening. L’s L’s L. Iv. 1. 

Dildo, sb. the chorus or burden of a song. 

Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Dint, sb. stroke. J. C. 1. 2. 
Direction, sb. judgment, skill. R. ITT. v. 8. 
Disable, v.t. to disparage. As you Like it, 

Tyas 
Disappointed, p.p. unprepared. Ham.T1. 5, 
Discase, v.r. to undress. Wint. Tale, Iv. 8. 
Discontent, sb. a malcontent. A. & C. 1. 4. 
Discourse, sb. power of reasoning. Ham. 

Iv. 4. 

Disdained, p.p. disdainful. 1H. IV. 1. 8. 
Dislimn, v.t. to disfigure, transform. A. & 

C. Tv. 12, 

Disme, sb. a tenth or tithe. T. & Cr. 11. 2. 
Dispark, v.t. to destroy a park. R. II. 11.1. 
Disponge, v.i. to squeeze out as from a 

sponge. A. & C, Iv. 9. 

Dispose, sb. disposal. Two Gent. Iv. 1. 
Dispose, v.i. to conspire. A. & C. Iv. 12. 
Disposition, sb. maintenance. Oth. I. 3. 


Disputable, adj. disputatious. As you Like 


it, 11. 5. 

Dispute, v.t, to argue, examine. Oth. 1 2. 

Dissembly, sb. used ridiculously for as- 
sembly. Much Ado, Iv. 2. 

Distaste, v.t. to corrupt. T. & Cr. 1. 2. 

Distempered, adj. discontented. John. 
IV. 3." 

Distraction, sb. a detached troop or com- 
pany of soldiers. A. & C, Im. 7. 

Distraught, pp. distracted, mad. R. III. 
III. 5. 

Diverted, pp. turned from the natural 
course. As you Like it, 11. 3. 

Division, sb. a phrase or passage in a 
melody. R. & J. 111. 5. 

Divulged, p.p. published, spoken of. Tw. 
N.1. 5. 

Doff, v.t. to do off, strip. Tam. of S. 111. 2. 
To put off with an excuse. Oth. Iv. 2. 

Doit, sb. a small Dutch coin. Temp. It. 2. 

Dole, sb. portion dealt. Merry Wives, 111. 4; 
2H.IV.1.1. Grief, lamentation. M. N’s 
DraVviss 

Don, v.t. to do on, put on, T. A. I, 2; Ham. 
Iv. 5. 

Done, p.p. ‘done to death,’ put to death. 
HOV inn. 2: 

Dotant, sb. one who dotes, a dotard. Cor. 
Wad: 

Dout, v.t. to do out, quench. Ham. 1. 4. 

Dowtlas, sb.a kind of coarse sacking. 1 H. 
IV. m1. 3. 

Dowle, sb. the swirl of a feather. Temp. 
Ii. 3. 

Down-gyved, adj. hanging down like 
gyves or fetters. Ham. 11. 1. 

Drab, sb. a harlot. Wint. Tale, rv. 2. 

Drabbing, pr.p. whoring. Ham. 11. 1. 

Draught, sb. a privy. T. A. v.1. 

Drawn, p.p. having his sword drawn. 
Temp. 11. 1. 

Drawn, p.p. drunk, having taken a good 
draught. Ibid. 

Dribbling, adj. weak. M. for M. 1. 4. 

Drive, v.i. to rush impetuously. T. A. 11. 3. 

Drollery, sb. a puppet-show. Temp. III. 8. 

Drumble, vi. to dawdle. Merry Wives, 
sBatee 

Dry, adj. thirsty. Temp. I. 2. 

Duc-dame, perhaps the Latin duc-ad-me, 
bring him to me. As you Like it. 

Dudgeon, sb. a dagger. Mac. I. 1. 

Dull, adj. soothing. 2 H. IV. tv. 4. 

Dullard, sb. a dull person. Cym. v. 5. 

Dump, sb. complaint. Two Gent. III. 2. 

Dup, v.t. to do up, lift up., Ham. Iv. 5. 


Eager, adj. sour. Ham.1.5. Harsh. 3 H. 
VI. 11.6. Biting. Ham. 1. 4. 

Eanling, sb. a yeanling, a lamb. M. of V. 
I, 3. 

Ear, v.t. to plough. All’s Well, I. 3. 

Eche, v.t. to eke out. Per. 111. (Gower). 

Ecstacy, sb. madness. Temp. III. 3. 

Eft, adj. ready, convenient. Much Ado, 
Iv. 2. 

Eisel, sb. vinegar. Ham. y. 1; Son. Il. 

Eld, sb. old age. M. for M. 111. 1. 

Embossed, adj. swollen into protuber- 
ances. As you Like it, 11. 7. Covered 
with foam. A. & C. Iv. ll. 

Embowelled, p.p. disembowelled, emp- 
tied. All’s Well, I. 3. 

Embrasure, sb. embrace. T. & Cr. Iv. 4. 

Eminence, sb. exalted station. Mac, III. 2. 

Empery, sb. empire. H. V. I. 2. 

Emulation, sb. jealousy, mutiny. T. & Cr. 
ie Ze 

Emulous, adj. jealous. T. & Cr. Iv. 1. 

Encave, v.r. to place oneself in a cave 
Oth. Iv. 1. 


End, sb. ‘Still an end,’ continually for 
ever. Two Gent. IV. 4. 

Enfeoff, v.t. to place in possession in fee 
simple. 1H. IV. 11. 2. 

Engine, sb.a machine of war, T. & Cr.11. 3. 

Englut,v.t. to swallow speedily. Tim. 11. 2. 

Engross, v.t. to make gross or fat. R. III. 
Wily 73 

Fingrossment, sb. immoderate acquisi- 
tion. 2 H. IV. Iv. 4. 

Enkindle, v.t. to make keen. Mac. I. 3. 

Enmew, v.t. to shut up, as a hawk is shut 
up in a mew. M. for M. 111.1. 

Einsconce, v.t. to cover as with a fort. 
Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Enseamed, p.p. fat, rank. Ham. I. 4. 

Enshield, p.p. hidden. M. for M. 11.4. 

Entertain, v.t. encounter. H.V.1.2. Ex- 
perience. A. & C. I1. 7. 

Entertainment, sb. treatment. Temp. I. 2. 
A disposition to entertain a proposal. 
Merry Wives, I. 3. Service. All’s Well, 
Wass 

Entreatments, sb. interviews. Ham. I. 3. 

Ephesian, sb. a toper, a cant term. Merry 
Wives, Iv. 5. 

Equipage, sb. attendance. Merry Wives, 
Il,; 2. 

Hrewhitle, adv. a short time since. As you 
Like it, 11. 4. 

Escot, v.t. to pay a man’s reckoning, to 
maintain. Ham. It. 2. 

Esperance, sb. hope, used as a war-cry. 
POH EV Vac silede Orava 2s 

Espial, sb. a scout or spy. 1 H. VI. rv. 3. 

Estimation, sb. conjecture. 1 H. IV. 1. 3. 

Estridge, sb. ostridge. 1 H. IV. Iv. 1. 

terne, adj. eternal. Mac. I. 2. 

Ewen, adj, coequal. Ham. v. 1. 

Even, v.t. to equal. All’s Well, 1.3; Cym. 
Til. 4. 

Examine, v.t. to question. All’s Well, 111. 
5. 

Excrement, sb. that which grows out- 
wardly from the body and has no sen- 
sation, like the hair or nails. L’s L’s L. 
v.1; Ham. mt. 4. Any outward show. 
M. of V. 111. 2; Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Executor, sb. an executioner. H.V. I. 2. 

Exempt, adj. excluded. 1H. VI. 1. 4. 

Exercise, sb. a religious service. R. III. 
Il. 2. 

Exhale, v.t. to hale or draw out. R. III. 1. 
2; v.i. to draw the sword. H. V. 11. 1. 

Exhibition, sb. allowance, pension. Two 
Gent. I. 3. 

Exigent, sb. death, ending. 1 H. VI. 11. 5. 

KEcion, sb. ridiculously used for ‘ action.’ 
7a 8 a \ASe aie 

Eapect, sb. expectation. T. & Cr. 1. 3. 

Haupedience, sb. expedition, undertaking. 
Ae Oe Calum Haste. Rs LE IIT. 1% 

Expedient, adj. expeditious, swift. John, 
Taye 

Expiate, p.p. completed. R. III. 111. 3. 

KEapostulate, vt, to expound, discuss. 
Ham. It. 2. 

Exposture, sb. exposure. Cor. Iv. 1. 

Express, v.t. to reveal. Wint. Tale, 111. 2. 

Eaxpulse, v.t. to expel. 1 H. VI. 111. 3. 

Exsufficate, adj. that which has been 
hissed off, contemptible. Tw. N. 111. 3. 

Extend, v.t. to seize. A. & C. 1.2. 

Extent, sb. a seizure. As you Like it, 11.1. 

Eestern, adj. outward. Oth. 1. 1. 

Katirp, v.t. to extirpate. M. for M. 11. 2. 

Extracting, adj. distracting. Tw. N. v. 1. 

Extraught, part. extracted, descended. 
Ba Wale 1h. 2s 


Extravagant, adj. foreign, wandering. 


Oth. 1. 1. 
Extremes, sb. extravagance of conduct. 


GLOSSARY. 


Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. Extremities. R. & J. 
Viel 

Eyas, sb. a nestling hawk, Ham. It. 2. 

Eyas-musket, sb.a nestling of the musket 
or merlin, the smallest species of British 
hawk. Merry Wives, III. 3. 

Eye, sb. a glance, ceillad. Temp. I. 2. 

Eye, sb. a shade of color, as in shot silk. 
Temp. I. 1. 

Hyne, sb. pl. eyes. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 


Facinorous, adj. wicked. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Fact, sb. guilt. Wint. Tale, III. 2. 

Factieus, adj, instant, importunate. J.C. 
I. 3. 

Faculty, sb. essential virtue or power. H. 
Ware 

Fadge, v.i. to suit. Tw. N. 11. 2. 

Fading, sb. a kind of ending to a song. 
Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Fain, adj. glad. 2 H. VI. 1. 1. 

Fain, adv. gladly. Lear, I. 4. 

Fair, sb. beauty. As you Like it, m1. 2. 

Faitor, sb. a traitor. 2 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Fall, v.t. to let fall. Temp. 11. 1. 

Fatlow, adj. fawn-coloured. Merry Wives, 
Tal! 

False, sb. falsehood. M. for M. 11. 4. 

Falsing, adj. deceptive. Com. of E. 11. 2. 

Familiar, sb. a famil.ar spirit. 2 H. VI. 
TV. 

Fancy, sb. All’s Well, v. 3. 

Fancy-free, adj. untouched by love. M. 
N’s-Drii. 2. 

Fang, v.t. to seize in the teeth. Tim. rv. 3. 

Fantastic, sb. a fantastical person. R. & J. 
II. 4. 

Fap, adj. drunk. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Far, adv. farther. Wint. Tale, Iv. 4. 

Farced, p.p. stuffed. H.V. Iv. 1. 

Fardel, sb. a burden. Wint. Tale, Iv. 4. 

Fartuous, adj. used ridiculously for ‘ vir- 
tuous.’ Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Fast, adv. assuredly, unalterably. M. for 
Ma 3 2 Els Vly ve 28 

Fat, adj. dull. 1 H. IV. 1. 2. 

Favour, sb. countenance. M. for M. Iv. 2. 
Complexion. T.&Cr.1.2. Quality. Lear, 
I. 4, 

Fear, sb. the object of fear. Ham. II1. 3. 

Fear, v.t. to affright. A. & C. I1. 6. 

Fearful, adj. subject to fear, timorous. 
Temp. I. 2. 

Feat, adj. dexterous. Cym. vy. 5. 

Feat, v.t. to make fine. Cym. I. 1. 

Feater, adv. comp. degree, more neatly. 
Temp. 1. 1, 

Featly, adv. nimbly, daintily. Temp. I. 2. 

Feature, sb. beauty. Cym. v. 5. 

Federary, sb. confederate. Wint. Tale, 11.1. 

Feeder, sb. agent, servant. As you Like it, 
11, 4, 

Fee-grief, sb. a grief held, as it were, in 
fee-simple, or the peculiar property of 
him who possesses it. Mac. Iv. 3. 

Feere, sb. a companion, husband. T. A. 
EVs ¥3 

Fehemently, adv. used ridiculously for 
‘vehemently.’ Merry Wives, III. 1. 

Fell, sb. the hide. As you Like it, III. 2. 

Fence, sb. art or skill in defence. 2 H. VI. 
caine 

Feodary, sb. one who holds an estate by 
suit or service to a superior lord; hence 
one who acts under the direction of an- 
other. Cym. III. 2. 

Fester, v.i. to rankle, grow virulent. Cor. 
I. 9. 

Festinately, adv. quickly. L’s L’s L. 111.1. 

Fet, p.p. fetched. H. V. m1. 1. 

Fico, sb. a fig. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Fielded, adj. in the field of battle. Cor. 1.4. 


Fig, v.t. to insult. 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 

Fights, sb. clothes hung round a ship to 
conceal the men from the enemy. Merry 
Wives, II. 2. 

File, sb. a list or catalogue. Mac. v. 2, 

File, v.t.to defile. Mac. 11.1. To smooth 
or polish, L’s L’s L. To make even. H. 
VilLihaa 2, 

Fill-horse, sb. shaft-horse. M. of V. 1. 2. 

Fills, sb. the shafts. T. & Cr. m. 2. 

Filth, sb. a whore. Tim. tv. 1. 

Fine, sb. end. Ham. v. 1. 

Fine, v.t. to make fine or specious. H. V. 1. 2. 

Fineless, adj. endless. Oth. 111. 3. 

Firago, sb. ridiculously used for ‘ Virago.’ 
Tw. N. wt. 4. 

Fire-drake, sb. Will o’ the Wisp. H. VIII. 
Vv. 3. 

Fire-new, adj. with the glitter of novelty 
on, like newly-forged metal. R. III. 1. 3. 

Firk, v.t. to chastise. H. V. rv. 4. 

Fit, sb. a canto or division of a song. T. & 
Crini.iy A wick or habit. He VInb 1, 3: 

Fitchew, sb. a polecat. Lear, rv. 6. 

Fives, sb. a disease incident to horses. Tam. 
of S. 

Flap-dragon, sb. raisins in burning 
brandy, L’s L’s L. v. 1. 

Elap-juck, sb. a pan-cake, Per. 1. 1. 

Flat, adj. certain. 1 H. IV. rv. 2. 

Flatness, sb. lowness, depth. Wint. Tale, 
ta 

Flaw, sb. a gust of wind. 2 H. IV. tv. 4. 
Metaph. sudden emotion, or the cause 
of it. Mac. 11. 4; A. & C. 111. 10. 

Flaw, v.t. to make a flaw in, to break. H. 
VILE ls 

Flecked, p.p. spotted, streaked. R. & J. 11.3. 

Fleet, vi.to float. A. & C. 111.11. To pass 
away. A. & C.1.3. v.t. to pass the time. 
As you Like it, 1. 1. 

Fleeting, pr.p. inconstant. R. III. 1. 4. 

Fleshmené, sb. the act of fleshing the 
sword, hence the first feat of arms. Lear, 
Teo 

Flewed, adj. furnished with hanging lips, 
as hounds are. M. N’s Dr. Iv. 1. 

Flight, sb.a particular mode of practising 
archery. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Flirtegill, sb. a light woman. R. & J. 11. 4. 

Flote, sb. wave, sea. Temp. I. 2. 

Flourish, sb.an ornament. L’s L’s L. Iv. 3. 

Flourish, v.t.to ornament, disguise with 
ornament. M. for M. rv. 1. 

Flush, adj. fresh, full of vigour. A. & C. 
1. 4, 

Foil, sb. defeat, disadvantage. Temp. III. 1. 

Foin, v.t. to fence, fight. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Foison, sb. plenty. Temp. II. 1. 

Fond, adj. foolish, foolishly affectionate. 
Othe en oeerve ts 

Foot-cloth, sb. a saddle-cloth hanging 
down to the ground. 2 H. VI. Iv. 7. 

For, conj. for that, because. M. for M. 11.1. 

Forbid, p.p. accursed, outlawed. Mace. I. 3. 

Forbode, p.p. forbidden. Lover’s Com. 

Force, v.t. to stuff, for ‘farce. T. & Cr. v. 5. 

Forced, p.p. falsely attributed. Wint. Tale, 
II. 3. 

Fordo, v.t. to kill, destroy. Lear, v. 3. To 
weary. M. N’s Dr. Vv. 2. 

Foreign, adj. obliged to live abroad. H. 
VITIE 112; 

Forepast, adj. former. All’s Well, Vv. 3. 

Foreslow, v.i. to delay. 3 H. VI. 11. 3. 

Forfend, v.t. forbid. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Forgctive, adj. inventive. 2 H. 1V. Iv. 3. 

Forked, adj. horned. Wint. Tale, 1.2; Oth. 
III. 3. 

Format, adj. regular, retaining its proper 
and essential characteristic. Com. of EK 
Ved eA aiOnrt. 0s 


875 


GLOSSALY. 


Forspeak, v.t. to speak against. A. & C. 
Ill. 7. 

Forspent, p.p. exhausted, weary. 2 H.1V. 
: 

Forthright, sb. a straight path; forth- 
rights and meanders, straight paths and 
crooked ones. Temp. Ill. 3. 

Forweary, v.t. to weary, exhaust. John, 
ae I 

Fosset-seller, sb. one who sells the pipes 
inserted into a vessel to give vent to the 
liquor, and stopped by aspigot. Cor. 11.1. 

Fox, sb. a sword; a cant word. H. V. Iv. 4. 

Fox-ship, sb. the cunning of the fox. Cor. 
Ty tiee 

Frampold, adj. peevish, unquiet. Merry 
Wives, II. 2. 

Frank, sb. the feeding-place of swine. 2 
Healy al 2. 

Franked, p.p. confined. R. III. t. 3. 

Frankiin, sb. a freeholder, a small squire. 
Cym., III. 2. 

Fraught, p.p. freighted. M. of V. I. 8. 

Fraughtage, sb. freight. Com. of E. rv. 1. 

Fraughting, pr.p. of v. to fraught; load- 
ing or constituting the cargo of a ship. 
Temp. I. 2. 

#resh, sb. a spring of fresh water. Temp. 
To: 

Fret, sb. the stop ofa guitar. Tam. ofS. 11.1. 

Fret, v.t. to wear away. R. II. 111.3; Lear, 
1.4. To variegate. J. C. 11. 1. 

Friend, v.t. to befriend. H. VIII. tI. 2. 

Frippery, sb. an old-clothes shop. Temp. 
TV¥ea. 

From, prep. contrary to. Ham. III. 2. 

Front, v.t. to affront, oppose. A. & C. II. 2. 

Frontier, sb. opposition. 1 H. IV.1. 3. 

Frontlet, sb. that which is worn on the 
forehead. Lear, I. 4. 

Frush,v.t.to break or bruise. T. & Cr. v. 6. 

Frustrate, p.p. frustrated. A. & C. v. 1. 

Fub off, v.t. to put off. 2H. IV. 1.1. 

Fulfill, v.t. to fill full. Prol. to T. & C. 

Full, adj. complete. Oth. 1. 1, 

Fullam, sb. a loaded die. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Fulsome, adj, lustful. M. of V. 1. 3. 

Furnished,p.p.equipped. Wint. Tale, Iv.3. 

Furnitor, sb. furnitory,an herb. Lear, Iv.4. 


Gaberdine, sb. a loose outer coat, or smock 
frock. Temp. 11. 2; M. of V. 1. 3. 

Gad, sb. a pointed instrument, a goad. T. 
A.Iv.1. Upon the gad, with impetuous 
haste, upon the spur of the moment. 
Lear, I. 2. 

Gain-giving, sb. misgiving. Ham. v, 2. 

Gait, sb. going, steps. Tw. N. 1 4. 

Galliard, sb. a kind of dance. Tw. N. 1. 3. 

Galliasse, sb.a kind of ship. Tam. of 8.11.1. 

Gallimaujry, sb. a ridiculous medley. 
Wint. Tale, rv. 4. 

Gallow, v.t. to scare. Lear, III. 2. 

Gallowglass, sb. the irregular infantry of 
Ireland, and the Highlands of Scotland. 
Mec. 1.2: 

Gamester, sb. a frolicsome person. H. 
VIII.1.4. A loose woman. All’s Well,v.3. 

Garboil, sb. disorder, uproar. A. & C. 1. 3. 

Garish, adj. gaudy, staring. R. III. rv. 4. 

Garner, v.t. to lay by, as corn in a barn. 
Oth. Iv. 2. 

Gast, p.p. frightened. Lear, I. 1. 

Gaudy, adj. festive. A. & C. 11. 18. 

Gaze, sb. an object of wonder. Mac. v. 7. 

Gear, sb. matter of business of any kind. 
M.uof V. 15:2. 

Geck, sb. a fool. Cym. vy. 4. 

General, sb. the generality, common peo- 
ple. M. for M. 1. 4. 

Generations, sb. children. Wint. Tale, 11.1. 

Generosity, sb. noble birth. Cor. 1. 1. 


876 


Generous, adj. noble. M. for M.1. 1. 
Gentility, sb. good manners, L’s L’s L.1.1. 
Gentle, sb. gentlefolk. L’s L’s L. Iv. 1. 
Gentle, adj. noble. Temp. I. 2. 

Gentle, v.t. to ennoble. H. V. Iv. 3 

Gentry, sb. complaisance, conduct be- 
coming gentlefolk, Ham. II. 2. 

German, adj. akin. Wint. Tale, Iv.4. Ap- 
propriate. Ham. v. 2. 

Germen, sb. seed, embryo. Lear, III. 2. 

Gest, sb. period. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Gib, sb. a he-cat. Ham. Ill, 4. 

Gifts, sb. talents, endowment. 
Wives, I. 1, 

Giglot, sb. a wanton girl. M. for M. v.1. 

Gilder, sb. a coin of the value of 1s. 6d. or 
2s. Com. of E. Iv. 1. 

Gilt, sb. money. H. V. u. Ch. State of 
wealth. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Gimmal, adj. double. H. V. Iv. 2. 

Gimmor, sb. contrivance. 1H. VI. 1. 2. 

Ging, sb. gang. Merry Wives, IV. 2. 

Gird, vi. to gibe. 2H. IV. 1. 2; Cor. 1.1. 

Gird, sb. a sarcasm or gibe. Tam. of S. v. 2. 

Gleek, v.i. to scoff. M. N’s Dr, 111. 1. 

Gleek, sb. a scoff. 1 H. VI. rl. 2. 

Glose, v.i.to comment; hence, to be gar- 
rulous. R. II. 11. 1. 

Glut, v. to swallow. Temp. 1.1. 

Gnarl,v.i.to snarl. R. 11.1.3; 2 H. VI. 111.1. 

Good-deed, adv, indeed. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Good-den, int. good-evening, contracted 
from ‘Good-evening.’ John, I. 1. 

Good-year or Good-jer, sb. a corruption 
of the French goujere; the venereal dis- 
ease. Merry Wives, I. 4. 

Gorbellied, adj. corpulent. 1 H. IV. 11. 2. 

Gourd, sb. a species of game of chance. 
Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Gout, sb. a drop. Mac. 11. 1. 

Government, sb. discretion. 3 H. VI. 1. 4. 

Gracious, adj. abounding in grace Divine. 
Ham. I. 1. 

Grained, adj. engrained. Ham. Itt. 4. 

Gramercy, int. grand mercy, much 
thanks. M. of V. I1. 2. 

Grange, sb. the farmstead attached to a 
monastery, a solitary farm-house. Oth. 
if 

Gratillity, sb. used ridiculously for ‘ gra- 
tuity.’ Tw. N. 11. 3. 

Gratulate, v.t. to congratulate. T, A. I. 2. 

Grave, v.t. to bury. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Greasily, adv. grossly. L’s L’s L. Iv. 4. 

Greek, sb.a bawd. Tw. N. Iv. 1. 

Green, adj. immature, fresh, unused. R. 
Til 1,/23"Tam, of Simny2 

Greenly, adv. foolishly. Ham. Iv. 5. 

Greet, v.i, to weep. T. A. I. 2. 

Grize, sb.a step. Tw. N. 11. 1. 

Grossly, adv. palpably. H. Y. It. 2. 

Groundling, sb. one who sits in the pit 
of a theatre. Ham. m1. 2. 

Growing, pr.p. accruing. Com. of E. Iv.1. 

Guard, sb. decoration. M. for M. 111. 1. 

Guard, v.t. to decorate. M. of V. Ir. 2. 

Guardage, sb. guardianship. Oth. I. 2. 

Guinea-hen, sb. the pintado, a cant term, 
Oth. 1. 3. 

Gules,‘adj. red, a term in heraldry. Tim, 
Iv. 8. 

Gulf, sb. the throat. Mac. Iv. 1. 

Gan-stone, sb. a cannon-ball. 

Gust, sb. taste, relish. Tw. N. I. 3. 

Gyve, v.t. to fetter. Oth. 1. 1. 


Merry 


Hack, v.i. to become common. Merry 
Wives, Ir. 1. 

Haggard, sb. a wild or unreclaimed 
hawk. Tam. of 8. Iv. 1 

Hag-seed, sb. seed or offspring of a hag. 
Temp. I. 2. 


Hair, sb. course, order, grain. Merry 
Wives, I1. 3. 
Halidom, sb. holiness, sanetification, 


Christian fellowship; used as an oath, 
and analogous to ‘By my faith. Two 
Gent. Iv. 2. 

Hall, sb. an open space to dancein. R. & 
Ninoy Ray 

Hallowmas, sb. All Haliows’ Day. Two 
Gent. 11. 1. 

Handsaw, sb. perhaps a corruption of 
Heronshaw; a hern. Ham. It. 2. 

Hap, sb. chance, fortune. Com. of E. 1. 1. 

Happily, adv. accidentally. Tam. of S. 
Iv. 4. 

Hardiment, sb. defiance, brave deeds. 1 
BG Vers: 
Harlock, sb. 
Lear, IV. 4. 
Harry, v.t. to annoy, harass. A. & C. IIL. 3. 

Haught, adj. haughty. 3 H. VI. 11.1. 

Haunt, sb. company. Ham. Iv. 1. 

Having, sb. property, fortune. Tw. N. It. 4. 

Haviour, sb. behaviour. Merry Wives, 1.3. 

Hay, sb. a term in fencing. R. & J. I1. 4. 

Heady, adj. violent, headlong. Com. of E. 
Waits 

Heat, p.p. of v.t. ‘to heat,’ heated. M. of V. 
Tv 1% 

Hebenon, sb. henbane. Ham. I. 5, 

Heft, sb. a heaving. Wint. Tale, 11. 1. 

Heft, p.p. furnished with a handle; hence, 
metaphorically, finished off, delicately: 
formed. Lear, I. 4. 

Helm, v.t. to steer, manage. M. for M. 111. 2. 

Hence, adv. henceforward. 2 H. IV. v. 5. 

Henchman, sb. a page or attendant. M. 
N’s Dr. 1, 2. 

Hent, v.t. to seize, take. M. for M. Iv. 6; 
Wint. Tale, Iv. 2. 

Hermit, sb. a beadsman, one bound to 
pray for another. Mac. I. 6. 

Hest, sb. command. Temp. mt. 1. 

High, adv. used in composition with ad- 
jectives to heighten or emphasize their 
signification, as, high-fantastical. Tw. N. 
Br Ee 

Hight, p.p. called. L’s L’s L. 1. 1. 

Hild, p.p. held. Luer. 

Hilding, sb. a paltry fellow. Cym. I. 3. 

Hint, sb. suggestion. Temp. I. 2. 

Hiren, sb. Qy. a prostitute, with a pun on 
the word ‘iron.’ 2H. IV. 11. 4. 

Hit, v.i. to agree. Lear, I. 1. 

Hoise, v.t. to hoist, heave up on high. 2 
AO Vito 

Hoist, p.p. hoisted. Ham. m1. 4. 

Holp, p.p. of the v. to help; helped. John, 
2 ats 

Home, adv. to the utmost. Cor. 11.2; Cym. 
IW Ss vear, Tiles. 

Honest, adj. chaste. Oth. Iv. 2. 

Honesty, sb.chastity. As you Like it, 11.3. 

Honey-stalks,sb. the red clover. T. A.1v.4. 

Hoodman-blind, sb. the game now called 
blindman’s-buff. Ham. III, 4. 

Horn-mad, adj. probably, ‘harn-mad,’ 
that is, brain-mad.: Merry Wives, I. 4. 

Horologe, sb. a clock, Oth. It. 3. 

Hot-house, sb, a brothel. M. for M. 11. 1. 

Hox, v.t. to hamstring. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Hugger-mugger, sb. secresy. Ham. rv. 5. 

Hull, v.i.to drift on the sea like a wrecked 
ship. H, VIII. 11. 4. 

Humourous, adj. fitful, or, perhaps, hur- 
ried, R. & J. m1. 1. 

Hunt-counter, vi. to follow the scent the 
wrong way. 2 H. IV. I. 2. 

Hunts-up, sb. a holla used in hunting 
when the game was on foo. R. & J. m1. 5. 

Hurly, sb. noise, confusion. Tam. of S.ry.L 

Hurtle, vi. to clash. J. C, 11. 2. 


charlock, wild mustard. 


GLOSSARY. 


Hurtling, sb. noise, confusion. As you 
Like it, Iv. 3. 

Husbandry, sb. frugality. Mac. 11.1. Man- 
agement. M. of V. Ir. 4. 

Huswife, sb. a jilt. Cor, 1. 3. 


Ice-brook, sb. an icy-cold brook. Oth. v. 2. 

DP’fecks, int. in faith, a euphemism. Wint. 
Tale, I. 2. 

Ignomy, sb. ignominy. 1 H. IV. v. 4. 

Image, sb. representation. Ham. III. 2. 

Imbare, v.t. to bare, lay open. H. V. I. 2. 

Immediacy,sb.close connexion. Lear,v.3. 

Immoment, adj. unimportant. A. & C.v.2. 

Imp, v.t. to graft, to splice a falcon’s broken 
feathers. R. II. 11. 1. 

Imp, sb. a scion, a child. 2 H. IV. v. 5. 

Impawn, v.t. to stake, compromise. H. V. 
Ty) 

Impeach, v.t. to bring into question. M. 
IN’S!Dr. 11.2. 

Impeach, sb. impeachment. C. of E. v. 1. 

Impeachment, sb. cause of censure, hin- 
drance. Two Gent. I. 3. 

Imperceiverant, adj. dull of perception. 
Cym. Iv. 1. 

Impeticos, v.t. to pocket. Tw. N. 11. 3. 

Importance, sb. importunity. Tw. N. v.1. 

Important, adj. importunate. C. of E. vy. 
1; Lear, Iv. 4. 

Importing, adj. significant. All’s Well, 
Vito: 

Impose, sb. imposition, meaning com- 
mand or task imposed upon any one. 
Two Gent. Iv. 3. 

Imposition, sb. command. M. of V.I. 2. 

Imprese, sb. a device with a motto. R. II. 
Tie 

Impress, v.t.to compel to serve. Mac. ty.1. 

Incapable, adj. unconscious. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Incarnardine, v.t. to dye red. Mac. II. 2. 

Incensed, p.p. incited, egged on. R. III. 
by ede 

Inch-meatl, sb. by inch-meal, by portions 
of inches. Temp. It. 2. 

Inclining, adj. compliant. Oth. 0. 3. 

Inclining, sb. inclination. Ham. 11. 2. 

Inclip, v.t. to embrace. A. & C. 11. 7. 

Include, v.t. conclude. Two Gent. v. 4. 

Incony, adj. fine, delicate. L’s L’s L. 111.1. 

Eneorrect, adj. ill-regulated. Ham. I. 2. 

Ind, sb. India. Temp. It. 2. 

Indent, v.i.to compound or bargain. 1 H. 
DV: 

Index, sb. a preface. R. III. tv. 4; Ham. 
III. 4. 

Indifferent, adj. ordinary. Ham. It, 2. 

Indigest, adj. disordered. Son. 114. 

Indite, v.t. to invite. R. & J. 1. 4. To con- 
vict. Ham. 11. 2. 

Induction, sb. introduction, beginning. 
ps als 4 mea Ee 

Indurance, sb. delay. H. VIII. v. 1. 

Infinite, sb. infinite power. Much Ado, 11.3. 

Ingraft, part. of v. to engraff, engrafted. 
Oth: 11. 3. 

Inhabitable, adj. uninhabitable, R. IT. 1.1. 

Inherit, v.t. to possess. Two Gent. Ir. 2. 

Inhooped, p.p. penned up in hoops. A. 
& C. i, 3. 

Inkhorn-mate, sb. a contemptuous term 
for an ecclesiastic, or man of learning. 1 
iV i ToL. 

Inkle, sb.a kind of narrow fillet or tape. 
Wint. Tale, rv. 3. 

Inland, adj. civilized, well-educated. As 
you Like it, 11. 2. 

Inly, adj. inward. Two Gent. 11. 7. 

Inly, adv. inwardly. Temp. v. 1. 

Inquisition, sb. enquiry. Temp, I. 2. 

Insane, adj. that which causes insanity. 
Mac. I. 3. 


Insconce, v.t. to arm, fortify. Com. of E. 
Thee 

Instance, sb. example. Tw. N.1v. 3. In- 
formation. 2 H. 1V.111.1. Reason, proof. 
H. V. 11.2; Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Intend, v.i. to pretend. Tam. of S. Iv. 1. 

Intending, pr.p. regarding. Tim. II. 2, 

Intendment, sb. intention. Oth. Iv. 2. 

Intentively, adv. attentively. Oth. I. 3. 

Interessed, p.p. allied. Lear, 1. 1. 

Intermission, sb, pause, delay. Mace. Iv. 3. 

Intrenchment, adj. not capable of being 
cut. Mac. Vv. 7. 

Intrinse, adj, intricate. Lear, II. 2. 

Intrinsicate, ad). intricate. A. & C, Vv. 2. 

Invention, sb. imagination. Mac. 111. 1. 

Inward, sb, an intimate friend. M. for M. 
iI. 2. adj. intimate. R. IIT. 11. 4. 

Inwardness, sb. intimacy. Much Ado, 
Iv. 1. 

Irregulous, adj. lawless, licentious. Cym. 
IVe2; 

Iteration, sb. reiteration. 1 H. IV. 1. 2. 


Jack, sb. a mean fellow. R. III. 1. 8. 

Jack-a-lent, sb. a puppet thrown at in 
Lent. Merry Wives, V. 5. 

Jack guardant, sb. a jack in office. Cor. 
Vin2s 

Jade, v.t. to whip, to treat with contempt. 
ERR VLD sire 2A ce Ceiidy 17) 

Jar, sb. the ticking of a clock. Wint. Tale, 
Ty 2: $ 

Jar, vi. to tick as a clock. R. II. v. 5. 

Jaunce, v.i. to prance. R. II. v. 5. 

Jess, sb. a strap of leather attached to the 
talons of a hawk, by which it is held on 
the fist. Oth. 111. 3. 

Jest, v.i. to tilt in a tournament. R.II.1.38. 

Jet, v.i. to strut. Tw. N. I. 5. 

Journal, adj. daily. Cym. Iv. 2. 

Jovial, adj.appertaining to Jove. Cym.v. 4. 

Judicious, adj, critical. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Jump, vi. to agree. 1 H, IV. I. 2. v.t. to 
hazard. Cym. v. 4. 

Jump, sb. hazard. A. & C. Ill. 8. 

Jum~p, adv. exactly, nicely. Oth, II. 3. 

Justicer,sb. a judge, magistrate. Lear, III. 6. 

Jut, vi. to encroach. R. III. 1. 4. 

Jutty, sb. a projection. Mace. I. 6. 

Jutty, vi. to jut out beyond. H. V. m1. 1. 

Juvenal, sb. youth, young man. L’s L’s L. 
Ti 23 


Kam, adj. crooked. Cor, 11. 1. 

Kecksy, sb. hemlock. H. V. v. 2. 

Keech, sb. a lump of tallow. H. VIII. 1.1. 

Keel, v.t. to skim. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Keep, v.r. to restrain. Two Gent. Iv. 4. 

Keep, sb. keeping, custody, Tam. of 8.1. 2. 

Keisar, sb. Cesar, Emperor. Merry Wives, 
1. 3. 

Kern, sb. the rude foot soldiers of the Irish. 
Mac. I. 2. 

Kibe, sb. a chilblain. Temp. 1. 1. 

Kickshaw, sb. a made dish. 2H. IV. v. 1. 

Kicksy wicksy, sb. a wife, used in dis- 
dain. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Kiln-hole, sb. the ash-hole under a kiln. 
Merry Wives, IV. 2. 

Kind, sb. nature. A. & C. v.2; T. A. 11.1. 

Kindle, vi. to bring forth young; used 
only of beasts. As you Like it, mI. 2. 

Kindless, adj. unnatural. Ham. 1. 2. 

Kindly, adj. natural. Much Ado, tv, 1. 

Kirtle, sb.a gown. 2 H.IV. 11. 4. 

Knap, v.t. to snap, crack. M. of V. 11. 1. 

Knave, sb.a boy. J. C. Iv. 3. A serving- 
man, All’s Well, 11. 4. 

Knot, sb. a figure in garden beds. R. II. 
Til. 4. 

Know. v.t. to acknowledge. Mac. 11. 2. | 


Labras, sb. lips. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Laced-mutton, sb. a courtezan. Two Gent, 
Beil, 

Lag, sb. the lowest of the people. T. A. 111.6. 

Lag, adv. late, behindhand. R. III. 11.1; 
Lear, I. 2. 

Lakin, n. ladykin, little lady, an endear- 
ing term applied to the Virgin Mary in 
the oath, ‘ By our lakin.’ Temp. 111. 3. 

Land-damn, v.t. perhaps to extirpate; 
Hanmer thinks it means to kill by stop- 
ping the urine. Wint. Tale, 1. 1. 

Lapsed, p.p. taken, apprehended. Tw. N. 
Ill. 3. 

Large,adj.licentious, free. Much Ado,Iv.L 

Largess, sb. a present. Tam. of §. I. 2. 

Lass-lorn, adj. deserted by a mistress, 
Tempri1vele 

Latch, v.t. to smear. M. N’s Dr. 111.2. To 
catch. Mace. Iv. 8. 

Lated, p.p. belated. A. & C, III. 9. 

Latten, adj. made of brass. Merry Wives, 
Tt, 

Laund, sb. lawn. 3 H. VI. 111. 1. 

Lawolta, sb. a dance. H. V. 11. 5. 

Lay, sb. wager. Oth. I. 3. 

League, sb. besieging army. All’s Well, 
Ill, 6. 

Leasing, sb. lying. Tw. N.I. 5. 

Leather-coats, sb. a kind of apple. 2 H. 
EVs Wi.9: 

Leech, sb. a physician. T. A. v. 4. 

Leer, sb. countenance, complexion. As 
you Like it, 1v.1; T. A. Iv. 2. 

Leet, sb. a manor court. Oth. It. 3. 

Lege, v.t. to allege. Tam. of S. I. 2. 

Legerity, sb. lightness. H. V. Iv. 1. 

Leiger, sb.an ambassador resident abroad. 
M. for M. 111.1; Cym. 1. 6. 

Leman, sb. a lover or mistress. 
v. 3. 

Lenten, adj. meagre. Ham. 11. 1. That 
which may be eaten in Lent. R. & J. 11. 4. 

L’envoy, sb. the farewell or moral at the 
end of a tale or poem. L’s L’s L. 111. 1. 

Let, v.i. to hinder. Tw. N. v.1. v.t. to hin- 
der. Ham. I. 2. 

Let, sb. hindrance. H. V. v. 2. 

Lethe, sb. death. J. C. 1. 1. 

Level, v.i.to aim. M. of V.1.2; R. III. 1v. 4. 

Level, sb. that which is aimed at. H. VIII. 
TQ 

Lewd, adj. ignorant, foolish. R. III, I. 3. 

Lewdly, adv. wickedly. 2H. VI. 1.1. 

Lewdster, sb.alewd person. Merry Wives, 
Vv. 3. 

Libbard, sb. a leopard. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Liberal, adj. licentious. Two Gent, 11. 1; 
Oth. 11. 1. 

Liberty, sb. libertinism. T. A. rv. 1. 

License, sb. licentiousness. M. for M. 111. 2.. 

Lief, adj. dear. 2 H. VI. 11. 1. 

Lifter, sb. a thief. T. & Cr. 1. 2. 

Light o? love, sb. a tune so called. Two 
Gent. I. 2. 

Lightly, adv. easily, generally. Com. of E. 
Va diet Eee Deere Le 

Like, v.t. to please. R. IIT. 111. 4; Lear, 11. 2. 

Like, v.t. to liken, compare. 1 H. VI. Iv. 6. 

Like, adj. likely. M. for M. v. 1. 

Likelihood, sb. promise, appearance. R. 
III. 11. 4. 

Liking, sb. condition. 1 H. IV. m1. 3. 

Limbeck, sb. an alembick, a still. Mac. 1.7. 

Limbo, or Limbo patrum, sb. the place 
where good men under the Old Test. 
were believed to be imprisoned till re- 
leased by Christ after his crucifixion 
All’s Well, v. 3; H. VIII. v. 3. 

Lime, sb. bird-lime. Temp. Iv. 1. 

Lime, v.t. to entangle as with }ir@-lime 
Tw. N. 1.4. To smear with bird-iime. 


877 


yi 2 8 es 


2H. VI.1.3. To mix lime with beer or 
other liquor. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Limn, v.t. to draw. As you Like it, 11. 7. 

Line, v.t. to cover on the inside. Cym. 11. 3. 
To strengthen by inner works. 1 H. IV. 
Tivep ie Piva Ts 3. 

Linstock, sb. a staff with a match at the 
end of it, used by gunners in firing can- 
non. H. VY. 1. Chorus. 

List, sb.a margin, hence a bound or en- 
closure. Tw. N. 111.1; 1H. IV. tv. 1. 

Lither, adj. lazy. 1 H. VI. Iv. 7. 

Little, sb. miniature. Ham. It. 2. 

Livelihood, sb. appearance of life. All’s 
Well, 1. 1. 

Livery, sb. a law phrase, signifying the 
act of delivering a freehold into the pos- 
session ofthe heir or purchaser. R. IT.11.38. 

Living, adj. lively, convincing. Oth. 111. 8. 

Loach, sb. a fish so called. 1 H. IV. 1. 1. 

Lob, sb. a looby. M. N’s Dr. 11. 1. 

Lockram,sb.asort of coarse linen. Cor.1.1. 

Lode-star, sb. the leading-star, pole-star. 
MONS Drotels 

Loffe, v.i. to laugh. M. N’s Dr. 11. 1. 

Loggats, sb. the game called nine-pins. 
Ham. vy. 1. 

Longly, adv. longingly. Tam. of S. 1. 1. 

Loof, v.t. to luff, bring a vessel up to the 
wind. A. & C. 111. 8. 

Loon, sb. alow contemptible fellow. Mac. 
Vago: 

Lot, sb. a prize in a lottery. Cor. v. 2. 

Lottery, sb. that which falls toa man by 
lot. A. & C. 11. 2. 

Lowe, sb. a clown. Cor. Il. 2. 

Lowé, v.t. to treat one as a lowt, with con- 
tempt. 1 H. VI. 1v.3. 

Lozel, sb. a spendthrift. Wint. Tale, m1. 3. 

Lubber, sb. a leopard. 2 H. IV. 1. 1. 

Luce, n. the pike or jack, a fresh-water 
fish. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Lumpish, adj. dull, dejected. Two Gent. 
III. 2. 

Tunes, sb. fits of lunacy. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Iarch, v.t. to defeat, to win. Cor. It. 2. 

Lurch, v.i. to shift, to play tricks. Merry 
Wives,-II. 2. 

Ire, sb.a thing stuffed to resemble a bird 
with which the falconer allures a hawk. 
Tam. of S. Iv. 1. 

Lush, adj. juicy, luxuriant. Temp. Ir. 1. 

Taustig, adj. lusty, cheerful. All’s Well, 11.3. 

Luxurious, adj. lascivious. Much Ado, 
Vis 

Luxury, sb. lust. Lear, rv. 6. 

Lym, sb. a limer or slow hound. Lear, 111.6. 


Made, p.p. having his fortune made. Tw. 
Nai. 

Magnifico, sb. the chief magistrate at 
Venice. Oth. I. 2. 

Mag ot-pie, sb. a magpie, a pie which feeds 
on magots. Mac. 111. 4. 

Muiled, p.p. covered as with a coat of 
pint sO Uy 72g Baie En ait 

Main-course, sb. a sea-term. Temp. I. 1. 

Make, v.t.to do up, bar. Com. of E. m1. 1. 
oO do.uL' sis L. v.33 R113. 

Malkin, sb. a familiar name for Mary; 
hence a servant wench. Cor, 1, 1. 

Matllecho, sb. mischief. Ham. m1. 2. 

Mammering, pr.p. hesitating. Oth. m1. 3. 

Mammets, sb. & woman’s breasts. 1 H. IV. 
13.4 AGO Ra d&.J. 111.5, 

Mammock, v.t. to break, tear. Cor. 1. 3. 

Man, v.t. to tame a hawk. Tam. of S. rv. 1. 

Manage, sb.management. Temp. I. 2. 

) a plant of soporiferous 
Mandragora, sb.| quality, supposed to 
Mandrake, sb. f resemblea man. Oth, 
} mr. 3;2H.IV.1.2. 


878 


| 


GLOSSARY. 


Mankind, adj. having a masculine na- 
ture. Wint. Tale, 11. 3. 

Marches, sb. frontiers, borders. H. V. I. 2. 

Marchpane, sb. a kind of sweet biscuit. 
R. & J. 1. 5. 

Margent, sb. margin, L’s L’s L. 11. 1. 

Marry trap,int.an oath. Merry Wives, 1.1. 

Martlemas, sb. the Feast of St. Martin, 
which occurs on the 11th of Nov. when 
the fine weather generally ends; hence 
applied to an old man. 2 H. IV. It. 2. 

Match, sb. an appointment. 1 H. IV. I. 2. 

Mate, v.t. to confound, dismay. Mace. v. 1. 

Meacock, adj. tame, cowardly. Tam. of 
Sock, 

Mealed, p.p. mingled. M. for M. Iv. 2. 

Mean, sb. instrument used to promote an 
end. Two Gent. Iv. 4. 

Mean, sb. the tenor part in a harmony. 
Two Gent. I. 2. 

Mean, sb. opportunity, power. H. VIII. v. 2. 

Measure, sb. reach. Two Gent. v. 4. A 
stately dance. Much Ado, 11. 1. 

Meazel, sb. a leper, spoken in contempt 
of a mean person. Cor. III. 2. 

Medal, sb. a portrait in a locket. Wint. 
Tale, I. 2. 

Medicine, sb. a physician. All’s Well, 11.1. 

Meed, sb. reward, hire. Two Gent. II. 4. 
Merit. 3 H. VI. 11. 1. 

Mehercle, int. by Hercules, L’s L’s L. Iv. 2. 

Meiny, sb. retinue. Lear, II. 4. 

Mell, v.i.to mix, to meddle. All’s Well, rv.3. 

Memorize, v.t. to cause to be remembered. 
Mac. I. 2. 

Mephistophilus, sb. thename ofa familiar 
spirit. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Mercatante, sb. (Italian), a foreign trader. 
Tam. of S. Iv 2. 

Merely, adv. simply, absolutely. Temp.1.1. 

Mess, sb.a company of four. L’s L’s L. Iv. 
Dia Nevee 

Metaphysical, adj.supernatural. Mac.1.5. 

Mete-yard, sb. measuring-wand. Tam. of 
S. Iv. 3. 

Mew up, v.t. to confine. R. III. 1. 1. 

Micher, sb. a truant. 1 H. IV. I. 4. 

Mickle, adj. much. Com. of E. 111.1. 

Mill-sixpence, sb. a milled sixpence. 
Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Mince, v.t. to do anything affectedly. H. 
V..v..2. 

Mincing, adj. affected. 1 H. IV. 111. 1. 

Miscreate, p.p. illegitimate. H. V. I. 2. 

Misdoubdt, v.t. to suspect. 3 H. VI. v. 6. 

Misery, sb. avarice. Cor. Il. 2. 

Misprise, v.t. to despise. As you Like it, 
1.1. To mistake. M. N's Dr. III. 2. 

Misprision, sb. mistake. Much Ado, Iv.1. 

Missive, sb. messenger. A. & C, Il. 2. 

Mistempered, adj. angry. John, v. 1. 

Misthink, v.t. to think ill of. 3 H. VI. 5. 

Mistress, sb. the jack in bowling. T. & Cr. 
TL 12: 

Mobled, p.p. muffled. Ham. It. 2. 

Modern, adj. commonplace. John, mt, 4. 

Module, sb. a model, image. John, v. 7. 

Moe, adj. and adv. more. Of frequent oc- 
currence, 

Moiety, sb. a portion. Lear, 1. 1. 

Mome, sb.a stupid person. Com. of E. 111.1. 

Momentany, adj. momentary. M. N’s Dr. 
eke 

Months-mind, sb.a monthly commemo- 
ration of the dead, but used ludicrously 
to mean a great mind or strong desire. 
Two Gent. I. 2. 


| Mood, sb. anger. Two Gent. Iv. 1. 


Moon-calf, sb. a nick-name applied to 
Caliban. Temp. II, 2; It. 2. 

Moonish, adj. inconstant. As you Like it, 
Ill. 2. 


Mop, sb. nod. Temp. 11. 3. 

Morisco, sb. a Moor. 2 H. VI. rt. 1. 

Morris-pike, sb. Moorish-pike. Com. of 
E. Iv. 3. 

Mort, sb. death, applied to animals of the 
chase. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Mort-du-vinaigre, int. (French), a ridic- 
ulous oath. All’s Well, 11. 3. 

Mortal, adj. fatal, deadly. Oth. vy. 2. Mur- 
derous. Mac. I. 5. 

Mortified, p.p. ascetic. Mac. v. 2. 

Mose, v.i.a doubtful word, applied to some 
disease in a horse. Tam. of 8S. 111. 2. 

Motion, sb. solicitation. Com. of E. 1. 1. 
Emotion. Oth. I. 2. 

Motion, sb. a puppet. Two Gent. 11. 1. 

Motive, sb. one who moves. All’s Well, 
Iv. 4. That which moves. T. & Cr. Ivy. 5. 

Motley, adj. used as sb. the many-coloured 
coat of a fool. As you Like it, 1.7. A 
fool. Ibid. 11. 3. 

Motley-minded, adj. foolish. As you Like 
it, v. 4. 

Mouse-hunt, sb. a weasel. R. & J. Iv. 4. 

Mow, v.i. to make grimaces. Temp. II. 2. 

Moy, sb. a coin, probably a moidore. H. 
V. Iv. 4. 

Much, int. significant of contempt. 2 H. 
EV2 Tis4.008 

Much, adj. used ironically. As you Like 
it, Iv. 3. 

Mure, sb. a wall. 2H. IV. tv. 4. 

Must, sb.a scramble. A. & C. 1. 11. 

Mutine, v.i. to mutiny. Ham, iil. 4. 

Mutine, sb. a mutineer. Ham. v. 2. 


Napkin, sb. a handkerchief. As you Like 
it, UVeos 

Natural, sb. an idiot. Temp. III. 2. 

Nayward, adv. towards denial. Wint. 
Tale, 11. 1. 

Nayword, sb. a catch-word, by-word, 
Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Neb, sb. the beak. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Neeld, sb. a needle. M. N’s Dr. Itt. 2. 

Neif, sb. hand. M. N’s Dr. ry. 1. 

Nephew, sb. a grandson. Oth. I. 1. 

Nether-stocks, sb. stockings. Lear, II. 4. 

Newt, adj. nearest. 1 H. IV. m1. 1. 

Nice, adj. foolish. Tam. of 8, m1. 1. 

Nick, sb. score or reckoning. Two Gent. 
IV. 2. 

Nick, v.t. to brand with folly. A. & C, m1. 11. 

Nighted, p.p. black as night. Ham. I. 2. 

Night-rule, sb. nightly solemnity. M. N’s 
Drei. 

Nine men’s morris, sb. a place set apart 
for a Moorish dance by nine men. M. 
NS Dri; 2h 

Ninny, sb. a fool, jester. Temp. III. 2. 

Nobility, sb. nobleness. Ham. I. 2. 

Noble, sb. a coin, worth 6s. 8d. R. II. 1. 1. 

Noddy, sb. a dolt. Two Gent. I. 1. 

Nonce, sb. for the nonce, corrupted from 
‘for then once,’ for the occasion. 1 H.1Y. 
Ties 

Nook-shotten, adj. indented with bays 
and creeks. H. V. II. 5. 

Nourish, sb. a nurse. 1 H. VI. 1. 1, 

Novum, sb. a game at dice. L’s L’s L. vy. 2. 

Nowtl, sb. head. M. N’s Dr. m1. 2. 

Nuthook, sb.a hook for pulling down nuts, 
hence a thief. Merry Wives, I. 1. 


O, sb. a circle. M. N’s Dr. It. 2. 

Oar, v.t. to row as with oars. Temp. 1. 1. 

Obsequious, adj. behaving as becomes 
one who attends funeral obsequies. 
Ham. I. 2. 

Obsequiously, adv. funereally. R. III. 1.2, 

Obstacle, adj. ridiculously used for ‘ ob- 
stinate.’ 1 H. VI. v. 4. 


Occupation, sb. persons occupied in busi- 
ness. Cor. IV. 6. 

Occurent, sb. an incident. Ham. v. 2. 

Od’s body, inter). 1 H. | 


Tien. ’Od’s in these 
Od’s heartlings. Merry ; andallsimilar 
Wives, III. 4. exclamations 


Od’s pittikins.Cym.Iv.2.; is a euphem- 

Od’s plessed will. Merry | ism for‘God’s.’ 
Wives, I. 1. 

Oeilliad, sb. an amorous glance. Merry 
Wives, I. 3. 

O’erparted, p.p. having too important a 
part to act. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Over-raught, p.p. overreached. Com. of 
EK. 1.2. Overtasked. Ham. m1. 1. 

Offering, p.p. challenging. 1 H. IV. Iv. 1. 

Office, sb. benefit, kindness. All’s Well, Iv. 
4; use, function. H. V. 11. 2. 

Old, adj. a cant term for great, as we say 
fine, or pretty. Merry Wives, 1.4; Mac. 
Il. 3. 

Once, adv. some time. Merry Wives, III. 4. 

Oneyer, sb. a banker. 1 H. IV. 1.1. A 
doubtful word. 

Ope, adv. open. Com. of E. III. I. 

Ope, v.i. to open. 3 H, VI. 11.3. v.t. to open. 
M. of V. 1.1. 

Open, adj. plain. M. for M. 11.1. Public. 
He VilLic re 

Open, vi. to give tongue as a hound. 
Merry Wives, Iv. 2. 

Operant, adj. active. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Opinioned, p.p. used ridiculously for pin- 
ioned. Much Ado, IV. 2. 

Opposite, sb. adversary. Tw. N. It. 4. 

Opposition, sb. combat. Cym. tv. 1. 

Or, adv. before. Mac. Iv. 3. 

Order, sb. measures. Com, of E. v.1; H. 
VinlVai02 

Ordinance, sb. rank, order. Cor. III. 2. 

Orgulous, adj. proud. Prol. to T. & Cr. 

Ort, sb. leaving, refuse. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Ostent, sb. show, appearance. M. of V. II. 2. 

Ostentation, sb. show, appearance. Much 
Ado, Iv. 1; Cor. I. 6. 

Ounce, sb.a beast of prey of the tiger kind. 
M. N’s Dr. 11. 8. 

Ouphe, sb. a fairy. Merry Wives, Iv. 4. 

Ousel-cock, sb. the blackbird. M. N’s Dr. 
uno AE 

Out, adv. all out, fully. Temp. I. 2. 

Out-look, v.t. to face down. John, v. 2. 

Outward, adj. not in the secret of affairs. 
All’s Well, 11. 1. 

Outward, sb. outside. Cym. 1. 1. 

Owe, v.t. to own. Temp. I. 1. 


Pack, v.t. to practise unlawful confed- 
eracy. Much Ado, v.1; Tam. ofS. v. 1. 
Pack, sb. a number of people confederated. 
Re ERE ire: 3: 

Paddock, sb. a toad. Mac. 1. 1. 

Paid, p.p. punished. Cym. v. 4. ' 

Patabras, sb. words, a cant term, from the 
Spanish. Much Ado, 11. 5. 

Pale, v.t. to enclose. A. & C.11.7; H. V. 
v. Ch. 

Pall, v.t. to wrap as with a pall. Mace. 1. 5. 

Palled, p.p. impaired. A. & C. 11. 7. 

Palmer, sb. one who bears a palm-branch, 
in token of having made a pilgrimage 
to Palestine. R. & J. 1. 5. 

Palmy, adj. victorious. Ham. I. 1. 

Parcelled, p.p. belonging to individuals. 
REEL 11.2: 

Pard, sb. the leopard. Temp. Iv. 1. 

Paritor, sb. an apparitor. L’s L’s L, m1. 1. 

Parle, sb. talk. Two Gent. I. 2. 

Parlous, adj. perilous. As you Like it, m1. 
2; keen, shrewd. R. III. 11. 1. 

Parted, p.p.endowed, gifted. T. & Cr, 111. 3. 


GLOSSARY. 


Partizan, sb.a pike. R. & J. 1.1. 

Pash, sb. the face. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Pash, vt. to strike violently, to bruise, 
crush, T. & Cr. II. 3. 

Pass, vi. to practise. Tw. N. 11.1; Lear, 
11.7. To surpass expectation. Merry 
Wives, IV. 2. 

Passant, pr.p.a term of heraldry, applied 
to animals represented on the shield as 
passing by at a trot. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Passing, adv. surpassingly, exceedingly. 
EIN S Dre iitee 

Passion, v.i, to have feelings. Temp. v. 1. 

Passionate, v.t. to suffer. T. A. 111. 2. 

Passy-measure, sb. a kind of dance. 
Tw. N. v.1. 

Pastry, sb. the room where pastry was 
made. R. & J. Iv. 4. 

Patch, sb. a mean fellow. Temp. III. 2. 

Patched, p.p. dressed in motley. M. N’s 
1D Wem iN Ue 

Patchery, sb. trickery. T. & Cr. It. 3. 

Path, v.i. to walk. J. C. 11. 1. 

Pathetical, adj. affected, hypocritical. 
As you Like it, Iv. 1. 

Patient, v.r. to make patient, to compose. 
Ti Ay, 2. 

Patine, sb. the metal dise on which the 
bread is placed in the administration of 
the Eucharist. M. of V. v. 1. 

Pattern, v.t. to give an example of. Wint. 
Tale, 11.2. Afford a pattern for. M. for 
Mernp. aL; 

Pauca verba, few words. Merry Wives, 1.1. 

Paucas, adj. few, a cant word. Ind. to 
Tam. of 8. 

Pavin, sb. a dance. Tw. N. v. 1. 

Pax, sb.asmall image of Christ. H. V. 111.6. 

Pay, v.t. to despatch. 1 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Peat, sb.a term of endearment for a child. 
Tam. of 8.1, 1. 

Pedascule, sb. a pedant, schoolmaster. 
Tam. ofS. 111. 1. 

Peer, v.i. to peep out. R. & J. 1.1. 

Peize, v.t. to balance, weigh down. John, 
Tee a ELL Ve, 33 

Pelting, adj. paltry. M. for M. II. 2. 

Perdu, adj. lost. Lear, Iv. 7. 

Perdurable, adj. durable. H. V. Iv. 5. 

Perdy, int. a euphemism for Par Dieu. 
Com. of E. Iv. 4. 

Perfect, adj. certain. Wint. Tale, 111. 3. 

Perfect, v.t. to inform perfectly. M. for M. 
Iv. 3. 

Periapts, sb. charms worn round the neck. 
LHe VEAV.)3; 

Perjure, sb. a perjured person. L’s L’s L. 
Iv. 3. 

Persever, v. to persevere. Two Gent. III. 2. 

Perspective, sb. a telescope, or some sort 
of optical glass. Tw. N. v. 1. 

Pew-fellow, sb. a comrade. R. III. tv. 4. 

Pheeze, v.t. to comb, fleece, curry. Ind. to 
Tam OL sos) ty, dCreii 3: 

Pia-mater, sb. the membrane covering 
the brain, the brain itself. Tw. N. 1. 5. 

Pick, v.t. to pitch, throw. H. VIII. v. 3. 

Picked, adj. chosen, selected. John, I. 1. 

Pickers (and stealers), sb. the fingers, used 
ridiculously. Ham. III. 2. 

Picking, adj. insignificant. 2 H. IV. 1.1. 

Pickt-hatch, sb. a place noted for brothels. 
Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Pied, adj. motley-coated, wearing the 
motley coat of a jester. Temp. II. 2. 

Pieled, p.p. shaven, 1H. VI. 1. 3. 

Pight, p.p. pitched. T. & Cr. v. 11. 

Pitcher, sb. a scabbard. R. & J. mt. 1. 

Pill, vi. to pillage. Tim. Iv. 1. 

Pin, sb.a malady of the eye. Lear, II. 4. 
The centre of a target. L’s L’s L. Iv. 1; 
R, & J. i. 4. 


Pinfold, sb. a pound, a place to confine 
lost cattle. Two Gent. 1. 1. 

Pioned, p.p. digged. Temp. m1. 3. 

Placket, sb. a petticoat-front. Wint. Tale, 
IV. 3. 

Plain song, sb. a simple air. H. V. 1. 2. 

Plaited, p.p. intricate. Lear, 1. 1. 

Planched, adj. made of boards. M. for M. 
iVal 

Plantation, sb. colonizing, planting a 
colony. Temp. 11. 1. 

Plausive, adj. plausible. All’s Well, &. 2. 

Pleached, adj.interwoven. Much Ado, I. 2. 

Point, sb. a lace furnished with a tag by 
which the breeches were held up. 1 H. 
Leones 4 

Point-de-vice, adj. derived from the 
French, faultless. Tw. N. 11. 5. 

Poise, sb. balance. M. for M. 11.4. Doubt. 
Lear, 11. 1. 

Polled, p.p. bare. Cor. tv. 5. 

Pomander, sb. a perfumed ball. Wint. 
Tale, Iv. 4. 

Pomewater, sb. a kind of apple. L’s L’s L. 
IV. 2. 

Poor-john, sb. a herring. Temp. I. 2. 

Popinjay, sb. a parrot. 1H. IV.1. 3. 

Port, sb. pomp, state. Tam. of S. 1. 1. 

Port, sb. a gate. 2 H. IV. Iv. 4. 

Portable, adj. bearable. Mac. Iv. 3. 

Portance, sb. conduct, behaviour, Cor. 11.3. 

Possess, v.t. to inform. Tw. N. II. 3. 

Potch, v.i. to push violently. Cor. 1. 10. 

Potent, sb. a potentate. John, I. 2. 

Pouncet-box, sb. a box for holding per- 
fumes. 1H. IV.1. 3. 

Power, sb. forces, army. 2H. 1V.1.1. 

Practice, sb. wicked stratagem. Tw. N.v.1. 

Practisant, sb. a confederate. 1H. V1.111.2. 

Prank, v.t. to dress up. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3; 
Cor. 111. 1. 

Precept, sb. a justice’s summons, 2 H. IV. 
Vou: 

Preciously, adv. in business of great im- 
portance. Temp. I. 2. 

Pregnancy, sb. fertility of invention. 2 H. 
TWars2. 

Pregnant, adj. fertile of invention. M. for 
M. 1.1. Ready. Ham. 11. 2. Obvious. 
M. for M. 1. 1. 

Prenominate, v.t. to name beforehand, to 
prophesy. T. & Cr. Iv. 5. 

Pre-ordinance, sb. old-established law. 
Aja (Oniraw a 

Presence, sb. the presence-chamber. -H. 
VIII. 111.1. High bearing. M. of V. mI. 
2; 

Prest, adj. ready. M. of V. 1. 1. 

Pretence, sb. design. Wint. Tale, 111. 2. 

Pretend, v.t.to portend. 1H. VI.1v.1. Te 
intend. Mace, It. 4. 

Prevent, v.t. to anticipate. J.C. v.1. 

Prick, sb. the mark denoting the hour on 
a dial. R. & J. 1. 4. 

Prick, v.t. to incite. Tam. of 8. 11.2. To 
choose by pricking a hole with a pin op- 
posite the name. J. C. m1. 1. 

Prick-song, sb. music sung in parts by 
note. R. & J. 1. 4. 

Pricket, sb. a stag of two years. L’s L’s 1, 
TVs 2 

Pride, sb. heat. Oth, rt. 3. 

Prig, v.t. to steal. Wint. Tale, Iv. 2. 

Prime, adj. rank, lecherous. Oth. II. 3. 

Primer, adj. more-important. H. VIII. 1. 2. 

Primero, sb.a game at cards, H. VIII. v. 1. 

Principality, sb. that which holds the 
highest place. Two Gent. II. 4. 

Princoa, sb. a coxcomb. R. & J. 1. 5. 

Priser, sb. a prize-fighter. As you Like it, 
II. 3. 

Procure, v.t. to bring. R. & J, 11. 5. 


879 


Proface, interj, much good may it do you. 
DOT V save: 

Profane, adj, outspoken. Oth. 1. 1. 

Progress, sb. a royal ceremonial journey. 
Ham. I. 3. 

Project, v.t.to shape or contrive. A. & C. 
Wee. 

Prompture, sb. suggestion. M. for M. II. 4. 

Prone, adj. ready, willing. Cym. v.4; M. 
for M. 1. 3. 

Proof, sb. strength of manhood. Much 
Ado, Iv. 1. 

Propagate, v.t. to advance, to forward. 
fiparviee elt 

Propagation, sb. obtaining. M. for M.1.3. 

Proper-false, sb. natural falsehood. Tw. 
Ni. .I1, 2: 

Propertied, p.p. endowed with the prop- 
erties of. A. & C. v. 2. 

Properties, sb. scenes, dresses, &c. used 
in a theatre. Merry Wives, Iv. 4. 

Property, v.t. to take possession of. John, 
Vue. 

Propose, v.t. to suppose, for the sake of 
argument. 2 H. IV. v. 2. To converse. 
Much Ado, iit. 1. 

Propose, sb. conversation. Much Ado, 11.1. 

Prorogue, v.t. to defer. R. & J. 1. 2. 

Provand, sh. provender. Cor, If. 1. 

Provision, sb. forecast. Temp. I. 2. 

Pucelle, sb. a virgin, the name given to 
Joan of Arc. 1H. VI. v. 4. 

Pudency, sb. modesty, Cym. Il. 5. 

Pugging, adj. thieving. Wint. Tale, Iv. 2. 

Pun, v.t.to pound. T. & Cr. I. 1. 

Purchase, v.t. to acquire, win. As you 
Like it, 11. 2. 

Purchase, sb. gain, winnings. 1 H.1V. 11.1. 

Put, v.t. to compel. M. for M. 1.1. 

Putter-on, sb. an instigator. H. VIII. 1. 2. 

Putter-out, sb. one who lends money at 
interest. Temp. III. 3. 

Putting-on, sb. instigation. M. for M. Iv. 2. 

Puttock, sb. a kite. Cym. I. 2. 


Quail, v.i.to faint, be languid, be afraid. 
As you Like it, 1. 2. v.é. to cause to 
quail, A. & C. v. 2. 

Quaint,adj. curiously beautiful. Temp.t1.2. 

Quake, v.t. to cause to quake or tremble. 
Cor 1.9. 

Qualify, v.t. to moderate. Much Ado, v. 4. 

Quality, sb. those of the same nature. 
Temp.1.2. Rank or condition. M. for 
Mi te Pee 2) Ae Views 

Quarrel, sb. a suit, cause. 2 H. VI. 11. 2. 

Quarry, sb. game, a heap of game. Ham. 
Wa2e Cori d, 

Quart d’écu, sb. a quarter crown. All’s 
Well, Iv. 3. 

Quarter, sb. the post allotted to a soldier. 
Tim. v. 5. 

Quat, sb. a pimple; used in contempt ofa 
person. Oth. v. 1. 

Queasy, adj. squeamish, unsettled. Much 
Ado, 11.1; Lear, 11. 1. 

Quell, sb. murder. Mac. I. 7. 

Quench, v.i. to grow cool. Cym. I. 6. 

Quern, sb. a hand-mill. M. N’s Dr. 1. 1. 

Quest, sb. enquiry, search, inquest. jury. 
M. for M. Iv.1; R. III. 1.4; Ham. v. 1. 

Questrist, sb. one who goes in search of 
another. Lear, III. 7. 

Quick, adj. so far gone in pregnancy that 
the child is alive. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Quicken, v.i. to come to life. Lear, 11. 7. 

Quiddit, )sb.asubtle question. Ham. v. 

Oita Ls LA Viele 2 

Quillet, sb. quidlibet, a subtle case in law. | 
L’s L’s L, Iv. 3. 

Quintain, sb. a post for tilting at. As you 
Like it, 1. 2. 


880 


en 


GLOSSARY. 


Quip, sb. sharp jest, a taunt. Much Ado, 
II. 3. 

Quire, v.i. to sing in concert. M. of V. v.1. 

Quit, v.i. to requite, respond. Lear, III. 7; 
Ham. v. 2. 

Quit, v.t. past tense of the verb to quit, 
quitted. Cym. 1.1. 

Quitance, sb. requital. H. V. I. 2. 

Quiver, adj. active. 2 H. IV. 111. 2. 

Quote, v.t. to note. R. & J. 1. 4. 


Fabato, sb. a ruff. Much Ado, 11. 4. 

Rabbit-sucker, sb. a weasel. 1 H. IV. 11. 4. 

Race, sb. breed; inherited nature. Temp. 
Ti 

Rack, sb. wreck. Temp. Iv. 1. 

Rack, v.t. to enhance the price of any- 
thing. Much Ado, Iv. 1; Cor. v.1. v2. to 
drive as clouds. 3 H. VI. 11. 1. 

Rag, sb. a term of contempt applied to 
persons, Tim. Iv. 3. 

Rake, v.t. to cover. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Rapt, p.p. transported with emotion. Mac. 
Te Se 

Rapture, sb. a fit. Cor. 11. 1. 

Rascal, sb. a lean deer. J. C. Iv. 3. 

Rash, adj. quick, violent. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Rate, sb. opinion, judgment. Temp. Il. 1. 

Rate, v.t. to assign, to value. A. & C. III. 6; 
Cym.1.5. Toscold. M. of V. 1.3. 

Ratolorum, a ludicrous mistake for Ro- 
tulorum. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Raught, past tense of v. to reach. H. V.1v.6. 

Ravin, adj. ravenous. All’s Well, IIt. 2. 

Ravin, v.t.to devour. Mac. Il. 4. 

Rawly, adv. inadequately. H. V. Iv. 1. 

Rawness, sb. unprovided state. Mac. Iv. 3. 

Rayed,p.p.arrayed, served. Tam. ofS8.Iv.1. 

Razed, p.p. slashed. Ham. Ill. 2. 

Rear-mouse, sb. the bat. M. N’s Dr. II. 3. 

Rebate, v.t. to deprive of keenness. M. for 
M.1. 5. 

Rebeck, sb. a three-stringed fiddle. R. & J. 
IV. 5. 

Receipt, sb. money received. R. II. 1. 1. 

Receiving, sb. capacity. Tw. N. 11. 1. 

Recheat, sb. a point of the chase to call 
back the hounds. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Fecord, v.t. to sing. Two Gent. v. 4. 

Recorder, sb. a flute. Ham. Itt. 2. 

Recure, v.t. to cure, recover. R. III. 111. 7. 

Red-lattice, adj. suitable to an ale-house, 
because ale-houses had commonly red 
lattices. Merry Wives, Il. 2. 

Kied-plague, sb. erysipelas. Temp. I. 2. 

Reduce, v.t. to bring back. R. III. v. 4. 

Reechy, adj. smoky, dirty. Cor. 11. 1. 

Refell, v.t. to refute. M. for M. v. 1. 

Refer, v.r. to reserve to. M. for M. 11. 1. 

Regiment, sb. government. A. & C. II. 6. 

Regreet, sb. a salutation. M. of V. II. 9. 

Regreet, v.t. to salute. R. II. 1. 3. 

Reguerdon, sb. requital. 1 H. VI. 111. 1. 

Relative, adj. applicable. Ham. II. 2. 

Remember, v.t. to remind. Wint. Tale, Ir. 
21M for. ris 

Remorse, sb. pity. M. for M. v. 1, 

Remorseful, adj. full of pity, compassion- 
ate. Two Gent. IV. 3. 

Remotion, sb. removal. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Removed, adj. sequestered, remote. M. 
for M.1. 4: As you Like it, II. 2. 

Render, v.t. to describe you. As you Like 
it, Iv. 3. 

Render, sb. account, Cym. Iv. 4. 


| Renege, v.t. to renounce, to deny. A. & C, 


I, Ach ear tis2; 

Repair, v.t. to renovate, comfort. All’s 
Well, 1. 2. 

Repeal, v.t. to reverse the sentence of 
exile. Two Gent. Vv. 4. 

Keproof, sb. confutation. 1 H. IV. 1. 2. 


Repugn, v.t. to resist. 1 H. VI. rv. 1. 

Requiem, sb. mass for the dead, so calle 
because it begins with the words, Re- 
quiem eternam dona eis, Domine. Ham. 
Veuls 

Resolve, v.t. to satisfy. 8 H. VI. 11.2. To 
dissolve. Ham, I. 2. 

Respect, sb. consideration. Much Ado, 11.3. 

Respective, adj. respectful, thoughtful. 
MEOtvirvene 

Respective, adj. corresponding. Two Gent. 
IV. 4. 

Respectivety, adv. respectfully. Tim. mr. 1. 

Retailed, p.p. handed down. R. IIL. rz. 1. 

Retire, sb. retreat. 1 H. IV. 11. 3. 

Retire, v.t. to draw back. R. II. 1. 2. 

Reverb, v.t. to echo. Lear, I. 1. 

Kevolt, sb. a rebel. John, v. 4. 

Rib, v.t. to enclose as within ribs. M. of V. 
PRT: 

Rid, v.t. to destroy. Temp, tI. 2. 

Rife, vi. to split. Wint. Tale, v. 1. 
split. Temp. v. 1. 

Rift, sb. a split. Temp. I. 2. 

Riggish, adj. wanton. A. & C. U1. 2. 

Rigol, sb. a circle. 2 H. IV. iv. 4. 

Ripe, adj. drunk, Temp. v. 1. 

Rivage, sb. the shore. H. V. 111. Chorus. 

Rival, sb. a partner. Ham. I. 1. 

Rivality, sb. equal rank. A. & C, rr. 5. 

Rive, v.t. to fire. 1 H. VI. rv. 2. 

Road, sb. the high road, applied to a com- 
mon woman (traviata). 2 H. IV. I. 2. 

Roisting, adj. roistering, violent. T. & Cr. 
st a 

Romage, sb. unusual stir. Ham. ft. 1. 

Ronyon, sb. a term of contempt applied 
toa woman. Mac. I. 3. 

Rood, sb. the crucifix. R. & J. 1. 3. 

Rook, sb. a cheater. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Ropery, sb. roguery. R. & J. I. 4. 

Rope-tricks, sb. tricks such as are played 
by a rope-dancer. Tam. of 8. I. 2. 

Found, v.i.to whisper. Oth. 1. 3. To be- 
come great with child. Wint. Tale, 11. 1. 
v.t. to finish off. Temp. rv. 1. 

Round, sb. a diadem. Mac. I. 5. 

Round, adj. unceremonious. Mac. I. 5. 

Foundel, sb.a dance or song. M. N’s Dr. 
11. 3. 

Roundure, sb. an enclosure. John, Il. 1. 

Rouse, sb. carousal. Ham. I. 4. 

Roynish, adj. mangy. As you Like it, 11.2. 

Rubious, adj. ruddy. Tw. N, 1. 4. 

Ruddock, sb. the redbreast. Cym. Iv. 1. 

Rush, v.t: to push. R. & J. m1. 3. 

Rushling, adj.rustling. Merry Wives, It. 2. 


v.t. to 


Sacrificial, adj. reverent, as words used 
in religious worship. Tim. I. 1. 

Sacring-bell, sb. the little bell rung at 
mass to give notice that the elements are 
consecrated. H. VIII. 111. 2. 

Sad, adj. serious. Two Gent. I. 2. 

Sadly, adv. seriously. Much Ado, I. 3. 

Sadness, sb. seriousness. R. & J. 1. 1. 

Safe, v.t. to make safe. A. & C. Iv. 6. 

Sag, v.i. to hang down. Mace. v. 3. 

Salt, adj. lascivious. Oth. 11.1; U1. 3. 

Salt, sb. taste. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Sanded, adj. marked with yellow spots, 
M. N’s Dr. Iv. 1. 

Sans, prep. without. Temp. I. 2. 

Saucy, adj. lascivious. All’s Well, rv. 4. 

Saw, sb. a moral saying. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Say, adj. silken. 2 H. VI. Iv. 7. 

Say, sb. assay, taste, relish. Lear, v. 3. 

Scaffoldage, sb. the gallery of a theatre. 
Ts Cr. Tae. 

Scald, adj. scurvy, scabby. Merry Wives, 
183; 

Scale, v.t. to weigh in scales. Cor. 1. 3. 


GLOSSARY. 


Seall, sb. a scab, a word of reproach. 
Merry Wives, III. 1. 

Scamble, v,i. to scramble. H. V- I. 1. 

Scamel, sb. probably a misprint for sea- 
mel, sea-mew. Temp. Il. 2. 

Scan, v.t. to examine subtly. Oth. rit. 3. 

Scant, v.t. to cut short, to spare. M. of V. 
III. 2. 

Scant, adj. scanty, short. Ham. v. 2. adv. 
searcely. R. & J. I. 2. 

Scantling, sb. a small portion. T. & Cr. 1.3. 

Scape, v.t. to escape. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Scape, sb. a sally. M. for M. 1.1. 

Scathe, sb. injury. 2 H. VI. 11. 4. 

Scathe, v.t. to injure. R. & J. 1.5. 

Scathful, adj. destructive. Tw. N. v. 1. 

Sconce, sb. the head. Ham. v. 1. 

Scotch, v.t. to bruise or cut slightly. Mac. 
TW. 2 

Scrimer, sb. a fencer. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Scroyle, sb. a scabby fellow. John, It. 3. 

Scull, sb. a shoal of fish. T. & Cr. v. 5. 

Scurvy, adj. scabby; metaph. mean. 
Temp. Il. 2. 

Seal, v.t. to set one’s seal to a deed; hence, 
to confirm. Cor. II. 3. 

Seam, sb. fat. T. & Cr, I. 3. 

Seamy, adj. showing the seam or sewing. 
Oth. Iv. 2. 

Sear, adj. scorched, withered. Mac. v. 3. 

Sear, v.t. to stigmatise. All’s Well, 11. 1. 

Search, v.t. to probe; hence, to apply a 
healing remedy. Two Genz. I. 2. 

Seated, adj. fixed, confirmed. Mac. I. 3. 

Sect, sb. a slip or scion. Oth. 1.3. <A polit- 
ical party. Lear, v. 3. 

Securely, adv. inconsiderately. T. & Cr. 
Iv. 5. 

Seel, v.t. to close. Oth. 111. 3. 

Seeling, pr.p. closing, blinding. Mac. 11. 2. 

Seeming, adv. seemly, becomingly. As 
you Like it, v. 4. 

Seeming, sb. outward manner and ap- 
pearance. Wint. Tale, tv. 4. 

Seen, adj. versed, instructed. Tam. ofS. 1.2. 

Seld, adv. seldom. T. & Cr. Iv. 5. 

Self-bounty, sb. native goodness. Oth. 11.3. 

Semblably, adv, alike. 1 H. IV. v. 38. 

Seniory, sb. seniority. R. III. tv. 4. 

Sennet, sb. a flourish of trumpets. 

Sepulchre, v.t. to bury. Two Gent. Iv. 2. 

Sequestration, sb. separation. Oth. I. 3. 

Sere, adj. dry. Com. of E. tv. 2. 

Serjeant, sb, a bailiff. Ham. v. 2. 

Serpigo, sb. 2 cutaneous disease. M. for M. 
SL 

Serviceable, adj. ‘serviceable vows,’ vows 
that you will do her service, or be her 
servant. Two Gent. 111. 2. 

Setebos, sb. the name of a fiend. Temp. I. 2. 

Setter, sb. one who watches travellers to 
give information to thieves. 1 H. IV. 11.2. 

Several, sb. land which is not common 
but appropriated. L’s L’s L. 11. 1. 

Shame, v.i. to be ashamed. Cor. m1. 2. 

Shame, sb. modesty. Com. of E. mI. 2. 

Shards, sb. shreds, broken fragments of 
pottery. Ham. v. 1. 

Shards, sb. the wing cases of beetles; 
hence ‘sharded.’ Cym. 111, 3; and ‘shard- 
borne.’ Mac. II. 2. 

Sharked, p.p. snatched up, as a shark 
does his prey. Ham. I. 1. 

Sheen, sb. brilliancy. M. N’s Dr. 11. 1. 

Sheer, adj. pure. R. II. v. 3. Unmixed. 
Ind. to Tam. of S. 2. é 

Shent, p.p. rebuked, blamed. Cor. v. 2. 
Hurt. Ham. 111. 3. 

Sheriff’s-post, sb. a post at the door of a 
sheriff, to which royal proclamations 
were fixed. Tw. N.1. 5, 

Shive, sb. slice. T. A. 11. 1. - 


56 


Shot, sb. the reckoning at an ale-house. 
Two Gent. 11. 5. 

Shoughs, sb. shaggy dogs. Mace. mt. 1. 

Shouldered, p.p. R. III. 11.7. A doubtful 
word. 

Shovel-board, sb. game played by sliding 
metal pieces along a board at a mark. 
Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Shrewd, adj. mischievous. All’s Well, 111.5. 

Shrift, sb. confession. R. III. m1. 4. Abso- 
lution. M. for M. rv. 2. 

Shrive, v.t. to confess. M. of V. 1. 2. 

Shriving-time, sb. time for confession. 
Ham. v. 2. 

Shroud, v.r. to enshroud oneself, cover 
oneself up. Temp. II. 2. 

Side-sleeves, sb. loose hanging sleeves. 
Much Ado, Itt. 4. 

Siege, sb. seat. M. for M. Iv. 2. Stool. 
Temp. 11.2. Rank. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Sight, sb. an aperture in a helmet. 2 H. 
TV /iV.0s 

Sightless, adj. invisible. Mac. 1. 5. Un- 
sightly. John, 11. 1. 

Sign, vi. to give an omen. A. & C. IV. 3. 

Silly, adj. simple, rustic. Cym. v. 3. 

Simular, adj. counterfeit, feigned. Cym. 
v. 5. 

Single, adj. feeble. Mac. I. 3. 

Sir, sb. a title applied to a bachelor of arts 
at the Universities. Tw. N. Iv. 2. 

Sith, conj. since. Two Gent. I. 2. 

Sithence, conj. since. Cor. 11. 1. 

Sizes, sb. allowances. Lear, II. 4. 

Skains-mates, sb. scapegraces. R. & J. 11.4. 

Skill, v.i. to be of importance. Tam. ofS. 
TET.2; 

Skilless, adj. ignorant. Temp. tr. 1. 

Skimble-skamble, adj. rambling, 
jointed. 1 H. IV. 11. 1. 

Skinker, sb. a drawer of liquor. 1 H. IV. 
II, 4, 

Skirr, v.i. to scour. Mac. v. 3. 

Stack, v.t. slacken. Oth. Iv. 8. 

Slave, v.t. to turn to slavish uses. Lear, Iv. 1. 

Stleave, sb. floss-silk. Mac. 11. 2. 

Sledded, p.p. sledged. Ham. 1. 1. 

Sleided, p.p. untwisted, raw, applied to 
silk. Per. Iv. (Gower). 

Sleights, sb. artifices. Mac. 11. 5. 

Slice, int. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Slipper, adj. slippery. Oth. 11. 1. 

Slips, sb.a kind of noose, or leash. H. V. 
11.1. A piece of base money. R. & J. 11.4. 

Sliver, v.t. to slice. Lear, Iv. 2. 

Sliver, sb. a slice. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Slops, sb. loose breeches. Much Ado, rt. 2. 

Slubber, v.t. to slur over. M. of V. 11. 8. 

Smirched, p.p. smeared, soiled. Much 
Ado, Iv. 1. 

Smooth, v.t. to flatter. Per. 1. 2. 

Smoothed, p.p. flattered, fawned upon. 
Tim. Iv. 3. 

Sneap, sb. taunt, sarcasm. 2 H. IV. 11. 1. 

Sneaped, p.p. pinched. Lucr. 

Sneuping, adj. nipping. L’s L’s L. I. 1. 

Sneck-up, int. go hang! Tw. N. I. 8. 

Snuff, sb. anger. L’s L’s L. ‘To take in 
snuff’ is to take offence. 

Softly, adv. gently. Wint. Tale, 1v.2; Ham. 
IV. 4. 

Soil, sb. spot, taint. Ham. I. 38. 

Solicit, sb. solicitation. Cym. It, 3. 

Solidare, sb. a small coin. Tim, 111. 1, 

Solve, sb. solution. Son. 69. 

Sometimes, adv. formerly. M. of V. 1. 1. 

Sooth, sb. truth. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. Con- 
ciliation. R, II. m1. 3. 

Sooth, adj. true. Mac. v. 5. 


dis- 


Sorel, sb. a buck of the third year. L’s L’s ' 


Teen: 
Sorriest, adj. most sorrowful. Mac. 111. 2. 


| 
| 
| 


| Stint, v.t. to stop. H. VIII. I. 2. 


Sorry, adj. sorrowful, dismal. Com. of E, 
Wad. 

Sort, sb. a company. M. N’s Dr. 11. 2. 
Rank, condition. R. Il. tv.1. Lot. T. & 
Cr. 1.3. ‘In asort,’ in a manner. Temp. 
16 all : 

Sort, v.t. to choose. Two Gent, 111.2. v.i. to 
suit. Much Ado, v.2. To consort. 2 H. 
IV. 11. 4. 

Sot, sb. fool. Cym. v. 5. 

Soul-fearing, adj. soul-terrifying. John, 
12, 

Sowl, v.t. to lug, drag. Cor. Iv. 5. 

Sowter, sb. name of a dog. Tw. N. It. 5. 

Specialty, sb. a special contract. Tam. of 
Sei 

Sped, p.p. settled, done for. R. & J. 11. 1. 

Speed, sb. fortune. Wint. Tale, II. 2. 

Sperr, v.t. to bolt, fasten. T. & C. prol. 

Spial, sb.aspy. 1H. VI.1. 4. 

Spill, v.t. to destroy. Lear, 11. 2. 

Spilth, sb. spilling. Tim. 11. 2. 

Spleen, sb. violent haste. John, I. 2; v. 7. 
Used of the lightning flash. M. N’s Dr. 1.1. 

Sprag, adj. quick. Merry Wives, Iv. 1. 

Spring, sb. shoot, bud. V.& A. Begin- 
ning. M. N’s Dr. 11.2; 2H. IV. Iv. 4. 

Springhalt, sb. stringhalt, a disease of 
horses. H, VIII. 1. 3. 

Sprited, p.p. haunted. Cym. 11. 3. 

Spurs, sb. roots of trees. Temp. v.1; Cym. 
Iv. 2. 

Squandered, p.p. scattered. M. of V. t. 3. 

Square, v.t. to quarrel. M. N’s Dr. 11. 1. 

Square, sb. the front part of a woman’s 
dress, stomacher. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 

Square, adj. equitable. Tim. v. 1. 

Squarer, sb. quarreller. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Squash, sb. an unripe peascod. Tw. N.1.5. 

Squier, sb. a square or rule. L’s L’s L. Vv. 2. 

Squiny, v.i. to squint. Lear, Iv. 6. 

Staggers, sb. a disease in horses, attended 
with giddiness; hence any bewildering 
distress. Cym. v. 5. 

Stain, v.t. to disfigure. Temp. I. 2. 

Stale, sb. a decoy. Temp. Iv. 1. A gull. 
Tam. of8.1.1. <A prostitute. Much Ado, 
1.2. 

Stale, v.t. to make stale, deprive anything 
of its freshness, T. & Cr. II. 3. 

Stand upon, to be incumbent on. R. II. 
LV.22 

Staniel, sb. an inferior kind of hawk. Tw. 
INIT Os 

Stark, adv. stiff. Cym. Iv. 2. 

Starkly, adv. stiffly. M. for M. Iv. 2. 

State, sb. a canopied chair. Tw. N. 11. 5. 

Station, sb. attitude. Ham. 1.4. Act of 
standing. A. & C. 111. 3. 

Statist, sb. a statesman. Cym. II. 4. 

Statua, sb. a statue. R. ITI. 111. 7. 

Statue, sb. image, picture. Two Gent. Iv. 4. 

Statute, sb. security, obligation. Son. 134. 

Statute-caps, sb. woollen caps worn by 
citizens. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Stay, sb. a check. John, II. 2. 

Stead, v.t. to profit. Temp. I. 2. 

Stelled, p.p. (a doubtful word) set or fixed. 
Luer. Son. 24. 

Sternage, sb. steerage, course. H. V. III. 
Chorus. 

Stickler, sb. an arbitrator in combats. T. 
& Cr. v. 9. 

Stigmatic, sb. a deformed person. 2 H. VI. 
niga 

Stigmatical, adj. deformed. Com. of E. 
Iv. 2. 

Still, adj. constamt. T. A. II. 2. 

Still, adv. constantly. Temp. I. 2. 

Stilly, adv. softly. H. V. 1v. Chorus. 

v1, To 

stop. R. & J. 1. 3. 


881 


Stithy, sb. a smith’s forge. Ham. Ill. 2. 

Stithy, v.t. to forge. T. & Cr. Iv. 5. 

Stoccado, sb. a stoceata, or thrust in fenc- 
ing. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Stock, sb. a stocking. Tam. of 8, 111. 3. 

Stomach, sb. courage, stubbornness. Temp. 
1.2. Appetite, inclination. Temp. It. 1. 

Stoie-bow, sb. a cross-bow for throwing 
stones. Tw. N. 11. 5. 

Stowp, sb.a cup. Tw. N. I. 3. 

Stout, adj. strong, healthy. Tim. Iv. 3. 

Stover, sb. fodder. Temp. iI. 8. 

Strachy, sb. A word of doubtful meaning. 
Tw. N, Il. 5. 

Straight, adv. immediately. Ham. v. 1. 

Strain, sb. lineage. Much Ado, 1.1. Dis- 
position. Merry Wives, I. 1. 

Straited, p.p. straitened. Wint. Talo, iv.4. 

Strange, adj. foreign. L’s L’s L. Iv.2. Coy, 
reserved. R. & J. 11.2. Marvellous. Oth. 
Vii Oe 

Strangeness, sb. coyness, reserve. T. & 
Cr, 111. 3. 

Stranger, sb. foreigner. H. VIII. 11. 3. 

Strappado, sb. a kind of punishment. 1 
H. IV. 11. 4. 

Stricture, sb. strictness. M. for M. 1. 4. 

Strossers, sb..trowsers. H. V. Ill. 7. 

Stuck, sb. a thrust of a sword. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Stuck in, sb. corruption of stoccata. Tw. 
N, il. 4. 

Stuff, sb. baggage. Com. of E. Iv.4. Ma- 
terial, substance. Oth. 1. 1. 

Stuffed, p.p. filled, stored. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Stz, v.t. to lodge as in a sty. Temp. I. 2. 

Subscribe, v.t. to yield. Lear, 1.2. vt. to 
succumb. T. & Cr. Iv. 5. 
Success, sb. issue, consequence. Much 
Ado, 1.3. Suecession. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 
Successive, adj. succeeding. 2 H. VI. 11.1. 
Successively, adv. in succession. 2 H. IV. 
IV. 4. 

Sudden, adj. hasty, rash. As you Like it, 
1 Be 

Sucdenly, adv. hastily. R. III. tv. 1. 

Sufferance, sb. suffering. M. for M. Ill. 1. 

Suggest, v.t. to tempt, entice. All’s Well, 
Iv. 5. 

Suggestion, sb. temptation, enticement. 
Mac. I. 3. 

Suited, p.p. dressed. All’s Well, 1. 1. 

Sullen, adj. doleful, melancholy. John, I.1. 

Sumpter, sb.a horse that carries provisions 
on a journey. Lear, II. 4. 

Suppose, sb. a trick, imposition. Tam. of 
Delve 

Supposed, p.p. counterfeit. Tam. of S. 11.1. 

Surcease, v.i, to cease. Cor. Il. 2. 

Siurcease, sb. cessation, end. Mac. I. 7. 

Surprise, v.t. to capture by surprise. 3 H, 
Wily 2: 

Surereined, p.p. over-worked. H. V.m1.5. 

Suspect, sb. suspicion. R. III. 1. 3. 

Suspire, v.i, to breathe. 2 H. IV. Iv. 4. 

Swabber, sb. a sweeper of the deck of +. 
ship. Temp. Ir 2. 

Swart, adj. black. John, 11. 1. 

Swarth, adj. black. T, A. 11. 3. 

Swarth, sb. quantity of grass cut down by 
one sweep of the scythe. Tw. N. 11. 3. 

Swasher, sb. swaggerer. H. V. iI. 2. 

Stwushing, pr. dashing, smashing. R. & 
Dey a) We 

Swath, sb. The same as ‘swarth.’ T. & Cr. 
VoD 

Swathling, adj. swaddling. 1 H. IY. 111. 2. 

Sivay, vi. to move on. 2 H. IV. Iv. 1. 

Swear, v.t. to adjure. Lear, I. 1. 

Swear over, v.t. to out-swear. Wint. Tale, 
1.2. 

Swift, adj. ready, quick. Much Ado, III. 1. 

Swingeebuckler, sb.a bully, 2 H.1V. 111. 2. 

882 


GLOSSARY. 


| Table, sb. a tablet, note-book. Ham. I. 2. 


Table-book, sb. note-book. Wint. Tale, Iv.3. 

Tables, sb: the game of backgammon. L’s 
L's L. y.2. A note-book. Ham. I. 5. 

Tabor, sb. a small side-drum. Temp. IV. I. 

Taborer, sb. a player on the tabor. Temp. 
TI 2: 

Tabourine, sb. tambourine, drum. T. & 
Cr, Iv. 5, 

Tag, sb. the rabble. Cor. 111. 1. 

Taint, p.p. tainted. 1 H. VI. v. 3. 

Tainture, sb. defilement. 2 H. VI. 11 1. 

Take, v.t. to infect, blast, bewitch. Merry 
Wives, Iv.4; Ham.1. 1. 

Take in, v.t.to conquer. A. & C. 11. 7; Cor. 
I. 2. 

Take out, v.t. to copy. Oth. 111. 4. 

Take up, v.t. to borrow money, or buy on 
credit. 2 H. VI. 1v. 7. To make up a 
quarrel. As you Like it, v, 4. 

Taking, sb. infection, malignant influ- 
ence. Lear, III, 4. 

Taking up, sb. buying on credit. 2 H. IV. 
Teas 

Tale, sb. counting, reckoning. Mac. 1. 3. 

Tall, adj. strong, valiant. Tw. N. 1. 3. 

Tullow-catch, sb. a lump of tallow. 1 H. 
IV. 11. 4. 

Tang, sb. twang, sound. Temp. Il. 2. 

Tang, v.t. to sound. Tw. N, It. 5. 

Tanling, sb. anything tanned by the sun. 
Cym. Iv. 4. 

Tarre, v.t. to excite, urg) on. John, Iv. 1. 

Tarriance, sb. delay. Two Gent. II. 7. 

Tartar, sb. Tartarus. H. V. Il. 2. 

Task, v.t, to tax. 1H. 1V.1Iv.3. Challenge. 
R. I. Iv. 1. 

Tasking, sb. challenging. 1 H. IV. v. 2. 

Taste, v.t. to try. Tw. N. it. 4. 

Tawdry-lace, sb. a rustic necklace. Wint. 
Tale, Iv. 3. 

Taxation, sb. satire, sarcasm. As you Like 
at phos 

Taxing, sb. satire. As you Like it, I1. 7. 

Teen, sb. grief. Temp. I. 2. 

Tell, v.t. to count. Temp. 11. 1. 

Temper, v.t. to mix. Cym. v. 5, 

Temperance, sb. temperature. Temp. II. 1. 

Tempered, p.p. mixed. Ham, v. 2. 

Tend, v.t. to attend to. 2 H. VI.1. 1. 

Tender, v.t. to hold, to esteem. Temp. 11.1. 
To have consideration for. Two Gent. 
IV. 4. 

Tent, v.t. to probe as a wound. Cor. I11. 1. 

Tent, sb.a probe for searching a wound. 
Cym. Ili. 4. 

Tercel, sb. the male of the goshawk. T. & 
CYraqiy, 2 

Termagant, sb. a ranting character in 
old plays. Ham. 111. 2. 

Tested, p.p. pure, assayed. M. for M. 11. 2. 

Testern, v.t. to reward with a tester, or 
sixpence. Two Gent. I. 1. 

Tharborough, sb. (corrupted from ‘third- 
borough’) a constable. L’s L’s L. 1. 1. 

Theorick, sb. theory. Ali’s Well, Iv. 3. 

Thewes, sb. sinews, muscles. 2 H. LV. 111.2. 

Thick, adv. rapidly. 2 H, IV. 11.3; Cym. 
Il. 2. 

Thick-pleached, p.p. thickly intertwined. 
Much Ado, I. 2. 

Third-borough, sb. a constable. Ind. to 
Tam. ofS. 1. 

Thought, sb. anxiety, grief. Ham. 11. 1; 
A. & C. Iv. 6. So ‘to take thought’ is to 
give way to grief. J. C. 11.1. 

Thrasonical, adj. boastful. As you Like 
1b, Ve 

Three-man beetle, sb. a wooden mallet 
worked by three men. 2H. IV. 1.2. 

Threeeman-song=emen, sb. singers of 
giees in three parts. Wint. Tale, Iv. 3. 


Three-pile, sb. three-piled velvet Win 
Tale, Iv. 8, 

Threne, sb. lament. Ph. & T. 

Thrid, sb. thread, fibre. Temp. tv. 1. 

Throe, v.t. to put in agonies. Temp. 11. L 

Thrum, sb. the tufted end of a thread ir 
weaving. M. N’s Dr. y. 1. 

Thrummed, p.p. made of coarse ends oF 
tufts. Merry Wives, Iv. 2. 

Tickle, adj. ticklish. M. for M. 1. 3. 

Tight, adj. nimble, active. Tam. of S. & 
Ll; Aw& C: iv. 4 

Tightly, adv. briskly, promptly. 
Wives, I. 8; II. 3. 

Tike, sb. a cur. H. V. 11. 1. 

Tilly-vally, int. an exclamation of con 
tempt. Tw. N. 11. 2. 

Tilth, sb. tillage. Temp. II. 1. 

Timeless, adj. untimely. R. II. rv. 1. 

Tinct, sb. stain, dye. Ham. m1. 4. 

Tire, sb. attire, head-dress. Two Gent. tv. 4. 

Tire, v.i. to tear as a bird of prey. 3 H. VI. 
I. 1. Hence, metaphorically, to feed. 
Cym. Ill. 4. 

Tire, v.t. to attire, dress. Com. of E. 11. 2. 

Tod, v.i. to yield a tod of wool. Wint. Tale, 
Iv. 3, 

Tokened, p.p. marked with plague spots. 
A. & C. III. 8. 

Tokens, sb. plague spots. L’s L’s L. v. 2. 

Toll, vi. to exact toll. 2 H.TV.1v.4. To 
pay toll. All’s Well, v. 3. 

Too too, adv, excessively. Two Gent. 1. 4: 
Ham. I. 2. 

Topless, adj. supreme, without superior. 
Oral ase 

Touch, sb. touchstone for testing gold. R. 
III. Iv.2. Trait. As you Like it, m1. 2. 
An acute feeling. Cym. I. 1. 

Touched, p.p. pricked. T. A. Iv. 4. 

Touse, v.t. to pull, drag. M. for M. v. 1. 

Toward, adv. nearly ready. M. N’s Dr. 111.1. 

Towards, adv. nearly ready. R. & J. I. 5. 

Toys, sb. trifles, foolish tricks. 2 H.1V. 11.4 

Trade, sb. beaten path. H. VIII. v. 1. 

Tranect, sb. a ferry. M. of V. 111. 4. 

Translated, p.p. transformed. M. N’s Dr, 
Ly: 

Trash, v.t. to check, as a huntsman his 
hounds. Temp. I. 2; Oth. 11. 1. 

Travail, sb. labour, toil. 1 H. VI. y. 4. 

Tray-trip, sb. xn old game played with 
dice. Tw. N. I. 5. 

Treachers, sb. traitors. Lear, I. 2. 

Treaties, sb. entreaties. A. & C, IIT. 9. 

Trenched, p.p. carved. Two Gent. It. 2. 

Trick, sb. technically, a copy of a coat of 
arms; hence, any peculiarity which dis- 
tinguishes voice or feature. Lear, Ivy. 6; 
Wint. Tale, It. 3. 

Trick, v.t. to dress up. H. V. ut. 6. 

Tricked, p.p. blazoned. Ham. I. 2. 

Tricking, sb. ornament. Merry Wives, Iv.4. 

Tricksy, adj.elegantly quaint. Temp. y.1. 

Triple, adj. third. A, & C.1.1. 

Trojan, sb.a cant word for a thief. 1 H. 
LV tps 

Trol-my-dames, sb. Fr. trou-madame , the 
name of a game; also called pigeon- 
holes. Wint. Tale, Iv. 2. 

Troth-plight, adj. betrothed. H. V. 11. 1. 

Trow, vi. to trust, think. H. VIII. 1.1. 

True, adj. honest. Cym. 1. 3. 

Trundle-tail, sb. a long-tailed dog. Lear, 
III. 6. 

Tucket-sonance, sb. a flourish on the 
trumpet. H. V. Iv. 2. 

Tundish, sb. a funnel. M. for M. 11. 2. 

Turlygood,sb.aname adopted by bedlam- 
beggars. Lear, IT. 3. 

Turn, v.t. to modulate. As you Like it, 11.5 

LTwangling, pr.p. twanging. Temp. 1 2 


Mery 


Ywiggen, adj. made of twigs, wicker. 
Oth. 11. 3. 

Twilled, p.p. Temp. III. 3. 
word. 

Twink, sb. a twinkling. Temp. III. 3. 

Twire, vi. to peep, twinkle. Son. 28. 


A doubtful 


Vade, v.i. to fade, P. P. 

Vail, v.t. to lower. M. for M. v. 1. 

Vailing, pr.p. lowering. M. of V.1. 1. 

Vainness, sb. vanity. H. V. v. Chorus. 

Valanced, p.p. adorned with a valance or 
fringe; applied to the beard. Ham. II. 2. 

Validity, sb. value. All’s Well, v. 3. 

Vantage, sb. advantage. Two Gent. I. 3. 

Vantbrace, sb. armour for the front of the 
army 1; dz Crer.:3, 

Varlet, sb. a servant, valet. T. & Cr. 1.1. 

Vast, sb. properly a waste-place, meta- 
phorically, the dead of night. Temp. 1.2. 
A gulf. Wint. Tale, I. 1. 

Vastidity, sb. immensity. M. for M. 11.1. 

Vastly, adv. like a waste. Luc. 

Vasty, adj. vast, waste. 1 H. IV. 111. 1. 

Vaunt, sb. the van, that which precedes. 
T. & Cr. Prol. 

Vaunt-couriers, sb. forerunners. Lear, 
Tit, 2: 

Vaward, sb. the van, vanguard, advanced 
guard of an army. H. V.Iv.3. Hence, 
metaphorically, the first of anything. 
M. N’s Dr. Iv. 1. 

Vegetives, sb. herbs. Per. II. 2. 

Velure, sb. velvet. Tam. ofS. III. 2. 

Velvet-guards, sb. literally, velvet trim- 
mings; applied metaphorically to the 
citizens who wore them. 1 H. IV. 111. 1. 

Venew, sb.a bout in fencing, metaphori- 
cally applied to repartee and sallies of 
wit. L’s L's L. v. 1. 

Veney, sb. a bout at fencing. Merry Wives, 
TA. 

Venge, v.t. to avenge. H. V. 1. 2. 

Ventages, sb. holes in a flute or flageolet. 
Ham, 117; 2. 

Verbal, adj. wordy. Cym. II. 3. 

Very, adj. true, real. Two Gent. I. 1. 

Via, int. off with you! Merry Wives, II. 2. 

Vice, v.t. to screw. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Vice, sb. the buffoon in the old morality 
plays. Ham. It. 4. 

Vie, vi. to challenge; a term at cards. A. 
& C. v.2. To play as for a wager. Tam. 
Of is be 

Viewless, adj. invisible. M. for M. 111. 1. 

Villain, sb. a lowborn man. As you Like 
Iie Te ' 

Vinewed, p.p. mouldy. T. & Cr. 11. 1. 

Viol-de-gamboys, sb. a bass viol. Tw. N. 
TAS; 

Virginatling, pr.p. playing as on the vir- 
ginals, a kind of aspinet. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Virtue, sb. the essential excellence. Temp. 
Tce gy eLOUT) Lear, Neds 

Virtuous, adj. excellent. M.N’s Dr. rt. 2. 
Endowed with virtues. As you Like it,1.3. 

Vizament, sb. advisement. Merry Wives, 
od 

Voluble, adj. fickle. Oth. 11. 1. 

Voluntary, sb. volunteer. John, II. 1. 


Votarist, sb. votary, one who has taken a | 


vow. M. for M. 1. 5. 
Vulgar, sb. the common people. L’s L’s L. 
ie Jee 
Vulgar, adj. common. John, Il. 2. 
Vuigarly, adv. publicly. M. for M. v. 1. 


Umbered, p.p. stained, dark, as with um- 
ber. H. V. Iv. Chorus. 

Unaneled, »p.p. without extreme unction. 
Ham. I. 5. 

Unavoided, adj. unavoidable. R. IIL. Iv. 4. 


GLOSSARY. 


Unbarbed, p.p. untrimmed. Cor. Ill. 2. 

Unbated, p.p. unblunted. Ham. Iv. 7. 

Unbolt, v.t. to disclose. Tim. 1. 1. 

Unbolted, p.p. unsifted, unrefined. Lear, 
Tee 

Unbreathed, p.p. unpractised. M. N’s Dr. 
Wid 

Uncape, v.t. to throw off the hounds. 
Merry Wives, III. 3. 

Uncharged, p.p. undefended, applied to 
the gates of a city. Tim. Vv. 4. 

Unclew, v.t. to unravel, undo. Tim. I. 1. 

Uncoined, p.p. unalloyed, unfeigned. H. 
Mois 

Undergo, v.t. to undertake. Tim. m1. 5. 

Undertaker, sb. one who takes up an- 
other’s quarrel. Tw. N. It. 4. 

Under-wrought, p.p. undermined. John, 
ies 

Uneath, adv. hardly. 2 H. VI. rt. 4. 

Unexpressive, adj. inexpressible. As you 
Like it, IT. 2. 

Unfair, v.t. to deprive of beauty. Son. 5. 

Unhappily, adv. censoriously. H. VIII.1.4. 

Unhappy, adj. mischievous. All’s Well, 
Iv. 5. 

Unhatched, p.p. undisclosed. Oth. 111. 4. 

Unhouseled, p.p. without receiving the 
sacrament. Ham. I. 5. 

Unimproved, p.p. unreproved. Ham. 1.1. 

Union, sb. a pearl. Ham. v. 2. 

Unjust, adj. dishonest. 1 H. IV. Iv. 2. 

Unkind, adj. unnatural. Lear, UI. 4. 

Untived, adj. bereft of life. Lucr. 

Unmanned, p.p. untamed, applied to a 
hawk.’ R. & J. 11. 2. 

Unowed, p.p. unowned. John, Iv. 3. 

Unpregnant, adj. stupid. M. for M. Iv. 4. 

Unproper, adj. common to all. Oth. 1v.1. 

Unquestionabdle, adj. not inquisitive. As 
you Like it, 111. 2. 

Unready, adj. undressed, 1 H. VI. 11. 1. 

Unrespective, adj. inconsiderate. R. III. 
UN 

Unsisting, adj. unresting. M. for M. Iv. 2. 

Unstanched, p.p. incontinent. Temp. 1.1. 

Untempering, adj. unsoftening. H. V.v.2. 

Untented, adj. unsearchable. Lear, I. 4. 

Untraded, adj. unused, uncommon. T, & 
Cr. IV. 5. 

Untrimmed, p.p. spoiled of grace or orna- 
ment. Son. 18. 

Untrue, sb. untruth. Son. 113. 

Unvalued, adj. invaluable. R. III. 1. 4. 

Upspring reel, sb. a boisterous dance. 
Ham, I. 4. 

Urchin, sb. the hedge-hog. Temp. I. 2. 

Usance, sb. usury. M. of V. I. 3. 

Use, sb. interest. M. for M. 1. 1. 

Utis, sb. riotous merriment, which accom- 
panied the eighth day of a festival. 2 H. 
IV. 11. 4. 

Utter, v.t. to expel, put forth. Much Ado, 
Vv. 3. 

Utterance, sb.extremity. Mac. 111.1; Cym. 
Toots 


Wafé, v.t. to wave, beckon. Ham.1.4. To 
Turn. Wint. Tale, 1. 2. 
Waftage, sb. passage. T. & Cr. II. 2. 


Wafture, sb. waving, beckoning. J.C.11.1. | 


Wage, v.t. to reward as with wages. Cor.v.5, 

Wailful, adj. lamentable. Two Gent. 111. 2. 

Waist, sb. the middle of a ship. Temp. I. 2. 

Wannion. ‘With a wannion’=‘with a 
vengeance.’ Per. 1. 1. 

Wappened, p.p. withered, overworn, Tim. 
IV. 3. 

Ward, sb. guard. Temp.1.2. Prison. 2 H. 
els Ma te, 

Warden, sb. a large pear used for baking. 
Wint. Tale, Iv. 2. 


$$, 


Warder, sb. truncheon. R. II. 1. 3. 

Warn, v.t. to summon. R. III. t. 3. 

Wassail, sb. a drinking bout. A. & C. 1. 4, 
Festivity. Ham. I. 4. 

Wat, a familiar word fora hare. V. & A, 

Watch, sb. a watch light. R. III, v. 3. 

Watch, v.t. to tame by keeping constantly 
awake. Oth. 111. 3. 

Water-gall, sb. a secondary rainbow. 
Luer. 

Water-rug, sb. a kind of dog. Mace. 111. 1. 

Water-work, sb. painting in distemper. 
2H. IV, 11: 1. 

Wax, v.t. to grow. H. V. v. 1. 

Waxen, vi. perhaps, to hiccough. M. N’s 
Draties: 

Wealth, sb. weal, advantage. 
Vacs 

Wear, sb. fashion. As you Like it, 11. 7. 

Weather-fend, v.t. to defend from the 
weather. Temp. v. 1. 

Web and pin, sb. the cataract in the eye. 
Lear, 111.4; Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Wee, adj. small, tiny. Merry Wives, I. 4. 

Weed, sb. garment. Tw. N. v. 1. 

Ween, vi. to think. 1 H. VI. 11. 5. 

Weet, v.t. to wit, know. A. & C. 1.1. 

Weigh out, v.t.to outweigh. H. VIII. 111.1. 

Welkin, sb. the sky. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Welkin, adj. sky-blue. Wint. Tale, I. 2. 

Well-liking, adj. in good condition. L's 
Le Selaeeve Se 

Well said, int. well done! 2H. IV. m1. 2. 

Wend, v.i. to go. M. for M. Iv. 3. 

Wesand, sb. the wind-pipe. Temp. III. 2. 

Whelk, sb. a weal. H. V. Ill. 6. 

Whelked, p.p. marked with whelks or 
protuberances. Lear, Iv. 6. 

When, an exclamation of impatience. 
aga Ofise lyn ck. 

When as, adv. when. Son. 49. 

Where, adv. whereas. 2 H. VI, 111.2; Lear, 
ra 

Where, sb. a place. Lear, I. 1. 

Whiffier, sb. an officer who clears the 
way in processions. H. V. v. Chorus. 

While-ere, adv. a little while ago. Temp. 
Tite 2 

Whiles, adv. until. Tw. N. Iv. 3. 

Whip-stock, sb. handle of a whip. Tw. N. 
II. 3. 

Whist, adj. hushed, silent. Temp. I. 2. 

White, sb. the centre of an archery butt. 
Pamnot Ss Vee. 

Whitely, adj. pale-faced. L’s L’s L. 111. 1. 
A doubtful word. 

Whiting-time, sb. bleaching time. Merry 
Wives, II. 3, 

Whitster, sb. bleacher. Merry Wives, I11. 3. 

Whittle, sb. a clasp knife. Tim. v. 3. 

Whoo-bub, sb. hubbub. Wint. Tale, Iv. 4. 

Whoop, v.1. to cry out with astonishment. 
H. V.u.2. Comp. As you Like it, 111. 2. 

Wicked, adj. noisome, baneful. Temp. 1. 2. 

Widow, v.t. to give a jointure to. M. for M. 
Welle 

Widowhood, sb. widow’s jointure. Tam. 
Of Swim 

Wight, sb. person. Oth. 1. 1. 

Wild, sb. weald. 1H. IV. 11.1. 

Wilderness, sb. wildness. M. for M. 111. 1. 

Wimopled, p.p. veiled, hooded. L’s L’s L, 
Ta, L. 

Window-bars, sb. lattice-work across a 
woman’s stomacher. Tim. IV. 3. 

Windring, pr.p. winding. Temp. III. 3. 

Winter-ground, v.t. to protect (a plant) 
from frost. Cym. IV. 2. 

Wis, in the compound ‘I wis,’ certainly 
la ROMS Gay 

Wish, v.t. to commend, Tam. ofS. I, 1. 

Wistly, adv. wistfully. R. I. v. 4. 

$83 


Mr Otwivs 


AN INDEX TOO FAMLETAE  PASSAG Dis 


Wit, sb. knowledge, wisdom. M. of V.11.1.; | World. ‘To go to the world’ is to get mar- 


J. C, It. 2. 

Without, prep. beyond. M. N’s Dr. Iv. 1. 

Wits, five, the five senses. Much Ado, I. 1. 

Wittol, sb. a contented cuckold. Merry 
Wives, II. 2. 

Witty, adj. intelligent. 3 H. VI. 1. 2. 

Woman-tired, adj. hen-pecked. Wint. 
Tale, II. 3. 

Wondered, p.p. marvellously gifted. 
Temp. IV. 2. 

Wood, adj. mad. Two Gent. II. 3. 

Woodcock, sb. a simpleton. Tam. of S. 1. 
») 

Woodman, sb. a forester, huntsman. Cym. 
1.6. A cant term for a wencher. M?for 
M. Iv. 3. 

Woolward, adj. shirtless. L's L’s L. v. 2. 

Word, v.t. to flatter or put off with words. 
A. & C.v.2. To repeat the words of a 
song. Cym. IV. 2. 


ried. Much Ado, 11.1. So ‘a woman of 
the world’ is a married woman. As you 
Like it, v. 3. 
Worm, sb. a serpent. M. for M. 111. 1. 
Worser, adj. worse. Temp. Iv. 1. 
Worship, v.t. to honour. H. V. I. 2. 
Worth, sb. wealth, fortune. Tw. N. 11. 8. 
Worts, sb. cabbages. Merry Wives, I. 1. 
Wot, v.t. to know. Two Gent. Iv. 4. 
Wound, p.p. twisted about. Temp. II. 2. 
Wreak, sb. vengeance. Cor. Iv. 5. 
Wreak, v.t. to avenge. T. A. IV. 3. 
Wreakful, adj. revengeful, avenging. Tim. 
Iv. 3. 
Wrest, sb. an instrument used for tuning 
a harp. T. & Cr. Il. 3. 
Writ, sb. gospel, truth. Per. 11. (Gower). 
Writhled, p.p. shrivelled. 1 H. VI. 11. 3. 
Wroth, sb. calamity, misfortune. M. of V. 
11.9. 


Wrung, p.p. twisted, strained. 1 H. IV. 
3, 
Wry, v.i. to swerve. Cym. y. 1. 


Yare, adj. ready. Used as an int., ‘be 
being understood. Temp. 1. 1. 

Yarely, adv. readily. Temp. I. 1. 

¥-clad, p.p. clad. 2H. VI. 1.1. 

Y¥-clept, p.p. called, named. L’s L’s L. v.2 

Yearn, v.t. to grieve, vex. Merry Wives, 
TID sh Re LT vio: 

Yellowness, sb. jealousy. Merry Wives, I. 3. 

Yellows, sb. a disease of horses. Tam. of 
S: mm, 2. 

Yeoman, sb. a sheriff’s officer. 2 H. 1V 
el 

Yield, v.t. to reward. A. & C. Iv. 2. 160 
report. A. & C, I1. 5. 

Yond, adj. and adv. yonder. Temp. I. 2. 


Zany, sb. & clown, gull. L’s L’s L. vy. 2. 


ALIN DENI os 


TO 


FAMILIAR PASSAGES IN SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


PAGE 
18 
35 
48 


Ancient and fish-like smell.... Tempest 

All his SUCCESSOYS.....004 M. W.of Wind. 

Alacrity in sinking......M. W. of Wind. 

As good luck would have it............... 

M. W. of Wind. 

A man of my kidney...M. W. of Wind. 

As when a giant dies.......... Mea. for M. 

Ay, but to die and go we know not 

WhETE....eeeee weieandserseononanvas tC, JOY UM. 

A MeTe ANATOMY......eeccveees Com. of E. 

A living dead-man...........+. Com. of E. 

A very valiant trencher-man.............. 
Much Ad 

A bachelor of threescore..... Much Ado 

As merry as the day islong..Much Ado 

Are you good men and true?.............. 

Much Ado 

A thousand blushing apparitions....... 

Much Ado 

All men’s office to speak patience...... 

Much Ado 

Apollo’s lute, strung with his hairv...... 

Love's L. L. 

A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear......... 

Love's L. L. 

A proper man as one shall see..........+ 

Mid. N. D. 

And certain stars shot madly............ 

Mid. N. D. 

And the imperial votaress passed on.. 

Mid. N. D. 

A lion among ladies is a..... Mid. N. D. 

A stage where every man.....Mer, Ven. 

A goodly apple rotten at the heart...... 

Mer. Ven. 

According to Fates and Destinies....... 

Mer. Ven. 

All that glisters is not gold... Mer. Ven. 

A harmless necessary cat......Mer. Ven. 

A Daniel come to judgment..Mer. Ven. 

An hour by his dial....... Have AS YOU Di 

All the world’s a stage........4s You L. 


884 


48 
48 
65 


An ill-favored thing, sir, but..As You L. 
An onion will do well for... Tam. of 8S. 
And, will you, nill you....... Tam. of 8. 
A woman moved is like a fountain 


TLOUDTO Aa scssves socteconcect cece Tam. of S. 209 
All impediments in fancy’s course...... 

All’s Well 230 
At my fingers’ ends............. Twelfth N. 233 

An you had any eye behind you......... 
Twelfth N. 240 

An I thought he had been valiant...... 
Twelfth N. 245 

As the old hermit of Prague said........ 
Twelfth N. 246 

Another lean, unwashed artificev....... 
K. John 288 

All places that the eye of heaven....... 
Rich. II. 299 

As in a theatre the eyes of men.......... 
Rich. II. 312 

A Corinthian, a lad of mettle............. 
1 Hen. IV. 323 
A plague of all cowards......1 Hen. IV. 324 

A plague of sighing and grief............. 
1 Hen. IV. 325 

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood... 
1 Hen. IV. 329 
A man can die but once.....2 Hen. IV. 352 
A valiant flea that dares......... Hen. V. 377 
All that poets feign of......... 3 Hen. VI. 4386 
A little fire is quickly ......... 3 Hen. VI. 452 
Afternoon of her best days... Rich.III. 475 

A horse! a horse! my kingdom......... 
Rich. III. 485 

After my death, I wish no other......... 
Hen. VIIT. 504 

An hour before the worshipped sun... 
Rom. & J. 585 
At lovers’ perjuries they say..Rom. & J. 591 
A word and @ DIOW.......s0.+ Rom. & J. 595 

A plague o’ both your houses.............. 
Rom. & J. 595 


PAG’ 

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy.... 
Rom. & J. 59" 
A feasting presence full of light......... 
Rom. & J. 


As proper men as ever trod....... Jul. C. 
A friend should bear a.............. Jul. C. 
All his faults observed.............. Jul. C. 
Attempt, and not the deed, confounds.. 

Macb. 2 
‘Amen’ stuck in my throat........ Macb. 
A falcon towering in her pride..Macb. 
After life’s fitful fever he......... . Macb. 
A deed of dreadful note.............Macb. 
Air-Arawn Aagger,.....ccreeseceees +.» Macb. 
A deed without a name........... ..Macb. 
Angels are bright still, though... Macb. 
All the perfumes of Arabia will not... 

Macb. 
Applaud thee to the very echo...Macb. 
A little Month OF CF@.............0000 Ham. 
A beast that wants discourse...... Ham. 
Armed at point exactly.............. Ham. 
Angels and ministers of grace....Ham. 
Art thou there, truepenny.......... Ham. 
A plentiful lack Of Wit..........ss00 Ham. 
A man that fortune’s buffets....... Ham. 
A pipe for fortune’s finger to......Ham. 
At your age the heyday in.........Ham. 
Assume a Virtue if you have......Ham. 
A man may fish with a worm....Ham. 


| A very riband in the cap of youth...... 


Ham. 

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him..Ham. 
A hit, a very palpable hit........... Ham. 
Absent thee from felicity awhile Ham. 
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised.... 
K. Lear ‘708 

Ay, every inch a king!............ K. Lear 
Age cannot wither her, nor...Ant. & C. 
Against self-slaughter there is.....Cym. 


AN INDEX 


Bettering of my mind............. Tempest 
Baseless fabric of this vision... Tempest 
Best men are moulded out of faults... 

Mea. for M. 
Benedick the married man..Much Ado 
By my penny of observation............. 

Love's L. L. 
Beadle toa humorous sigh.. Love's L. L. 
Begot in the ventricle of memory 


Love's L. L. 

Brief as the lightning......... Mid. N. D. 
Bless thee! thou art translated........... 
Mid. N. D. 


By adventuring both, I oft... Mer. Ven. 
Beauty provoketh thieves....4s You L. 
Big round tears cours’d one another... 


As You L. 
Blow, blow, thou winter wind............ 
As You L. 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility..... 
1 Hen. IV. 
Brain him with his lady’s fan............ 
1 Hen. IV. 
Banish plump Jack............ 1 Hen. IV. 


But in the way of bargain....1 Hen. IV. 
But a shirt and a halfin all..1 Hen. IV. 
Better part of valor is discretion......... 

1 Hen. IV. 
Base is the slave that pays......Hen. V. 


Bid them achieve me.............. Hen. V. 


Between two hawks............ 1 Hen. VI. 
By that sin fell the angels...Hen. VIII. 
Be just, and fear not........... Hen. VIII. 
Baby figure of the giant mass............ 

Trot. & C. 
Bud bit with an envious worm.......... 

Rom. & J. 
MS HOL MOV Grace toscescntcescseessse0s Rom. & J. 
Beggarly account of empty boxes....... 

Rom. & J. 
Beauty’s ensign yet is crimson............ 

Rom. & J. 
Beware the Ides of March......... Jul. C. 
Between the acting Of............... Jul. C. 
Brutus is an honorable man......Jwl. C. 
But yesterday the word of Cesar........ 


Ag dul. ¢. 
Be the'serpent under’t............... Macb. 
Borrower of the night................ Macb. 
Better be with the dead............. Macb. 


By the pricking of my thumbs... Macb. 
Be thou familiar, but by no........ Ham. 
Beware of entrance to a quarrel..Ham. 
Be somewhat scanter of your.....Ham. 


Brevity is the soul of wit............ Ham. 
Beggar that I am, I am............... Ham. 
Be thou as chaste as iCeé.........0... Ham. 
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks.. 

Kk. Lear 
But mice and rats and such....K. Lear 
But I will wear my heart.......... Othello 


Beware, my lord, of jealousy... Othello 


Credit his own lie...............000 Tempest 
Cross’d with adversity... Two Gen. Ver. 
Convey, the wise it call.....u. W. of W. 
Condemn the fault, and not the actor.. 

Mea. for M. 
Comparisons are odorous.... Much Ado 
Condemned into everlasting. Much Ado 


Care killed a cat....... ......... Much Ado 
Child of our grandmother Eve........... 
Love's L. L. 

Cupid painted blind...........Mid. N. D. 
Conscience, say I, you counsel well... 
Mer. Ven, 

Chewing the food............... As You L 
Clubs cannot part them........ As You L. 
Care’s an enemy to life....... Twelfth N. 


Come the three corners of......K. John 
Call you that backing of your friends.. 
1 Hen, LV. 


VO”, FAMILIAR’ PASSAGES. 


Cankers of a calm world.....1 Hen. IV. 
Cause that wit is in other men............ 


2 Hen. IV. 
Consideration, like an angel, came..... 


Hen. V. 


Crammed with distressful bread......... 


Hen. V. 
Come near your beauty with my nails.. 
2 Hen. VI. 


Corruption wins not more..Hen. VIII. 
Cruelty to load a falling man............. 


Hen. VIII. 
Crows to peck the eagles........... Coriol. 
Chaste as the icicle..............0.... Coriol. 
Care keeps his watch........... Rom. & J. 
Cowards die many times before..Jwl. C. 
Cry ‘ Havoc,’ and let slip........... Jul. C. 


Confusion now hath made his... Macb. 
Can such things be, and............ Macb. 


Curses, not loud, but deep......... Macb. 


Canst thou not minister to a...... Macb. 
Canker galls the infants of a...... Ham. 
Custom more honored in the breach.. 
: Ham. 
Conscience does make cowards..Ham. 
Cudgel thy brains no more......... Ham. 
Child Rowland to the dark tower...... 
K, Lear 

Cassio, I love thee; but never... Othello 
Come, thou monarch of the vine........ 
Ant. & C. 

Chaste as unsunned snow......... Cymb. 


Ie A OEV AGERE s.....:....20ecosce sees Tempest 
Dark backward and abysm.... Tempest 
Do wy spiriting gently............ Tempest 
Deeper than e’er plummet sounded... 
Tempest 

Deeper than did ever plummet sound. 
Tempest 

Divinity in odd numbers..M. W. of W. 
Drest in a little brief authority........... 
Mea. for M. 

Done to death by slanderous tongues.. 
Much Ado 

Devise, wit! write, pen!....Love’s L. L. 
Dan Cupid; regent of love rhymes..... 
Love's L. L. 

Dainties that are bred in a book......... 
Love's L. L. 

Devil can cite Scripture....... Mer. Ven. 
Dry as the remainder biscuit.............. 
As You L. 

Drops that sacred pity......... As You L. 
Do as adversaries do in law.... Tam. S. 
Daffodils that come before.. Winter’s T. 
Diana’s foresters, gentlemen.1 Hen.IV. 
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks...... 
Len. LV. 

Deal of skimble-skamble stuff............ 
1 Hen. IV. 

Death as the Psalmist saith..2 Hen. IV. 
Delays have dangerous ends..1 Hen. VI. 
Drunken sailor on a mast.... Rich. ITT. 
Dance attendance on their..Hen. VIIT. 


Dreams which are............... Rom, & J. 
Darest thou, Cassius, now.......... Jut. C. 
Deep damnation of his taking off....... 

Macb. 


Does not divide the Sunday....... Ham. 
Duller shouldst thou be than..... Ham. 
Doubt thou the stars are fire...... Ham. 
Do not saw the air too much...... Ham. 
Dead, for a ducat, dead.... ......... Ham. 
Down, thou climbing sorrow..K. Lear 


Eyery thing advantageous to life....... 
Tempest 

Excellent dumb discourse...... Tempest 
Except I be by Sylvia.....Two Gen. Ver. 
Excellent to have a giant’s strength... 
Mea. for M. 


PAGE 


333 


341 


12 
27 


62 


Every true man’s apparel fits your 
leu ey Bere ieee caer een Petter Mea. for M. 
Every one can master a grief. MuchAdo 
Everything handsome about him...... 
Much Ado 

Endure the toothache patiently......... 
‘Much Ado 

Ere the leviathan can swim..Mid. N. D. 
Even there where merchants............. 
Mer. Ven. 

Error, but some sober brow...Mer. Ven. 
Every one fault seeming monstrous... 
As You L. 


Even such a man so faint....2 Hen. IV. 
Every subject’s duty is the king’s....... 
Hen. V. 

Early village cock hath twice............. 
Rich, ITI, 

Eagle suffers little birds to sing.......... 
Tit. And. 

Eyes, look your last.............Rom. & J. 
Every room hath blazed with lights... 
Tim. of A. 

Earth hath bubbles as the.......... Macb. 
Eaten on the insane root............ Macb. 
Eye of newt and toe of frog....... Macb. 
Engineer hoist with his own petar...... 
Ham. 

Egregiously, AN AS8......3....-.5.--s4 Othello 
Every inordinate cup is unblessed..... 
Othello 


Fill all thy bones with aches... Tempest 
Full fathom five thy father.... Tempest 
Fringed curtains of thine eye.. Tempest 
Foreheads villanous low........ Tempest 
Fire that’s closest kept.. Two Gen. Ver. 
Flat burglary as ever was.... Much Ado 
Fellow that hath had losses..Much Ado 
From women’s eyes this doctrine....... 


Love's L. L. 

Feast of languages and stolen the 
SCLAPS ccs sh puccesetsoetear eee feces e Love's L. L. 
For sufferance is the badge...Mer. Ven. 
For ever and a day.............. As You L. 
For courage mounteth with occasion.. 
Kk. John 

Fires the proud tops.............. Rich. IT. 


Falstaff sweats to death...... 1 Hen. IV. 
Food for powder............... Tt Aen bv: 
First bringer of unwelcome news....... 
2 Hen. IV. 

For my voice, I have lost it..2 Hen. IV. 
Friend i’ the court is better..2 Hen. IV. 
Familiar as his garter.............. Hen. V. 
Framed in the prodigality of nature.. 
Rich. ITI. 

Farewell to all my greatness............... 
Hen. VIII. 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck... 
Hen, VIII. 

Fool slides o’er the ice that.. Troil. & C. 
Flesh, how art thou fishified............... 
Rom. & J. 

Flies an eagle flight, bold....Tim. of A. 
Fierce fiery warriors fought......Jul. C. 
Friends, Romans, countrymen../Jul. U. 
Foremost man of all this world../ul. C. 
Forever and forever, farewell.../ul. C. 
Full o’ the milk of human kindness... 
Moeb. 

Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier........./ VWaed, 
For this relief much thanks....... Ham. 
Frailty, thy name is woman....... fain. 
Foul deeds will rise, though....... Ham, 
Flash and outbreak of a fiery mind... 


Ham. 
Find out the cause of this.......... Ham. 
False as dicer’s Oaths...........seceee Ham. 


88 


Qn 


461 


501 


502 
524 


592 
608 
634 
6388 
641 
G44 


G19 
662 
666 
668 
669 


675 
674 
683 


Forty thousand brothers............. Ham. 
Fall’n on the inventors’ heads...Ham. 
Framed to make women false.. Othello 
Farewell the tranquil mind......Othello 


Good thingswillstrive todwell. Tempest 
Great globe... shall dissolve.. Tempest 
Good luck lies in odd numbers.......... 
M. W. of W. 

Guiltier than him they try..Mea. for M. 
*Gainst the tooth of time.... Mea. for M. 
Gentleman is not in your books........: 
Much Ado 

Godfathers of heaven’s lights............. 
Love's L. L. 

Gives to airy nothing.......... Mid. N. D. 
God made him, and therefore. Mer. Ven. 
Giving thy sum of more...... As You L. 
Good wine needs no bush...As You L. 
Grief fills the room up of my..K. John 
Gave his body to that pleasant. Rich. IT. 
Good names were to be bought........... 
1 Hen. IV. 

Give the devil his due......... 1 Hen. TV. 
Give you a reason on compulsion....... 


PeLICn EL Va 

Good thing, to make it too common... 
2 Hen. IV. 

Give dreadful note of preparation...... 
Hen. V. 

Gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day.. 
2 Hen. VI. 

Give me another horse.........Rich. III. 
Gregory, remember thy swashing 
DLO Waa clecstinassetosseseemine see: Rom, & J. 
Good night! parting is such sweet..... 
Rom. & J. 


Good digestion wait on appetite..Macb. 
Give sorrow words! the grief.....Macb. 
Give itan understanding, but no.Ham. 
Give thy thoughts no tongue. .... Ham. 
Give us a taste of your quality...Ham. 


God has given you one face........ Ham. 
Give the world assurance.........0. Ham. 
Greatly to find quarrel in a........ Ham. 
Give me an ounce of civet...... K. Lear 
Give thy worst of thoughts....... Othello 
Give me the ocular proof.......... Othello 


Give me to drink mandragora.Ant.& C. 
Great ones eat up the little ones... Per. 


He that dies pays all debts...... Tempest 
Home-keeping youth..... Two Gen. Ver. 
How this spring of love.. Two Gen. Ver. 
Head unmellowed, but his judgment.. 
Two Gen. Ver. 

He makes sweet music.. Two Gen. Ver. 
How use doth breed...... Two Gen. Ver. 
Handsome in three hundred pounds.. 
M. W. of W. 

Happy man be his dole.....M. W. of W. 


" be stsas oe 1 Hen. IV. 

Heaven doth with us......... Mea. for M. 
He was ever precise........... Mea. for M. 
He hath indeed better bettered ex- 
DECUABLOTassss.ccateschvadosncees Much Ado 


How if a’ will not stand ?.....Much Ado 
How to cheat the devil...... Love's L. L. 
He draweth out the thread..Love’s L. L. 
His reasons are as two grains..Mer, Ven. 
How like a younker or a prodigal...... 


Mer. Ven. 
Hath not a Jew eyes............. Mer. Ven. 
He hath refused it in the...... Mer. Ven. 
He is well paid that is.......... Mer. Ven. 
How full of briers is............ As You L. 


He that doth the ravens feed.As You L. 
How the world wags...........d48 You L. 
Hast any philosophy in thee.As You L. 


He must needs go that......... All’s Well 
He might have took his answer......... 
Twelfth N. 

886 


PAGE 
692 
695 
727 
736 


Halloo your name to the..... Twelfth N. 
He does it with a better grace. TwelfthN. 
Here I and sorrows Sit............ K. John 
He thatstands upon aslippery. kK. John 
How now, foolish rheum........ EK. John 
How oft the sight of means...... John 
Heaven still guards the right... Rich. I. 
He was perfumed like a milliner....... 


1 Hen. IV. 
Honor pricks me on...........1 Hen. LV. 
How this world is given to lying........ 
1 Hen. IV. 
He hath eaten me out of house........... 
2 Hen. IV. 
He was indeed the glass......2 Hen. IV. 
He hath a tear for pity....... 2 Hen. IV. 
Hung be the heavens with black....... 
1 Hen. VI. 
He dies, and makes no sign..2 Hen. VI. 
How sweet a thing it is.......8 Hen. VI. 


Honest tale speeds best being plainly.. 
Rich. ITT. 

Heaven that frowns on me...Rich. ITI, 
Had I but served my God... Hen. VIII. 
He gave his honors to the world........ 
Hen. VIII, 

He was a man of an............ Hen. VIII. 
He was a scholar................ Hen. VIII, 
Hear you this Triton of the minnows.. 
Coriol. 

His nature is too noble for........ Coriol. 
He that is strucken blind... Rom. & J. 
Hangs upon the cheek of night........... 
Rom. & J. 

He jests at scars that............Rom. & J. 


How silver-sweet sound lovers’ 
fonguesia Aes aeAisaee: Rom. & J. 
Here comes the lady........... Rom. & J. 
4 es es HON cea eanenen totee Othello 
Honor is the subject of.............. Jul. C. 
Help me, Cassiuis......c...ss00s00e- Jul. C. 
He doth bestride the narrow.....Jul. C. 
His life was gentle...-.......000 assess Jul. C. 
Heaven’s breath smells wooingly here 
i Macb. 
Hear it not, Duncan.............0+ Macb. 
Hence, horrible shadow! unreal 
IMOCKELY fs beavectas vnccsn meaeseead Macb. 


Hang out our banners on the.....Macb. 
Head is not more native to the...Ham. 
Hyperion t0'& Satyr.....c..ccsccssencee Ham. 
He was aman, take him for....... Ham. 
Hold, as ’t were, the mirror up... Ham. 
Here’s metal more attractive.....Ham. 
Help, angels! make assay! Bow..Ham. 
Has this fellow no feeling of......Ham. 
How absolute the knave is!........ Ham. 
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth... 

Kk. Lear 
Her voice was ever soft........... K. Lear 
Head and front of my offending. Othello 
He that filches from me my......Othello 
He that is robb’d not wanting...Othello 
He hath a daily beauty in........ Othello 
He wears the rose of youth... Ant. & C. 
Hark! the lark at heaven’s gate. Cymb. 


I think him so because.. Two Gent. Ver. 
Is she not passing fair... Two Gent. Ver. 
I will make a Star-chamber matter.... 
M. W. of W. 

It is a familiar beast......... M. W. of W. 
If there be no great love...M. W. of W. 
I hope, upon familiarity... W. of W. 
In his old lunes again...... M. W. of W. 
I hold you as a thing ensky’d............ 
Mea. for M. 

In time the savage bull....... Much Ado 
I were but little happy, if.... Much Ado 
I did not think I should live. Much Ado 
Is most tolerable and not to be........... 
Much Ado 


102 


AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. 


| I know that Deformed........ Much Ado 
I never tempted her............ Much Ado 
Into the eye and prospect.... Much Ado 
It adds a precious seeing to the eye.... 


Love's L. L. 

In single blessedness.......... Mid. N. D. 
I will roar you gently......... Mid. N. D. 
In maiden meditation, fancy free...... 
Mid. N. D. 

I’ll put a girdle round........ Mid. N. D. 
I know a bank where......... Mid, N. D. 
I have an exposition of sleep. ........... 
Mid. N. D. 

I hold the world but as......... Mer. Ven. 
Lam Sir Oraclei.c. cae mere Mer. Ven. 
I dote on his very absence....Mer. Ven. 
I will buy with you.............. Mer. Ven. 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge....... 
Mer. Ven. 

In a bondman’s key, with bated......... 
Mer. Ven. 

It is a wise father that.......... Mer. Ven. 
If my gossip Report be an honest....... 
Mer, Ven 


If it will feed nothing else.... Mer. 


In law, what plea so tainted..Mer. Ven. 
I am a tainted wethert........... Mer. Ven. 
Is it so nominated in the bond........... 

Mer. Ven 
I thank thee, Jew, for........... Mer. Ven. 
I am never merry when....... Mer. Ven, 


In my youth I never did.....4s You L. 
If ladies be but young......... As You L. 
I must have liberty withal..As You L. 
I do desire we may be better strangers 
As You L. 

I would the gods had made thee poeti- 
COL Gs F.b vases e vescecets ssahetens eens As You L, 
It is a melancholy of mine own........ : 
As You L. 

I had rather have a fool to..As You I. 
I will kill thee a hundred and fifty 
WELY Sccncedscccssetuccescsssneeseeamm As You L. 
If is the only peacemaker...As You L. 
I will show myself highly fed............ 


All’s Weil: 
Inaudible and noiseless foot of Time.. 
All’s Well 
If music be the food of love.. Twelfth N. 
Iam all the daughters of..... Twelfth N. 
If this were played upon a stage........ 
Twelfth N. 
I would that I were low laid in my 


WOLGS.sieseccsecss uasanectecedsuneeeees Kk. John 

I saw a smith stand with his hammer. 
K. John 

In those holy fields.............1 Hen. IV. 
If all the year were playing holidays.. 
1 Hen: IV. 

I know a trick worth two...1 Hen. 
It would be argument for a weet....... 
1 Hen. 

T AMO JGW ClSG.cccccesss conserves 1 Hen. 
I was now a coward on instinct......... 
1 Hen. 

In King Cambyses’ vein.....1 Hen. 
I am not in the roll of common.......... 
1 Hen. 

I can call spirits from......... 1 Hen. 
I had rather be a kitten...... 1 Hen. 
Isaw young Harry with his. \ Hen. 
I would ’t were bedtime, Hvil.............. 
J Hen. 

I could have better spared..{ Hen. 
In the vaward of our youth..2 Hen. 
I’ tickle your catastrophe.2 Hen. IV. 
If it be a sin to covet honor..... Hen. V. 
I eat and eat, I swear..............- Hen. V. 
If he be not fellow with.......... Hen. V. 
I have passed a miserable... Rich. III. 


AS 


AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. 


= — 


, Dave set my life upon........ Rich. III. 
{ have touch’d the highest point........ 
Hen, VITI. 


I have had my labor for...... Troil. & C. 
{ thank you for your voices...... Coriol. 
{ do.remember an apothecary..........6 

Rom, & J. 
I'll example you with thievery......... 

Tim. of A. 
It was Greek tO ME.........-+.00-seees Jul. C. 
I am constant as the northern...Jul. C. 
If any, speak; for him.............. Jul. C. 
If you have tears prepare......... Jul. C. 
T come not, friends, to steal...... Jul. C. 
I had rather be a dog......... 2.0.00 Jul. C. 
If you can look into the seeds.... Macb. 
If it were done when ’tis...........Macb. 


I have bought golden opinions..Macb. 
I dare do all that may............... Macb. 
Ef we shouldfaks oc vec. .casidecwes Macb. 
Is this a dagger which I............. Macb. 
It was the owl that shrieked......Macb. 
PEMITOT Of7 DUT POSE. ..s2ss0- 2+ osces sone Macb. 


Iam cabin’d, cribb’d, confined..Macb. 
Tllmake assurance double sure..Macb. 


I cannot but remember such......Macb. 
I have supp’d full with horrors..Macb. 
I ’gin to be a-weary Of...........s000 Macb. 
I bear a charmed life............... Macb. 


It started like a guilty thing...... Ham. 
In equal scale weighing delight..Ham. 


It is not, nor it cannot come....... Ham. 
In my mind’s eye, Horatio........ .Ham. 
In the dead vast and middle...... Ham. 
It was, as I have seen it.............. Ham. 
I do not set my life at.............000 Ham. 
Tam thy father’s spirit............06 Ham. 
Hecouldia taleunfold.. 2.225 5.c.cc008 Ham. 
~¥ know a hawk from a handsaw.Ham. 
lam myself indifferent honest...Ham. 
It out-Herods Herod...............00. Ham. 
It means mischief.............. PAT Ham. 
It will discourse most eloquent music. 
en Ham. 
“Fewill speak daggers to hert......... Ham. 
Is there not rain enough............ Ham. 
I must be cruel only to be.......... Ham, 
Imperious Cesar, dead and turned..... 
Ham. . 
I thought thy bride-bed to have 
MISC RECrreececteoccabasschccsccaescsteseess Ham 
I’)l rant as well as thou.............. Ham 
It did me yeoman’s service.........Ham. 
Into a towering passion.............. Ham. 
If it be now, ’tis not to come...... Ham. 
T have shot mine arrow 0’er....... Ham. 
Ingratitude, thou: marble - hearted 
BOER Olean cere cee sey cee dos coveassi'sscesees Kk. Lear 


I tax not you, you elements....K. Lear 
lam aman more sinned against........ 

kK. Lear 
Ill talk a word with this........ Kk. Lear 
In faith, ’t was strange..............Othello 
I do perceive here a divided..... Othello 
I saw Othello’s visage in his..... Othello 
Iam nothing, if not critical.....Othello 


Tam not merry; but I do......... Othello 
I am declined into the vale of years... 
Othello 
I understand a fury in your words..... 
Othello 
t have done the state some service..... 
Othello 


Ki beggared all description. Ant. & Cleo. 


Journeys end in lovers’ meeting......... 
Twelfth N, 
Jore, not I,is the doer of this. Twelfth N. 


King’s name twenty thousand names. 
Rich, II. 
Keen encounter of our wits..Rich. III. 


PAGE 


485 


501 
511 
547 


King’s name is a tower......... Rich, III, 
Keep the word ot promise......... Macb. 
King of shreds and patches........ Ham. 


Library was dukedom large enough... 
Tempest 

Leave not a rack behind......... Tempest 
Life is rounded with a sleep... Tempest 
Love hath twenty pair of €yeS........0.6 
Two Gen. Ver. 

Love's a mighty lord..... Two Gen. Ver. 
Like a fair house built......M@. W. of W. 
Life is a: shuttle................ M. W. of W. 
Looker-on here in Vienna..Mea. for M. 
Let every eye negotiate for itself......... 
Much Ado 

Light, seeking light, doth light........... 
Love's L. L. 

Love looks not with the eyes. Mid. N. D. 
Love is blind, and lovers...... Mer. Ven. 
Let him look to his bond...... Mer. Ven. 
Let it serve for table talk......Mer. Ven. 
Let no such man be trusted.. Mer. Ven. 


Look’d on better days......... As You L. 
Look into happiness through.As You L. 
Let the world slide.............. Tam. of 8. 


Lovea bright particular star..All’s Well 
Leave the world no copy..... Twelfth N. 
Let thy love be younger...... Twelfth N. 
Love sought is good, but..... Twelfth N. 
Let there be gall enough..... Twelfth N. 


Lord of Our presence.........00005 K. John 
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale... 
kK, John 

Let’s talk Of gYave&...........000+ Rich. I. 
Little better than one of the wicked... 
Hen LV. 

Loathe the taste of sweetness.............. 
MHC RV 

Leisure to be sick.............. 1 Hen. IV. 


Liked not the security........ 2. Hen. LV. 
Let not the heavens hear these........... 
Rich. III. 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at............ 
Hen. VIII. 

Like an eagle in a dove-cote..... Coriol, 
Lady, by yonder blessed moon........... 
Rom. & J. 

Loves to hear himself talk...Rom. & J. 
Let me have men about me...... Jul. C. 
Lowliness is young ambition’s ladder. 
Jul. C. 

Last of all the Romans.......... eee CLE Oe 
Letting ‘I dare not,’ wait upon... Macb. 
Life’s but a walking shadow.....Macb. 


Live to be the SHOW.......sc.seceseeree Macb. 
Lay on, Macduff, and............... Macb. 
Little more than kin, and less....Ham. 
Like Niobe, all tearS.............0000 Ham. 
Let it be tenable in your silence..Ham. 
Leave her to heaven and.........0 Ham. 
Let the candied tongue lick....... Ham. 
Let the devil wear black............ Ham. 
Let the galled jade wince........... Ham. 


Let the stricken deer go weep.... Ham. 
Let me wring your heatt............Ham. 
Look here, upon this picture......Ham. 
Lay not that flattering unction...Ham. 
Lay her i’ the earth; and from...Ham. 
Let Hercules himself do what....Ham. 
Let not women’s weapons, water 


UPON yan ssesscecscncapeotansacveretst eae kK. Lear 
Little dogs and all; Tray, Blanch...... 
kK. Lear 

Let’s do it after the high Roman........ 
Ant. & C. 

Misery acquaints a man......... Tenupest 
Mine with my heart in’t......... Tempest 


Melted into air, into thin air... Tempest 
Man that hath a tongue.. Two Gen. Ver. 
Mine host of the Garter....47. W. of W. 


PAGE 
482 
664 
684 


Miserable have no other medicine..... 
Mea. for M. 

Men were deceivers ever.....Much Ado 
Masters, itis proved already. Much Ado 
Making the bold wag by their praises.. 
Love's L. L. 

Masters, spread yourselves..Mid. N. D. 
Maidens call it love-in-idleness.......... 
Mid. N. D. 

My heart is true as steel...... Mid. NV. D. 
Many a time and oft in the...Mer. Ven. 
Mislike me not for my complexion.... 
Mer. Ven. 

Makes a swan-like end......... Mer. Ven. 
My pride fell with my fortunes.......... 
As You L. 

Motley ’s the only weat....... As You L. 
Men have died . . . but not for love... 
As You L. 

Men are April when they woo........... 
As You L. 

My cake is dough............000 Tam. of 8. 
My friends were poor but honest........ 
All's Weil 

Most brisk and giddy-paced. Twelfth N. 
More matter for a May morning......... 
Twelfth N. 

Merry heart goes all the day.. Wint. 7. 
Mocking the air with colors...k. John 
My large kingdom for a little grave... 


Rich, ITI. 

Mark now how a plain tale..1 Hen. IV. 
Most forcible Feeble...........2 Hen. IV. 
Many strokes, though with a little 
UX Oo eevensacea dccseseuecasvocstec este 3 Hen. VI. 
My conscience hath a thousand......... 
Rich. III. 

Men’s evil manners live in brass........ 
Hen. VIII. 

More peril in thine eye........ Rom. & J. 


My man’s as true as steel.....Rom. & J. 
My bosom’s lord sits lightly..Rom. & J. 
My poverty, but not my will.Rom. & J. 
Men at some time are masters...Jul. C. 
My true and honorable wife.....Jul. C. 


Mischief, thou art afoot............. ible ice 
Memory, the warder of the brain....... 
Macb. 


Methought I heard a voice cry...Macb. 
My way of life is fallen into...... Macb. 
Make the night joint-laborer......Ham. 
Morn, in russet mantle clad....... Ham. 
My father’s brother, butno more. Ham. 
More in sorrow than in anger.... Hum. 


Making night hideous................ Ham. 
My fate cries out, and makes..... Ham. 
More matter with less art........... Ham. 


Man delights not me; no, nor....Ham. 
Murder, though it have no tongue..... 

Ham. 
My imaginations are as foul....... Ham. 
My offence is rank, it smells to...Ham. 
Made you no more offence......K. Lear 
Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel, grim..... 


Kk. Lear 

Mine enemy’s Og.......sssesssesee K. Lear 
Most potent, grave, and reverend....... 
Othelio 

My salad days, when I was green...... 
Ant. & C. 

Nothing ill can dwell............. Tempest 


No ceremony that to great ones.......... 
Mea. for M. 

Not born under a rhyming planet...... 
Much Ado 

Nourishment which is called suppevr.. 
Love's L. L. 

Nature hath framed strange fellows... 
Mer. Ven. 

Not yet so old but she may... Mer. Ven. 
Now, infidel, I have vou....... Mer. Ven. 


887 


AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGKHS. 


Not one to throw at a dog....As You L. 
Neither rhyme nor reason Cal.........+. 
As You L. 

No sooner looked, but they loved....... 
As You L. 

No profit grows where is no. Tam. of S. 
Nothing comes amiss, SO Money......... 
Tam. of S. 

Nature’s own sweet and cunning 
hand.. .. Twelfih N. 
New- made honor ‘doth forget. .K. John 
No virtue like necessity......... Rich. II. 
Not all the water in the rough rude 
BRR, dx casatercoseicssedaiae SEED 1 7), Nau Bi 
Nothing can we call our own but....... 
Rich. II. 

Nay, that’s past praying for..1 Hen. IV. 
No more of that, Hal.......... 1 Hen. IV. 
Now is the winter of our...... Rich. ITI. 
Name unmusical to the Volscians’ 


No, tis not so deep as a well... 

Rom. e Fy 
Night’s candles are burnt out............. 
Rom. & J. 
Not stepping o’er the bounds.............. 
Rom. & J. 
Not that I loved Ceesar less........ Jul. C. 
Norweyan banners fiout the sky. Macb. 
Nothing in his life became him like... 
Macb. 
No compunctious visitings of nature.. 
Macb. 
Nor time nor place did then...... Macb. 
Nothing can touch him further..Macb. 
Now spurs the lated traveller.....Macb. 
Not so sick, my lord, as..............Macb. 
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.... 
Ham. 
Nyinph, in thy orisons be all......Ham. 
Not to speak it profanely............ Ham. 
Never set a squadron in the field........ 
Othello 

No hinge nor loop to hang a doubt... 
Othello 
Nothing extenuate, nor set down 
GUIGIL tana of sotasenors evs ecaton Saajeasezs Othello 


© what a world of vile......0. W. of W. 
Our doubts are traitors...... Mea. for M. 
Our compell’d sins stand more........... 
Mea. for M. 
One Pinch, a hungry lean-face vil- 
NSU Dee vashee a esnipcodsiaters seslacalndeeet Com. of E. 
O, what men dare do!......... Much Ado 
O, what a goodly outside, falsehood... 
Mer. Ven. 
O, good old man..............A8 You L. 
O wonderful, wonderful, and most..... 
As You L. 
Omittance is no quittance...A4s You L. 
Our cake’s dough on both sides......... 
Tam. of S. 
Our remedies oft in ourselves............. 
All’s Weil 
Oft expectation fails, and most oft...... 
All’s Well 

O, what a deal of scorn looks... a 
Twelfth N. 
Oftentimes excusing of a fault........... 
K. John 
Old John of Gaunt, time-honored....... 
Rich. I. 
O, call back yesterday, bid time......... 
Rich. II. 
Old father antic, the law.....1 Hen. IV. 
Out of this nettle, danger....1 Hen. IV. 
O monstrous! but one half-penny- 


2 Hen. IV. 


PAGE 


173 


181 


187 
192 


194 
236 


276 
299 


306 


458 


Once more unto the breach, dear 
LLICN.GS:s. cpcccclspentauceerateranstest Hen. V. 
Off with his head.............-... Rich. II. 
O coward conscience, how dost.......... 
Rich. II. 

Order gave each thing view. Hen. VIII. 
Old man, broken with the storms....... 
Hen. VIII. 

One touch of nature makes..Troil. & C. 
One fire burns out another’s.Rom. & J. 
O, that I were a glove.......... Rom. & J. 
O, Romeo, Romeo!........ ..++0 Rom. & J. 
One, two, and the third in... Rom. & J. 
One writ with me in sour misfor- 


UTC Geese erie baal taceedNeseaies Rom. & J. 
O judgment! thou art fled........ Jul. C. 
O, what a fall was there...........- Jul. C. 
O, that a man might know........ Jul. C. 
Our fears do make us traitors..... Macb. 
O, I could play the woman.. ..... Macb. 
Out, damned spot! out, I say !...Macb. 


Out, out, brief candle !............... Macb. 
O that this too too solid flesh...... Ham. 
O my prophetic soul! my uncle!.Ham. 
O Hamlet, what a falling off.:..... Ham. 
One may smile and smile and....Ham. 
O day and night, but this is....... Ham. 


On Fortune’s cap we are not...... Ham. 
O, what a noble mind is here..... Ham. 
Observed of all observers............ Ham. 
One woe doth tread upon........... Ham. 
One that was @ woman, Sil......... Ham. 
O, that way madness lies......... K. Lear 


One that excels the quirks of... Othello 
O most lame and aaeriesit, conclu- 

sion !.. Dee Ue ecteam arta ... Othello 
Oud have lost athe Tepaeians ne Othello 
O thou invisible spirit of wine..Othello 
Othello’s occupation ’s gone......Othello 
On horror’s head horrors accumulate. 


Othello 
Our new heraldry is hands, not hearts 
Othello 
O Iago, the pity. of it.....-.c.ccccces Othello 
One that loved not wisely.........Othello 


O, wither’d is the garland of.. Ant. & C. 


Plays such fantastic tricks..Mea. for M. 
Pleasing punishment that women...... 

Com. of E. 
Patch grief with proverbs...Much Ado 
Posteriors of this day........ Love's L. L. 
Praising what is lost makes..All’s Weill 
Purple testament of bleeding war...... 


Rich, wT, 

Pluck up drowned honor by the locks 
1 Hen. IV. 

Play out the play..............6 Indien. LV. 
Purge, and leave sack, and..1 Hen. IV. 
Press not a falling man too far............ 
Hen, VIII. 

Past our dancing days..... ...Rom. & J. 


Put a tongue in every wound...Jul. C. 
Present fears are less than......... Macb. 
Pour the sweet milk of concord..Macb. 
Pluck out the heart of my mystery..... 


Ham. 

Precious diadem stole, and put it....... 
Ham. 

Politician . . . one that could circum- 
VOD Biiticd caves saicenarn taille unpeurdalte com aem phen Ham 
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er 
VOU ss ulscepatewekbsrereecnasaenteeeeerae Kk. Lear 
Patience and sorrow strove.....K. Lear 


Preferment goes by letter and...Othello 


Put money in thy purse............ Othello 

| Potations pottle deep........s...:.. Othello 
Poor and content is rich........... Othello 
Pomp and circumstance of glorious 
WAT sevededetebarctiudgcapspaceuaasesameme Othello 
Put in every honest hand a whip....... 
Othello 


PAGE 


372 
472 


484 
487 


Put out the light, and then....... Othello 
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for.. 


Cym. 


Queen Mab hath been with you......... 
Rom. & J. 


Rats instinctively had quit..... Tempest 
Rich in having such a jewel............... 

Two Gent. Ver. 
Rankest compound of a villanous 


Railed on Lady Fortune......4s You L, 
Retort courteous..............--. As You L. 
Rob me the exchequer........ 1 Hen. IV. 
Remember the poor creature, small 


DOOR asiiescsecedes occas aradenaeeeee 2 Hen. IV. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers....... 

Jul. C. 

Return to plague the inventor... Macb. 

Reckless of what I do to............ Macb. 
Rich, not gaudy; for the apparel. ... 

Ham. 

Revisit’st thus the glimpses........ Ham. 

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit.......... Ham, 


Rich gifts wax poor when givers..Ham. 
Reason, like sweet bells jangled..Ham. 
Reform it altogether................... Ham. 
Report me and my cause............ Ham. 


Still-vexed Bermoothes........... Tempest 
Sea-change into something rich....... *r 

Tenvpest 
Such stuff as dreams are made. Tempest 
Seven hundred pounds and possibili- 


Sail like my pinnace........M. W. of W. 
Spirits are not finely touch’d Riel Rees 

Mea. for M. 
Servile to all the skyey influences...... 

Mea. jor M. 
Sense of death is most........ Mea. for M. 
Skirmish of ‘wit; .:.3/c.ccccceeen Much Ado 


Speak low if you speak love. Much Ado 
Sits the wind in that corner. Much Ado 
Some, Cupid kills with arrows, some.. 

Much Ado 
Some of us will smart for it..MWuch Ado 
Study to break it...............Love’s L. L. 
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.. 


Love's L. L. 

Swifter than arrow from Tartar’s bow. 
Mid. N. D. 

So we grew togethev............ Mid. N. D 
Ships are but boards............. Mer. Ven. 
Speak me fair in death......... Mer. Ven. 
Such harmony is in iimoelad speg Sassen’ 
Mer. Ven. 

So shines a good deed........... Mer. Ven. 


Speak to him, ladies; see....As You L. 
Sweet are the uses of adversity.... 


As You Wy 
Sweep on, you fat and greasy............. 
As You L. 
She has a huswife’s hand....As You L. 
Small choice in rotten apples......... Be 
Tam. of S&. 
Such duty as the subject owes............ 
Tam. of S. 
Service is no heritage.......... All’s Well 


Since I have lost, have loved. All’s Well 
Spinsters and knitters in the sun........ 


Twelfth N. 

She never told her love....... Twelfth N. 
Some are born great, some achieve..... 
Twelfth N. 

Snapper-up of unconsidered trifles..... 
Winter's T. 

Sweet poison for the age’s tooth......... 
K. John 

St. George that swinged the dragon.... 
EK. John 


PAGE 


745 


786 


655 


670 


279 


AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES 


So pestered with a popinjay.1 Hen. IV. 
Some smack of age in you...2 Hen. IV. 
Sleep! O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft 


BININSOMeseerta en ade oat ccseeecse<ctves 2 Hen. IV. 
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin. 
Hen. V. 


Sheath’d their swords for lack..Hen. V. 
Stand like greyhounds in the slips..... 

Hen. V. 
Soul of goodness in things evil..Hen. V. 
She’s beautiful, and therefore to be 


SUV GO RE uN cases ad cewank cs ses 1 Hen. VI. 
Smooth runs the water where... 
2 Ren VL 


Smallest worm will turn.....38 Hen. VI. 


Suspicion always haunts the.............. 


3 Hen. VI. 
Stand back,and let the coffin. Rich. ITT. 
Seem a saint when most L.... Rich. ITI. 
So wise, so young, they say... Rich. ITI. 
Sons of Edward sleep in...... Rich, IIT. 
Shadows to-night have struck more... 

Rich. IT. 
Sleep in dull cold marble...Hen. VIIT. 
So may he rest; his faults..Hen. VIII. 
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true. Tit. And. 
She is a woman, therefore..... Tit. And. 


oe “ce “cc ce 6s 1 Hen. VI. 
Saint-seducing gold............. Rom. & J. 
Swears a prayer or two........ Rom. & J. 
Stony limits cannot hold love out...... 

Rom. & J. 
Stabbed with a white wench’s black 
CUR Ee 5- ae TR he E Rom. & J. 


Straining harsh discords and. Rom.& J. 
Sharp misery had worn him.Rom. & J. 
Such men are dangerous........... Jul. C. 
Seldom he smiles and............... UL Os 
Secorning the base degrees by.... Jul. C. 
Should I have answered Caius..Jul. C. 
Sleep shall neither night nor..... Mac. 
Stands not within the prospect..Macb. 


Serew your courage to the......... Macb. 
Shut up in measureless content..Macb. 
Sleep that knits up the............... Macb. 
Stand not upon the order of....... Macb. 
Should I wade no more............. Macb. 
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart... 

Macb. 


Saw you the weird sisters...........Macb. 
Stands Scotland where it did ?... Macb. 
Sheeted dead did squeak and gibber.. 

Ham. 
Seems, madam! nay, it is........... Ham. 
She would hang on him, as if.....Ham. 
Season your admiration for a.....Ham. 
Springes to catch woodcocks......Ham. 
Something is rotten in the......... Ham. 
SEN TOMY ACCOUNL..;.......000.-.ccee0 Ham. 
Still harping on my daughter.....Ham. 


Suit the action to the word......... Ham. * 


Some of nature’s journeymen.....Ham. 


Shame! where is thy blush?......Ham. 
Sure. He that made us with........ Ham. 
So full of artless jealousy............ Ham. 
Striving to better, oft we mar... K. Lear 
Silence that dreadful bell !........ Othello 


Swell, bosom, with thy fraught.. Othello 


Steep’d me in poverty to the.....Othello 
Seorn to point his slow............. Othello 
Smooth as monumental alabaster...... 

Othello 


Sometime we see a cloud...... Ant. & C. 
Some griefs are med’cinable....... 


Tester I'll have in pouch..M. W. of W. 


The king’s English............ M. W. of W. 
Thereby hangs a tale........ M. W. of W. 
me ss sk Pie Ss acetate As You L 


Thereby hangs a tail......... 
Thou hast some crotchets..M. W.of W. 


eee 


The world’s mine oyster...M. W.of W. 
The short and the long of it. M. W. of W. 
Think of that, Master Brook... 

M. W. of W. 
Thyselfand thy belongings. Mea. for M. 
That in the captain’s but a..Mea. for M. 


Take, O take those lips away.............. 
Mea. for M. 

PYUSE NO/ASSMT yeccesscaeoeseetsess Much Ado 
The most senseless and fit man. ......... 
Much Ado 

Thank God you are rid of a knave..... 
Much Ado 


They are not the men you...Much Ado 
They that touch pitch......... Much Ado 
The fashion wears out more apparel.. 

Much Ado 
Th’ idea of her life shall...... Much Ado 
That’s the eftest way........... Much Ado 
To write me down an ass.... Much Ado 
Too hard a keeping oath... Love’s L. L. 
The boy hath sold him a bargain........ 


Love's L. L. 

Teaches such beauty as a woman’s 
CV Gis Aisancntasavdsuervavescccece Love's L. L 
They have measured many a mile..... 
Loves L. L. 

The course of true love...... Mid. N. D 
This is Ercles’ vein............. Mid. N. D 
To hear the sea-maid’s music............. 
Mid. N. D 


Two lovely berries moulded. Mid.N.D. 
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet... 


Mid. N. D. 
The lover, all as frantic...... Mid. N. D. 
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy........... 
Mid. N. D. 
The true beginning of our end........... 
Mid. N. D. 
The best in this kind are but shadows 
Mid. N. D. 


Theiron tongue of midnight. Mid_N. D. 
Though Nestor swear the jest. Mer. Ven. 
There are a sort of men........ Mer. Ven. 
They are as sick that surfeit..Mer. Ven. 
The villany you teach me.... Mer. Ven. 
Tell me where is fancy bred.Mer. Ven. 
Thus when I shun Scylla...... Mer. Ven. 
’*T is mine, and I will have it.Mer. Ven. 


The quality of mercy is not..Mer. Ven. 
To do a great right, do.......... Mer. Ven. 
*T is not in the bond............. Mer. Ven. 
Thou shalt have justice.. ..... Mer. Ven. 


The man that hath no music..Mer. Ven. 
These blessed candles of the night..... 
Mer. Ven. 

That was laid on with a trowel.......... 
As You L. 

Tongues in trees, books in...As You L. 


Therefore my age is as a.....ds You L. 
The why is plain as............. As You L. 
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive 

As You L. 


Time travels in divers paces. As You L. 
Thank heaven fasting for a good 
MAM SHOVE .cssccvaenvenveucones As You L. 
Too much of a good thing...As You L. 
Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs......... 
Tam. of 8. 

The hind that would be...... All’s Well 
The place is dignified by the doer’s 
CEG itey cca csbescscseeanesnetaas All’s Well 
’T is not the many oaths...... All’s Well 
The web of our life is of....... All’s Well 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty 
Twelfth N. 

Trick of singularity............ Twelfth N. 
This is very midsummer madness...... 
Twelfth N. 

The rain it raineth every day............. 
Twelfth N. 
ee EW akon 


ac e 66 “6 se 


PAGE 
41 
41 


48 
56 
62 


68 
96 


102 
102 
102 
102 


102 
105 


163 
164 


168 


169 


172 
174 
175 
177 


178 
180 


183 
184 


195 
211 


217 
224 
225 


237 
240 


243 


250 
709 


To unpath’d waters, undream’d 
STOTGG Alu lsiersncdeamine boas vee. Winter's T. 
Talks as familiarly of roaring lions.... 
K. John 

Thou wear a lion’s hide......... KE. John 
To gild, refined gold...........204. K, John 


This England never did nor...K. John 
The tongues of dying men..... Rich. IT. 
The ripest fruit first falls........ Rich. I, 
Thou hast damnable iteration............ 


bien. IV. 
*T is my vocation, Hal......... 1 Hen. IV. 
There’s neither honesty......1 Hen. 1V. 


The blood more stirs to rouse a lion... 
PAL Vv. 
Three misbegotten knaves..1 Hen. IV. 
Tell truth and shame the deyvil......... 
1 Hen. IV. 
Take mine ease in mineinn.1 Hen. IV. 
Two and two, Newgate fashion........... 
1 Hen. IV. 
This sickness doth infect....1 Hen. IV. 
Two stars keep not their motion......... 
1 Hen. IV. 
This earth that bears thee dead.......... 
LC LV: 
Thou didst swear to me...... 2 Hen, IV. 
Thus we play the fools....... 2 Hen. IV. 
Thy wish was father, Harry..2 Hen. IV. 
That’s a perilous shot.............. Hen. V. 
This day is call’d the feast of...Hen. V. 
Then shall our names familiar. Hen. V. 
There is occasions and causes..Hen. V. 
Thrice is he armed that hath.2 Hen. VI. 
The bricks are alive....,....... 2 Hen. VI. 
Thou hast most traitorously.2 Hen. VI. 
Things ill got had ever bad success.... 


3 Hen. VI. 

Thus I clothe my naked villany......... 
Rich. IIT. 

Thou troublest me; Iam not.Rich. ITI. 
Their lips were four red roses. Rich. ITI. 
Tetchy and wayward was thy............ 
Rich. IIT. 

Thus far into the bowels of the........... 
Rick LLL, 


True hope is swift, and flies.. Rich. IT. 
Thing devised by the enemy. Rich. ITI. 
’T is better to be lowly born. Hen. VIII. 
*T is well said again............ Hen. VITI. 
Then to breakfast with what appetite. 
Hen. VIII. 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet. Troil.& C. 
Things in motion sooner catch........... 
Troil. & C. 

The end crowns all............. Zroil. & C. 
That book in many’s eyes....Rom. & J. 
Too early seen unknown.....Rom. & J. 


Too like the lightning which.Rom.d& J. 


Thy old groans ring yet....... Rom, & J. 
Taking the measure............ Rom. & J. 
The world is not thy friend..Rom. & J. 


’T is lack of kindly warmth.. Tim. of A. 
TPhelivelomordayieesteeeccessesaeee:: IL THEM OR 
There was a Brutus once.......... Jul. C. 
Think you I am no stronger.....Jul. C. 
The Ides of March are come.....Jwl. C. 
The choice and master spirits... Jul. C. 
Though last not least in love....Jul. C.. 
Thou art the ruins.. Recreate 
The most uabindest out of als wb. Go 
To have an itching palm.......... Jul. C. 
There is no terror, Cassius....... .Jul. C. 
There is a tide in the affairs......Jwl. C. 
This was the noblest Roman..... Jal. C. 
To win us to our harm...........006 Macb. 
Two truths are told.............css00 Macb. 


Time and the hour runs through.Macb. 

There’s no art to find the mind’s. Macb. 

This castle hath a pleasant seat..Macb. 

There’s husbandry in heaven... Macb. 

Thou marshall’st me the way..... Mach, 
fateh 


AN INDEX TO FAMILIAR PASSAGES. 


Thy very stones prate............ss006 Macb. 
The labor we delight in............. Macb. 
They placed a fruitless crown....Macb. 
Things without all remedy........ Macb. 
They are assailable........ccececceee Macb. . 
Thou canst not say I did it......... Macb. 
Thou hast no speculation..........Macb 
Take a DON Of fAate........sserseceeeee Maeb. 
The flighty purpose never is o’ertook. 
Macb. 
Throw physic to the dogs........... Macb. 
This bodes some strange eruption...... 
Ham. 
Then, they say, no spirit dares...Ham. 
Trappings and the suits of woe..Ham. 
That it should come to this......... Ham. 
Thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked 
NIN OEDLS sis tpaecescs es cassnNe cw caveacestenst Ham 
To thine ownself be true............ Ham 
The air bites shrewdly............... Ham. 
To the manner DOIrMD...............000 Ham. 
There needs nO ghost.......e.e.-20e- Ham. 
There are morethings in heaven. Ham. 
Time 18 OUL Of JOINT.......-s.s0r.sccnene Ham. 
This is the very ecstasy of love...Ham. 
’T is true, ’tis pity; and pity...... Ham. 
Though this be madness............ Ham. 
There is nothing either good......Ham. 
*T was caviare to the general......Ham. 
They are the abstract and.......... Ham. 
The devil hath power to assume. Ham. 
LO DEOL NOL PONE. c lice ese scntorecenns Ham. 
The glass of fashion and the...... Ham. 
The very age and body of........... Ham. 
Though it make the unskilful laugh.. 
Ham. 
Thou art e’en as just a man........ Ham. 
The lady protests too much........ Ham. 
’T is as easy as lying... +» HAM. 
They fool me to the top of mye .Ham. 
’T is now the very witching time. Ham. 
This is the very coinage............. Ham. 
There’s such divinity doth hedge...... 
Ham. 
There’s rosemary, that’s for remem- 
DY OTICOsets ecredecesciven cece cecttes cvetares Han 
The hand of little employment.. Ham. 
The age is grown so picked........ Ham, 
To what base uses we may........ Ham. 
”T were to consider too curiously.Ham. 
Though I am not splenitive and rash. 
Ham. 
There’s a divinity that shapes...Ham. 
There’s a special providence......Ham. 
This fell sergeant, death, is........ Ham. 
Tremble, thou wretch............. Ik. Lear 
Take physic, pomp, expose thyself..... 
kK. Lear 


’T is a naughty night to swim...K. Lear 
The prince of darkness is a.....K. Lear 
The worst is not so long as we...K. Lear 
Through tattered clothes, small vices 


The gods are just, and of our...K. Lear 
The wonder is, he hath endured........ 

&. Lear 
The robbed that smiles, steals...Otheilo 
That men should put an enemy. Othello 
To be once in doubt is once...... Othello 
Trifles light as air are to the jealous... 


Othello 
This denoted a foregone conclusion... 
Othello 
To beguile many, and be beguiled..... 
Othello 
They laugh that win................ Othello 


*Tis neither here nor there...... Othello 
This is the night that either...... Othello 
There’s beggary in the love that........ 
Ant. & C. 
This morning like the spirit of........... 
Ant. & C. 

890 


PAGE 
651 


| ’T is slander, whose edge is vipa gaa 
THE PAMEAS WP ssiiarcgencerasscaeeoscee Cen 


Uncertain glory of an April day......... 
Two Gen, Ver. 

Unless experience be a jewel............. 
M. W. of W. 

Unlettered small knowing soul.......... 
Love's. L. L 

Under the greenwood tree...As You L. 
Uneasy lies the head..........2 Hen. IV. 
Under which king, Besonian?............ 
2 Hen. IV. 

Upon what meat doth this......... Jul. C. 
Unhand me, gentlemen.............. Ham. 
Use every man after his desert... Ham. 
Unpack my heart with words....Ham. 
Undiscovered country from....... Ham. 
Upon this hint I spake.............. Othello 
Unused to the melting mood.... Othello 


Virtue is bold, and goodnegs..........00++. 


Mea. for M. 

Vile squealing of the wry-necked fife. 
Mer. Ven. 

Very good orators when they are out. 
As You L. 

Villanous company...........+ 1 Hen. IV. 
Very pink of courtesy.......... Rom. & J. 
Violent delights have violent ends..... 
Rom. & J. 

Villain and he be many miles............ 
Rom. & J. 

Vaulting ambition which o’erleaps.... 
Macb. 

Vile blows and buffets of............ Macb. 
Where the bee sucks............... Tempest 
Woman’s reason............ Two Gen. Ver. 
We burn daylight............. M. W. of W. 


What the dickens his name.M. W.of W. 
What a taking was he in... W. of W. 
Why, all the souls that were. Mea. for M. 
Weariest and most loathed. Mea. for M. 
What’s mine is yours......... Mea. for M. 
Wretched soul bruised with adversity 
Com. of E. 

When the age is in, the wit is out....... 
Much Ado 

What we have, we prize not. Much Ado 
What great men have been in love?... 
Love's L. L. 

Within the limit of becoming mirth... 
Love's L. L. 


What fools these mortals be.. Mid. N. D. 
Why should a man whose blood......... 

Mer. Ven. 
When you have them, they..Mer. Ven. 
When I had lost one shaft.... Mer. Ven. 
When did friendship take.... Mer. Ven. 
Whether those peals of praise. Mer. Ven. 
Wouldst thou have a serpent sting...... 

Mer. Ven. 
We'll have a swashing and.As You L. 
We shall ne’er be younger... Tam. of S. 
Would take her with all faults............ 


‘Tam. of 8. 
Whose words all ears took captive...... 
All’s Well 
Wherefore are these things hid.......... 
Twelfth N. 
Woman, take an elder than.. Twelfth N. 
What’s her history ?.......+.+. Twelfth N. 
Windy side o’ the law......... Twelfth N. 
What is the opinion of Pythagoras..... 
Twelfih N. 


Whirligig of time brings in.. Twelfth N. 
When you do dance, I wish... Wint. T. 
When Fortune means to men..K. John 


We cannot hold mortality’s strong 
TQM srs costoyivtectwechonstoensees the oor K. John 


PAGE 


42 


114 
176 
300 
362 
629 
671 
677 
678 
678 
725 
747 


Who can hold a fire in his hand......... 
Rich. IT. 
What doth gravity out of his bed....... 
1 Hen. LV. 
With all appliances and means.......... 
2 Hen. IV. 
We have heard the chimes..2 Hen. IV. 
Winding up days with toil...... Hen. V. 
Warwick, peace, proud setter-up........ 
3 Hen, VI. 

Wome in this humor woo’d?... 
Rich, “TIL. 
World is grown so bad......... Rich. If. 
What pain it was to drown..Rich. I/J. 
Welcome ever smiles, and farewell... 
Trotl. & C. 
Where dwellest thou ?............+. Coriol. 
Weakest goes to the wall......Rom. & J. 
When King Cophetua loved. Rom. & J. 
What’s in a name?.. kom. & J. 
Was ever book containinige fmt & J, 
White wonder of dear Juliet’s hand... 


Rom. & J. 

We have seen better days..... Tim. of A. 
We’ll do any thing for gold.. Tim. of A. 
When I tell him he hates flatterers..... 
Jul. CO. 

When beggars die there are no..Jwl. C. 
Who is here SO DASe........00s2e-eenee Jul. C. 


When that the poor have cried..Jwl. C. 
What private griefs they have...Jul. C. 
When love begins to sicken...... Jul. C. 
Whether we shall meet again... Jul. C. 


When shall we three meet......... Macb. 
What are these, so wither’d........ Macb. 
What thou wouldst highly.........Macb. 
Wine of life is drawn.............-.+- Macb. 
We are men, my liege... ..........0. Macb. 
We have scotch’d the snake...... Macb. 
When the brains were out the... Macb. 
What man dare, I dare.............. Macb. 


What, will the line stretch out...Macb. 
What, all my pretty chickens.....Macb. 
What’s done cannot be undone..Macb. 


Macb. 

We’ll die with harness on.......... Macb. 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth.. Ham. 
While one with moderate haste..Ham. 
While memory holds a seat........ Ham. 
Within the book and volume.....Ham. 
What a piece of work is a man...Ham. 
What’s Hecuba to him, or he.....Ham. 
With devotion’s visage and pious. Ham, 
What form of prayer can serve...Ham. 
We know what we are, but......... Ham. 
When sorrows come, they come..Ham. 
What imports the nomination of this. 
Ham. 

Whip me such honest knaves... Othello 
Wealthy curled darlings of our na- 
PLOT ANiiisescadsvevenevevcnssenaemeeeeraee Othello 
When I love thee not, Chaos is come.. 
Othello 

Who steals my purse, steals trash........ 
Othello 

Who doesi’ the wars more.... Ant. & C. 
Weariness can snore upon the flint.... 


Cymb. 

You shall comprehend all vagrom..... 
Much Ado 

You have too much respect.. Mer. Ven. 
You take my house............. Mer. Ven. 
Yet words are no deeds...... Hen. VIII. 

| Ye gods, it doth amaze me........ Jul. C. 
Yond Cassius hath a lean..........Jul. C. 


Your face, my thane, isasa book.Macb. 
You have displaced the mirth....Macb. 
Yet who would have thought....Macb. 
You must wear your rue with.... Ham. 
Your name is great in mouths.. Othello 


a ee — ae 


ALPHABETICAL INDEX 


TO THE 


CHARACTERS IN SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS. 


AAPOM, & MOOT........00rs.sceeeee Tit. And. 
«Abbot of Westminster.........Rich. I. 
Abhorson, an executioner. Mea. for M. 
Abraham, seryant to Montague........ 

Rom. & J. 
Achilles, Grecian commandet........... 

Troil. & C. 
Adam, servant to Oliver.....As You L. 
Adrian, a Neapolitan lord.... Tempest 
Adriana, wife to Antipholus of 


IED @SU SivcasssSesucds sie. isscses Com. of E. 
4igeon, a merchant of Syracuse........ 
Com. of E. 

Zimilia, wife to Ageon......Com. of E. 
Aimilius, a noble Roman.... Tit. And. 
4ineas, a Trojan commander........... 
Troi. & C. 

Agamemnon, Grecian general......... 
Troil. & C. 


Agrippa, friend to Cesar....Ant. & C. 
A jax, Grecian commander. Troil. & C. 
Alarbus, son to Tamora...... Tit. And. 
Alcibiades, an Athenian general...... 
Tim. of A. 
Alex. Iden, a Kentish gentleman...... 
2 Hen. VI. 
Alexander, servant to Cressida......... 
Troil. & C. 
Alexas, attendant on Cleopatra......... 
Ant. & C. 
Alice, a lady attendant on the Prin- 
cess Katharine of France.....Hen. V. 
Alonso, king of Naples.......... Tempest 
Ambassadors, to kg. Eng......Hen. V. 
Amiens, lord attending on the ban- 
ASCE CINK Ctpasccesessercnedevetes As You L. 
Andromache, wife to Hector............ 
Trou. & C. 
Angelo, a goldsmith........... Com. of E. 
Angelo, duke of Vienna’s deputy...... 
Mea. for M. 
Angus, a Scottish nobleman.....Macb. 
Anne Bullen, afterwards queen....... 
Hen. VIII. 
An old widow of Florence. All’s Well 
Antenor, a Trojan commander......... 
Trot. & C. 
Antigonus,a Sicilian lord. Winter's T. 
Antiochus, king of Antioch.. ..... Per. 
Antipholus of Ephesus, twin 
Antipholus of Syracuse, } brothers. 
Com. of E. 
Antonio, brother to Leonato............. 
Much Ado 
Antonio, brother to Prospero. Tempest 
Antonio, friend to Sebastian...........-. 
Twelfth N. 


PAGE 
564 
295 

56 


084 


Antonio, father to Proteus.......ee 
Two Gen. Ver. 

Antonio, a merchant of Venice......... 
Mer. Ven. 

Apemantus, a churlish philosopher. 


Tim. of A. 
A POCHECALY iicaseceseisroscecceres Rom. & J. 
Archbishop of Canterbury..Hen. V. 
Archduke of Austria.......... EK. John 


Archibald, Earl Douglas...1 Hen. IV. 
Archidamus, a Bohemian lord........ 

Winter's T. 
Ariel, an airy spirit............... Tempest 
Artemidorus, a sophist........Jul. C. 
Arthur,nephew to King John. Kk. John 
Arviragus, son to Cymbeline....Cym. 
Audrey, a country wench..As You L. 
Autolycus, a rogue............ Winter’s T. 


Bagot, servant to king.......... Rich. II. 
Balthasar,servant to Portia. Mer. Ven 
Balthazar, a merchant.....Com. of E. 
Balthazar, Don Pedro’s servant....... 
Much Ado 

Balthasar, servant to Romeo... 
Rom. & J. 
Banquo, a Scottish general...... Macb. 
Baptista, a gentleman of Padua....... 
Tam. of 8. 
Bardolph, follower to Falstaff.......... 
WHenn lV. 
Bardolph, follower to Falstaff.......... 
2 Hen. IV. 
Bardolph, follower to Falstaff.......... 
M. W. of W. 
Bardolph, ipa servant to Fal- 
staff... ane Jet .. Hen. V. 
Rapnisatae, ¢ a , dissolinte’ prisoner ae 
Mea. for M. 
Bassanio, friend to Antonio. Mer. Ven. 
Basset, of the Red Rose faction......... 
1 Hen. VI. 
Bassianus, brother to Saturninus.... 
Tit. And. 
Bastard of Orleans......... 1 Hen. VI. 
Bates, a soldiet......... 
Beatrice, niece to Leonato.. Much Ado 
Belartus, a banished lord......... Cym. 
Benedick, a young lord of Padua..... 
Much Ado 
Benvolio, friend to Romeo..Rom. & J. 
BS OTIC CLEU ato te tctissncoae see tec are Rich. ITT. 
Bernardo, a Danish officer...... Ham. 
Bertram, count of Rousillon............ 
All's Weil 
Bevis, a follower of Cade...2 Hen. VI. 


PAGE 


18 


647 


316 


339 


35 


364 


56 
150 


389 


564 
389 
364 

92 
775 


92 
584 
458 
666 


210 
410 


Bianca, daughter of Baptista........... 
Tam. of 8. 
Bianea, a courtesan............00. Othello 
Biondello, servant to Lucentio......... 
Tam. of 8. 
Biron,attending on King Ferdinand. 


Love's L. L. 
Bishop of Lincoln.......... Hen. VIII. 
Bishop of Wincheséter......1 Hen. VI. 
Bishop Of BUY... c.ccccccecccscssee Hen. V. 
Bishop of Carlisle.............. Rich. I. 


Blanch, niece to King John..K. John 
Bolingbroke, a conjurer....2 Hen. VI. 
Bona, sister to the French queen...... 


3 Hen. VI. 
Borachio, follower of Don John....... 
Much Ado 
BOuUlt,'& SCVVAMNG)..teiceserscce.ssece sarees Per. 
Bottom the Weaver.......... Mid. N. D. 


Boy, servant to Bardolph, etc..Hen. V. 
Boyet, attending on the Princess of 


PAM GCMs se copeneasees Love's L. L 
Brabantio,a Venetian senator. Othello 
BANGON i. ercccccrcrcesscccccreses Hen. VITTI. 
Bullealf, a recruit............. 2 Hen. IV. 
Bushy, servant to king........ Rich. II, 


Caithness,a Scottish nobleman.Macb. 
OGIUS panes lscetbookeceausevednaes taxes Tit. And. 
Caius Lucius,a Roman general.Cym. 
Caius Marcius Coriolanus...Coriol. 
Caliban, servant to Prospero.. Tempest 
Calchas, a Trojan priest.... Troil. & C. 
Calpurnia, wife to Cesar........ Jul. C. 
Camillo, a Sicilian lord.... Winter's T. 
Canidius, lieut.-general to Antony... 


Ant. & C. 
Caphis, & SCYVANL........0..000 Tim. of A. 
Captain of Band of Welshmen...... 
Rich. IT. 


Capucius, an ambassador..Hen. VIII. 
Capulet, an Italian noble...Rom. & J. 
Cardinal Beaufort, witiae of Win- 
chester... yeacos ts .2 Hen. VI. 
Cardinal one Tees 4 Hen: VIII. 
Cardinal Wolsey.........-++: Hen wvli sn 
Cardinal Pandulph, Pope’s legate. 
K. John 

Cardinal Bourchier, archbishop of 
CANTEL DUTY... .cocovcecasenscersses Rich, ILI. 
Casca, conspirator against Ceesar...... 
Jul. C. 

Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant.....Othello 
Cassius, conspirator against Cesar... 
Jul. C. 

Cassandra, a prophetess... Trotl. & C. 


891 


INDEX T0 THE CHARACTERS IN THE Pia 


Celia, daughter to Duke Frederick... 
As You L. 

COTES, . SPIT Micconcsssenssteoesec casos Tempest 
Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus.........Per. 
Charles the Wrestler........ As You L. 
Charles, dauphin, afterward king of 
MIAN CE tren tas sede cess hens vee senres 1 Hen. VI. 


Charles VI., king of France..Hen. V. 
Churmian, attendant on Cleopatra.. 


Ant. & C. 

Chatillon, French ambassador.......... 
K. John 

Chiron, son to Tamora........ Tit. And. 
OROT UR vd: tasveycicle tid cencameventins Hen. V. 
Christopher Sly, a drunken tinker.. 
Tam. of 8. 

Christopher Urswick, a priest......... 
Rich. III. 

Cicerd, & SENALOT. ........ccs00csseeree Jul. C. 
CEI Ty O. POC... sercoersnancossavaaneie Jul. C. 
Cinna, conspirator against Ceesar...... 
Jul. C. 

CLA ENCES SOMN,......0200.0s00008 Rich, III, 
Claudio, a young gentleman............ 
Mea. for M. 


Claudio, a favorite of Don Pedro...... 
Much Ado 

Claudius, servant to Brutus....Jul. C. 
Claudius, king of Denmark.....Ham. 
Cleomenes, a Sicilian lord. Winter's T. 
Cleon, governor of Tarsus............ Pep: 
Cleopatra, queen of Egypt..Ant. & C. 
Clitus, servant to Brutus......... Jul. C. 
Cloten, step-son to Cymbeline....Cym. 
CUGU Tessa cater esis ceae cee cee ee Ant. & C. 
Clown, servant to Mrs. Overdone...... 
Mea. for M. 

Clown, reputed brother to Perdita..... 
Winter's T. 

COUN GE waccdpstencehadccsecsdenctaey Ali's Well 
Clown, servant to Lady Olivia........... 
Twelfth N. 

Clown, servant to Othello........ Othello 
Cobweb, & fAiry.......co.eeesoe0e Mid, N. D. 
Cominius, a Roman general... Coriol. 
Conrade, follower of Don John........ 
Much Ado 

Constable of France........... Hen. V. 
Constance, mother to Prince Arthur. 
K. John 

Cordelia, daughter to Lear... K. Lear 
Corin, a shepherd...........+++. As You L. 
CORTE IR ase teh Rea taateteeeewosts Ham. 
Cornelius, a physiCiah.........6.0.. Cym. 
Costard, a clown.............Love’s L. L. 
Countess of Auvergne......1 Hen. VI. 
Countess of Rousillon...... All’ s Well 
Court, & SOLGICL....scecresrvcesceerse Hen. V. 
Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. 
Hen. VIII. 

Cressida, daughter to Calchas......... 
Troi. & C. 

Cromwell, servant to Wolsey............ 
Hen. VITI. 

Curan, & COUTTIET.........c00cece k. Lear 
Curio, attendant on Duke Orsino...... 
Twelfth N. 

Curtis, servant to Petruchio. Tam.of S. 
Cymobeline, king of Britain....... Cym. 


Dardanius, servant to Brutus.Jul. C. 
Davy, servant to Shallow..2 Hen. IV. 
Daughier of Antiochus............Per. 
Decius Brutus, conspirator against 


ACEP REITs ees hse nde oda cuceas base manttan Jul. C. 
Deiphobus, son to Priam... Troil. & C. 
DDOVTM CETTE 0 sass tsetae<eoccess devenes Ant. & C. 
DICMCEF TUG J ckccis tis ee ike hives Mid. N. D. 


Demetrius, son to Tamora.. Tit. And. 
Dennis, servant to Oliver..As You L. 
Dercetas, friend to Antony..Ant. & C, 


892 


PAGE 


170 

1 
803 
170 


389 
364 


Desdemona, wife to Othello... Othello 
Diana, daughter of an old widow of 


PIGKEN COs: :.c.:.+-seeeiencne eee All’s Weil 
DtiGNG, ZOAGESS co... .cecscorecyessene Per. 
Dick the Butcher,a follower of Cade. 

2 Hen. VI. 

Diomedes, attendant on Cleopatra.... 
Ant. & C. 

Diomedes, Grecian commander........ 
Trou. & C. 

Dion, a Sicilian lord......... Winter's T. 
Dionyza, Wife to ClEON.........eeeeee Per 
Dogberry, a constable....... Much Ado 
DI QCCOPR GE vaca doradasss cactsoaers pa'sceets K. Lear 
Doctor Butts, physician to King 
13 C109 a iy Hee erect rere Hen, VIII, 


Doll Tear-sheet,astrumpet.2 Hen. IV. 
Dolabella, friend to Cesar... Ant. & C. 
Domitius Enobarbus, friend to An- 


TONY Spode de seeateay soho as arent nian! Ant. & C. 
Donalbain, son to Duncan...... Macb 
Don APIMAAO.....600. vee ceeees Love's L. L 
Don John, bastard brother to Don 

PEATO scsi icsstabiestecseberssinceee Much Ado 
Don Pedro, prince of Arragon......... 

Much Ado 
DOP COS cad opteseeashsq oe oese Winter's T. 
Dr. Caius, a French physician......... 
M. W. of W. 

Dromio of eet twin 
Dromio of Syracuse, ) brothers....... 
Com. of E. 
Duchess of Gloucester........ Rich) DE 
Duchess of York. ....ccc0cc00. Rich, I. 
Duchess of York, mother to King 

Hd wardid Wiss desc seespectee Rich. III, 
Duke of AUAny......ccccccccsceees Kk, Lear 
Duke of Alengon.............. 1 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Aumerle, son to Duke of 

WOR Giecdaisae sone sanenweceecscoreoeee Rich, II, 
Dike Of AUstria, ..ccccccccccsvees kK, John 
Duke of Bedford, brother to King 

Fen ry Vises sices ccdensee depeereaoees Hen. V. 
Duke of Bedford, uncle to King 

TOMY Vil toweevents turteasseeret 1 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Bourbon......cccceeoe Hen. V. 
Duke of Buckingham, of the king’s 

DAILY. toc. cccstc seve stencensenecneme 2 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Buckingham...... Rich. ITI. 
Duke of Buckingham....Hen. VIII. 
Duke of Burgundy.......00- kK. Lear 
Duke of Burgunady......c.cee Hen. V. 
Duke of Burgunady.......... 1 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Clarence’s daughter......... 

ich PLL. 
Duke of Cornwall,.........006 kK. Lear 
Duke of Ezsxeter, uncle to King 

FLED’ Vien sceiss dee lesnccesenmeess perce Hen. V. 
Duke of Exeter, of the Lancaster 

PALEY go bisieds seceetteen soca eetanees 3 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Florence,..........066 All’s Well 
Duke of Gloucester, brother to King 

PL CIU Yas Vdosssnetes cakes weepevenpentns Hen. V. 
Duke of Gloucester, uncle to King 

Benny iV UsicesnccotaSadtetoneneeers 1 Hen. VI. 
Duke, living in exile.......... As You L 
Duke of Milan, father to Silvia....... 


Two Gen. Ver. 
Duke of Norfolk, of the duke of 


VOVLUS POUL e-ecrssccucesasonnseter a erte Vols 
Duke of Norfolk......... taser CIts LED 
Duke of Norfolk... .......:. Hen, VIII. 
Duke of Orleans..........ccsceees Hen. V. 
Duke of Somerset, of the Lancaster 

DOLLY ., cstesPoee'teuveeaas scars Gaston 2 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Somerset, of the Lancaster 

DATE cc ten tecsas ei fataan veer vesero tee 3 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Suffolk, of the king’s party. 

2 Hen. VI. 
Duke of Suffolk, ......c0000 Hen. VIII, 
Duke of Surrey........0.ccseovee Rich. II. 


Duke of Venice.....0s0000«+-...Mer. Ven, 


PAGE 
722 


410 


410 


Dulse Of VV CNAtCE. s.cvorccacevekenssoee= Othello 
Duke of York, cousin to King Henry 

Vitek ccswccnsvapebcsnest wa hoapeandeteenamer Hen. V. 
Dull, a constable............. Love's L. L. 
Dumain, attending on King Ferdi- 

TLATLG ch cccaeaucevseasseseseascencrs Love's L. L 
Duncan, king of Scotland........ Macb 
Karl of Cambridge, conspirator 

against King Henry V.......... Hen. V. 
ELT OF TESS Cx ccosceccuecensentnes K, John 
Earl of Gloucester..........+++- K. Lear 
Barliof Kent nig scccsctecuespeces K. Lear 


Earl of Northumberland...Rich. IT. 
Earl of Northumberland, enemy 


to King Henry IV............ 2 Hen. IV. 
Earl of Northumberland, of the 
king's Party cccceceecavenc sume 3 Hen. Vii 
Earl of Oxford, of the king’s party. 
3 Hen. VI. 

Earl of Oxford... Rich. LT, 
Earl of Pembroke............-+- K. John 
Earl of Pembroke, of the duke of 
YoOrk’ S'party tiiccceesceersneseeen 3 Hen. VI. 


Earl Rivers, brother to the queen of 


Hdward. IV......-ccsccsseveseovesssebentsmionele 
Earl of Salisburry.....ccccrceceee K. John 
Earl of Salisbury... oot DUC LA, 
Earl of Salisbury ....ccccccccccee Hen, V. 
Earl of Salisbury... 1 Hen. VI. 
Earl of Salisbury, of the York fac- 

LIOTN ccd. Saec s peseeeteneene le pees 2 Hen. VI. 
Earl of Suffolk......cc00. v0 1 Hen. VI. 
Earl of SUrrey,...ccccccesseees 2 Hen. IV. 
Earl Of SULTCY srccoerseceececeee Rich. II. 
Earl of Surrey... Hen. VIII. 


Earl of Warwick, of King Henry 


LVR PERCY Se .gse<cecsseats ree eka tel: 
Earl of Warwick. cscs Hen. V. 
Earl of Warwick..........++ 1 Hen. VI. 
Earl of Warwick, of the York fac- 

TIOT esos sanieeshiensacouaaaseeeeee 2 Hen, VIL 
Earl of Warwick, of the duke of 

TYOrR’S Party...0..cccccecscensers 3 Hen. VI. 
Earl of Westmoreland, friend to 

King Henry 1V....-seeee 1 Hen. IV. 


Earl of Westmoreland, of King 


Henry IV.’s party........++...2 Hen. IV. 
Earl of Westmoreland........ Hen. V. 
Earl of Westmoreland, of the king's 

DALEY... 0920s bahcenledsscnchewewanwel SEC Raad de 


Edgar, son to Gloucester......., Lear 
Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester.. 


K. Lear 
Edmund, ear) of Rutland, son to the 
Dike Of Workesrsscct shedeoe 3 Hen. VI. 


Edmund of Langley, duke of York, 
uncle to King Richard II... Rich. II. 
Edmund Mortimer, earl of March.. 
1 Hen. IV. 

Edmund Mortimer, earl of March.. 
1 Hen. VI. 

Edward, son of duke of York.......... 
2 Hen. Vl 

Edward, prince of Wales..3 Hen. VI. 
Edward, afterwards King Edward 
TV.,son tothe duke of York.3 Hen. VI. 
Edward, prince of Wales, son to 
King Edward IV.......-...-+. Rich, ITI. 
Egeus, father to Hermia.... Mid. N. D. 
Eglamour, agent to Silvia... 
Two Gen. Ver. 

Elbow, a constable..........+ Mea. for M. 
Eleanor, duchess of Gloucester........ 
2 Hen. VI, 

Elinor, mother of King John.K. John 
Elizabeth, queen of King Edward IV. 


Rich. ITI. 
Emilia... pee eeooe Winter's T. 
Emilia, wife to Iago........:....... Othello 
English Doctor,,....cscsssarsessssee Macb. 


(eee OME CMA A OCLE RS “LN TAH PLAYS. 


Eros, friend to Antony........ Ant. & C. 
Escanes, a lord of Tyreé........... er 
Escatus, joint deputy with Angelo... 
Mea. for M. 

Escalus, prince of Verona..Rom. & J. 
Euphronius, an ambassadotr.......... 
Ant, & C. 


Fabian, servant to Olivia... Twelfth N. 
Fang, a sheriff’s officer.....2 Hen. IV. 


Father that has killed his son....... 
3 Hen. VI. 
Feeble, & recrulit.........0...006 2 Hen. IV. 
COREE OVO Ne ca. ce see akecasvoneseeseee M. W. of W. 
Ferdinand, son to the king of 
INAaDT OS eredssneroseeseesescseerescocsas Tempest 
Ferdinand, king of Navarre..........+ 
Love's L. L. 

Feste, & ClOWN.......0 sence ares Twelfth N. 
Flaminius, servant to Timon........... 
Tim. of A. 

Flavius, steward to Timon. Tim. of A. 
Flavius, a tribune................60 Jul. C. 
Fleance, Banquo’s Son...........0+ Macb. 
Florizel, son of Polixenes.. Winter's T. 
TIVACCUEC TU aeeccn sss cad cusiasiossiedaiesusss Hen. V. 
Flute, a bellows-mender....Mid. N. D. 
TOG ira sevens diese ecadetiasanesescesvens K. Lear 
POV Aer trasiiss cscs snses cedeseces M. W. of W. 
Fortinbras, prince of Norway..Ham. 
Francisca, & nun............ Mea. for M. 


Francisco, a Danish soldier.....Ham. 
Francisco, a Neapolitan lord. Tempest 
Frederick, brother to the banished 


Friar John, a Franciscan..Rom. & J. 
Friar Laurence, a Franciscan......... 

Rom. & J. 
Friar Francis...... 0.2.00 .c008 Much Ado 
Froth, a foolish gentleman. Mea. for M. 


Gadshill, a thief............00+ 1 Hen, IV. 


Gallus, friend to Cesar........ Ant. & C. 
Gardiner, bishop of Winchestev....... 
Hen. VIII. 


Garter King-at-arms.... Hen. VIII. 
Geffrey Fitz-Peter, earl of Essex..... 

kK. John 
General of French forces.1 Hen. VI. 
Gentlewoman, Lady Macbeth’s at- 


George, duke of Clarence, son to the 

CUO OM UOU Ci recinressasscctens's 3 Hen. VI. 
George, duke of Clarence, brother to 

King Edward IV......;........ Rich, II. 
Gertrude, queen of Denmark...Ham. 
Ghost of Hamlet’s father....... Ham. 
Goneril, daughter to Lear.....K.Lear. 
Gonzalo, counsellor to the king........ 


Governor of Harfleur.......... Hen. 
Governor of Parts........05- 1 Hen. VI. 
Gower, of King Henry IV.’s party.... 
2 Hen. IV. 

LF OMOR Sik sirowesesvsedevceressecessessees Hen. V. 
Gower, or CHOrus. .........ceseceeeenees Per. 
Grandpré, a French lord..... Hen. V. 
Gratiano, brother to Brabantio......... 
Othello 

Gratiano, a friend to Bassanio.....-... 
Mer. Ven. 

Gravediggey first.....ccccssseseees Ham. 
Gravedigg €r, SCCONG........020000++ Ham. 
Green, creature to King Richard II.. 
Rich. IT. 

Gregory, servant to Capulet.............. 
Rom. & J. 

Gremio, suitor to Bianca... Tam. of S. 
Griffith, usher to Queen Katharine... 
Hen. VIII. 


PAGE 
748 
803 


56 
584. 


748 


Grumio, servant to Petruchio........... 

Tam. of S. 
Guiderius, son to Cymbeline....Cym. 
GUUenstev re. ....ccccececsecccerececces Ham. 


Hamlet, prince of Denmark.....Ham. 
Harcourt, of King Henry lV.’s party. 
2 Hen. IV. 

FT ECOG iaiicccrsteccesvacsenapedaceciecis Macb. 
Hector, son to Priam......... Trou. & C. 
Helen, wife to Menelaus.... Troil. & C. 
Helen, woman to Imogen.......... Cym. 
Helena, in love with Count Bertram. 
All’s Well 

Helenus, son to Priam....... Troil. & C. 
Helena, in love with Demetrius........ 
Mid. N. D. 

Helicanus, a lord of Tyre.......... Per. 
Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, after- 
wards King Henry IV......... Rich, II. 
Henry, prince of Wales, son of King 
EVENT YUU Vpaceesrevateesteesesers 1 Hen. IV. 
Henry, prince of Wales, afterwards 
King Henry V..................2 Hen. IV. 
Henry Perey, son to earl of North- 
UWINDEPLANIG <b. edidavewevceesticess Rich. IT. 


Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur.... 

1 Hen. IV. 
Henry, earl of Richmond..3 Hen. VI. 
Henry, ear! of Richmond, afterwards 


King Henry VII............... Rich. ITI. 
Hermia, in love with Lysander........ 
Mid. N. D. 

FLOP MNIEONE oi... rocessoveneeiesase Winter's T. 


Hero, daughter to Leonato..Much Ado 
Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons... 
Mid. N. D. 

Holland, a follower of Cade.............. 
2 Hen. VI. 

Holofernes, a schoolmaster............... 
Love's L. L. 

Horatio, friend to Hamlet........ Ham. 
Hortensio, suitor to Bianca. Tam. of S. 
Hortensius, a servant........ Tim. of A. 
Host of the Garter Inn.M. W. of W. 
Hubert De Burgha...........0 K, John 
Hume, a priest.........000......2 Hen. VI. 
Humphrey, duke of Gloucester....... 
2 Hen. VI. 

FRY INVCT ee ssiacas ssccesioneeevsnses As You L. 


Iachimo, a friend to Philario....Cym. 
Lago, Othello’s ancient ........... Othello 
Imogen, daughter to Cymbeline.Cym. 
Tras, attendant on Cleopatra.Ant. & C. 
APTS HA SPIVAG HS sr wac-teeesdacscome sec Tempest 
Isabella, sister to Claudio..Mea. for M. 
Isabel, queen of France......... Hen. V. 


Jack Cade, & rebel........0.6. 2 Hen. VI. 
James Gurney, servant to Lady 

Fanleon bridge... ...-s-sc.csces-os0 K. John 
Jamy, an officer in King Henry’s 


SACUCNEEHA, .......00ce0eeeeeeee LOvE’S L. LD. 
Jaques, a misanthropical lord.......... 
As You L. 

Jaques, brother to Orlando. As You L. 
Jessica, Shylock’s daughter. Mer. Ven. 
DOWELLEN no sc-seseceseacssssseonesys Tim. of A. 
Joan la Pucelle, commonly called 
JORMIOLCAT CMs ssseseseceon sorrel ene VL. 


John Beaufort, earl, afterwards 
duke, of Somerset............ 1 Hen. VI. 
John of Gaunt, uncle to King Rich- 
TALL s ui eecteaaea te ceies aes Rich. IT. 


John Morton, bishop of Ely. Rich. ITI. 


PAGE 


PAGE 
John Tatbot, son of earl of Shrews- 

DUD Siisccsctecs scscetceaestscewsioet 1 Hen. VI. 3889 
Julia, beloved by Proteus.............000. 

Two Gent. Ver. 18 
Juliet, beloved by Claudio. Mea. for M. 56 
Juliet, daughter to Capulet.Rom. & J. 584 
TULIUS CSAP ........0.0c0ceceet fesved Ul. C, 627 
Junius Brutus, tribune of the peo- 

AUG igcsesvaceaenatweueccuesre veer sane ceeres Coriol. 536 
Juno, & spirit....... sv estnteneticaeds Tempest 1 
Katharina, the Shrew...... Tam. of S. 190 
Katharine, daughter of Charles VI., 

Ring Of FTEMCGriis.cceeenave sceeos'e Hen. V. 364 
Katharine, a lady attendant............ 

Love's L. L. 112 
King Edward TV............. Rich. TIT. 458 
King 0f France........-ccscsseeee K. Lear 696 
King of France............06. All’s Well 210 
King Henry IV. of England........ 
1 Hen. IV. 316 
King Henry IV. of. England........ 
2 Hens FV. 339 
King Henry V.of England.Hen.V. 364 
King Henry VI. © €1Hen.VI. 389 
King Henry VI. “© ‘2Hen.VI. 410 
King Henry VI. ‘ 23Hen.VI. 434 
King Henry VIII. © Hen.VIII. 486 
King John COM MOKA TORN, 210 
King Lear of Britain......... Kk. Lear 696 
King Richard I1.,........5.... Rich. II, 295 
Lady Anne, wife to the duke of 

GIOUCESbER. i seecrevcccnsccacceses Rich. ITT. 458 

Lady Caputet, wife to Capulet......... 
Rom. & J. 584 
Lady Fautconbridge, mother to the 
Bastard and R. Faulconbridge......... 
K. John 275 
Lady Grey, queen to Edward IV..... 
8 Hen. VI. 484 
Lady Macbeth.......... MU aeesasenveaee Macb. 647 
Lady Macduff. .........100.:.+.00000.Macb. 647 
Lady Montague, wife to Montague. 
Rom. & J. 584 
Lady Mortimer, daughter to Owen 
Glendoweran cic ssecsecoteces. 1 Hen. IV. 316 
Lady Northumberland...2 Hen. IV. 339 
Lady Percy, Hotspur’s wife............. 
1 Hen. IV. 316 
DAY Perey ..c.....0cccecceceees 2 Hen. IV. 339 
Laertes, son to Polonius........... Ham. 666 
Lafeu, a satirical old lord..All’s Well 210 

Launce, servant to Proteus............... 
Two Gent. Ver. 18 

Launcelot Gobbo, Shylock’s servant. 
Mer. Ven. 150 

Lavinia, daughter to Titus Androni- 
CUSiscassecacttancestosascesessnateonalics Tit. And. 564 
Le Beaux, a courtier......... As You L. 170 
Lennoz, a Scottish nobleman...Macb. 647 
D€onine, & SCLVANt.....cccerceesssseeees Per. 803 
Leonardo, servant to Bassanio.......... 
Mer. Ven. 150 
Leonato, governor of Messina ........... 
Much Ado 92 
Leonatus Posthumus, husband to 
TAN OPOM: ceewertesesserseswoessesersteyeckess Cym. 775 
Leontes, king of Sicilia.... Winter's T. 251 
Lorenzo,in love with Jessica. Mer. Ven. 150 
Lewis, the dauphin............... K. John 275 
Lewis, the dauphin................ Hen. V. 364 
Lewis XI., king of France..3 Hen.VI. 434 
Tieutenant of Tower....... 8 Hen.VI. 434 
Ligarius, conspirator against Ceesar. 
Jul. C. 627 

Lodovico, kinsman to Brabantio....... 
Othello 722 

Longaville, attending on King Fer- 
GITIATIC See cece ote eect ees shes LLOVE SLi den Lhe 


893 


INDEX 


Lord Abergavenny......... Hen. VIII. 
Lord Bardolph, enemy to King 
FIERY Vike tecvnsstestusc-deevees 2 Hen. IV. 
EOP BEv Tele y ber ekis sees ores RichaLL. 
LOPE Big Ob srnconssisecssvessose.eceen Les JOR 
Lord Chamberlain.........- Hen. VIII. 
Lord Chancellor.........+.+: Hen. VIII. 
Lord Chief Justice of the King’s 
PERO TEOTU Na 25 consaitndienaence xls s3 590 2 Hen. LV. 
Lord Clifford, of the king’s party.... 
2 Hen. VI. 

Lord Clifford, of the king’s party.... 
3 Hen. VI. 

Lord FitzZwater. .......c0-ccccsee Rich. I1. 
Lord Grey, son to Edward IV.’s 
CQTLCOD: , cc veea mtceee neonates Rich, III. 
Lord Hastings, enemy to King 
TETITV aL Visttacestereseatcnsr vereces 2 Hen. IV. 
Lord Hastings, of the duke of 
YORK IS PAL bYjeccecacancensessacers 3 Hen. VI. 
DOr d HAStins....cccccccscceeee Rich, IT. 
DOP ToOUCl (1. oi. csgs0cccccesess ones Rich. ITI. 
Lord Marsnadl,....cscccecceccerees Rich. II. 


Lord Mayor of London... Rich. III. 
Lord Mowbray, enemy to King 


PLONTY: Veg ccresevecstasesccssos 2 Hen. IV. 
Lord Riwers, brother to Lady Grey.. 
3 Hen. V1. 

TOPO AMCOSS Srcencsecsosstessexssossere Rich! LL, 
LOVE SANAS,....0000000020cerc000s Hen, VIILT 
TOT OUSLY shea beaeeactgedoeoneesees= 2 Hen. VI. 
Lord Scales, governor of the Tower. 
2 Hen. VI. 

Lord Scroop, conspirator against 
balcyiby. gerne ya ree ieee Hen. V. 
Lord Stafford, of the duke of York’s 
POUT seks vocespncponitvnedeacenensenys 3 Hen. VI. 
LOrd Stanley... ccccsesscacercovees Rich. III, 
Lord Willougndby.....ccccseees Rich. II. 


Luce, servant to Adriana...Com. of E. 
Lucentio, in love with Baptista’s 
TRUDE. bpp aenioctoavelantan des Tam. of S. 
Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia...... 
Two Gen. Ver. 

Luciana, sister to Adriana. Com. of E. 
Lucilius, friend to Brutus....... Jul. C. 
Lacilius, servant to Timon. Tim. of A. 
Lucio, a fantastic... Mea. for M. 
TMWCUUS 4 & DOY. 00.2.0 ccccercceceneee Tit. And. 
Lucius, flatterer of Timon..7im. of A. 
TACtUS, & SEYVANL... 2.0.0 .e200 Tim. of A. 
Lucius, servant to Brutus........ Jul. C. 
Lucius,son to Titus Andronicus....... 
Tit. And. 

Tucullus,flatterer of Timon. Tim.of A. 
Ly chorida, nurse to Marina....... Per. 
Lysander, in love with Hermia....... 
Mid. N. D. 

Lysimachus, governor of Mitylene. 
Per: 


AM ATU OIY .niunwespe ton tareoenecnn Ant. & C. 
M. Amil. Lepidus, a triumvir.Jul.C. 
M, Zimil, Lepidus, a triumvir........ 
Ant. & C. 

Macbeth, a Scottish general, after- 
wards king of Scotland........... Macb. 
Macduff, a Scottish nobleman..Macb. 
DE CAUFFT PS BOM. .cccesncerecenesedsvsesad Macb. 
Mucmorris, an officer in King 
FLOM Y GOTTA Vin Siiesns deere ee Hen. V. 
Ma«aicoim, son to Duncan, king of 
SCOR Aas oavctavmranrnoevacostisnstetse TUCO. 
Muaivolio, steward to Olivia.............0 
Twelfth N. 

Mamillius,son of Leontes. Winter's T. 
Marcellus, a Danish officer...... Ham. 
Marcius, son to Coriolanus..... Coriol. 
Marcus Andronicus, brother to 
Titus Andronicus,..:.......... Tit. And. 
Marcus Antonius, a triumvir.Jul.Cc. 


894 


PAGE 


486 
339 
295 
275 
486 
486 
389 
410 


434 
295 


458 


339 


TO THE CHARACTELS INTHE EEA 


Marcus Brutus, conspirator against 


Murdian, attendant on Cleopatra..... 
Ant, & C. 

Margarelon, bastard son of Priam... 
Troil. & C. 

Margaret, married to King Henry 


Margaret, queen to King Henry VI. 
2 Hen. VI. 

Margaret, queen to King Henry VI. 
3 Hen. VI. 

Margaret, queen to King Henry VI. 
Rich. III. 

Margaret, Lady Hero’s attendant... 
Much Ado 

Margaret Jourdain, a witch.......... 
2 Hen. VI. 

Maria, a lady attendant..Love’s L. L. 
Maria, Olivia’s waiting-woman........ 
Twelfth N. 

Mariana, betrothed to Angelo......... 
Mea. for M. 

MME OYCANG aicsesced osens vetoes sees All’s Well 
Marina, daughter to Pericles......Per. 
Marquis of Dorset,son to King Ed- 
ward IV.’s queen.............. Rich. ITT, 
Marquis of Montague, of the duke 
Of VOTES PALTb Ye. socccoss scan 3 Hen. VI. 
MGArshHalis errs avis Te eheees ‘Per: 


Tit. And. 


Master Pag e....cccccceercreees M. W. of W. 
Mayor of London.......000 1 Hen. VI. 
Mayor of York... .......cccce00 3 Hen. VI. 
Meceenas, friend to Cesar... Ant. & C. 
Melun, a French lord...........K. John 
Menas, friend to Pompey.... Ant. & C. 
Menelaus, brother to Agamemnon... 

Troi. & C. 
Menenius Agrippa, friend to Corio- 


Menteith, a Scottish nobleman. Macb. 
Menecrates, friend to Pompey......... 
Ant. & C. 

Mercade, attending on the princess 
Of PPAMGCEH si, testis sessskacss Love's L. L. 
MM CV CRANE J iossenivivecscnvcesevasse Tim. of A. 
Mercutio, friend to Romeo. Rom. & J. 
Messala, friend to Brutus....... Jul. C. 
Metellus Cimber,conspirator against 


Miranda, Prospero’s daughter......... 
Tenupest 

Montague, an Italian noble. Rom.& J. 
Montano, formerly governor of Cy- 
PDP UIS te. S Gtk. codsatacanenastreeemeees Othello 


Mortimer’s keeper...........1 Hen. VI. 
Morton, 2 domestic to the duke of 
Northumberland.............. 2 Hen. IV. 
MM ot hey Gi AAT Ys. Adtveci seme caren Mid. N. D. 
Moth, page to Armado......Love’s L. L. 
Mouldy, a recruit..............2 Hen. IV. 
Mowbray, duke of Norfolk..Rich. IT, 
Mr, Ford, a gentleman of Windsor... 
M. W. of W. 

Mr. Page, a gentleman of Windsor.. 
M. W. of W. 

Mrs. Anne Page, in love with Fen- 


3. Quickly, servant to Dr. Caius... 
M. W. of W. 

Mrs. Quickly, hostess of tavern in 
EastCheap..s.erserere ecteneaesnes 1 Hen. IV. 


PAGE 


627 


389 


316 


if 
| Dire. Quickly ......ccesecseeee 2 Hen. IV. 
Mra, Ortclelyy ....acictewssetss otis Hen. V. 
Mustard-seed, a fairy......Mid. N. D. 
BLS EYAL) ey eee yd BOE O TET Tit. And 
Nerissa, Portia’s waiting-woman...... 
Mer. Ven. 
Nestor, Grecian commander..........-..- 
Troil. & C. 
Nurse €0 TUliet.....ccccccccceres Rom. & J. 


Nym, follower of Falstaff... W. of W. 
Nym, formerly servant to Falstaff... 
2 Hen. IV. 


Oberon, king of the fairies. Mid. N. D. 
Octavia, sister to Ceesar........ Ant. & C. 
Octavius Cesar, a triumyir....Jul. C. 
Octavius Cesar, a triumyir. Ant. & C. 
Old Gobbo, father to Launcelot Gobbo. 
Mer. Ven. 

Old lady, friend to Anne Bullen....... 
Hen, VIII. 

Old man,tenant to Gloucester. K. Lear 
Old shepherd, father to Joan la Pu- 


GOLLON. iacetenacsunencusdeepn sashes 1 Hen. VI. 
Olid shepherd, reputed father to Per- 
ILE ceckesscctpcensscsavemuceeeneettd Winter's T. 
Olivia, a rich countess....... Twelfth N. 


Oliver, brother to Orlando..As You L. 
Ophelia, daughter of Polonius..Ham. 
Orlando, in love with Rosalind........ 


As You L. 
Orsino, duke of Illyria...... Twelfth N. 
OSTIC, & COUTHEL....0.-ceenccnscnsas¥ers Ham. 
Oswald, servant to Goneril.... kK. Lear 
Othellos 8: NOOL.<2.c8ciecsse-secouaena Othello 
Owen Glendower, a Welsh chieftain. 

LBenwkvs 
Page,a follower of Falstaff..2 Hen. IV. 
POANEECD. as cbecscsessescuodsp seen Tim. of A. 
Pandar, &, and Wife.........cccecsereee Per. 
Pandarus, uncle to Cressida........ ste 

Troil. & C. 
Panthino, servant to Antonio.......... 5 


Two Gen. Ver. 
Paris, in love with Juliet...Rom. & J. 
Paris, son to Priam............ Trot. & C. 
Parolles, a braggart...........All’s Well 
Patience, woman to Queen Katha- 


LIN Css dedeecccadarncedasteessetaee ms Hen. VITE 
Patroclus, Grecian commander.. ..... 
Troil. & C. 

POUUNG wiv sc cicosesvsccscgassen ts Winter's T. 
Peaseblossom, a fairy......- Mid. N. D 
POGONE: ih cchins Datebackacoeen Tam. of § 
BOP AUG ie iikesn ds tkee eee Winter's T. 
Pericles, prince Of TYYVe.......cssc00 Per. 


Peters & LIT. 0005 conrgcvesesste MC FONE 


Peter, Horner’s servant.......2 Hen. VJ. 
Peter of Pomfret, a prophet..K. John 
Peter, servant to Juliet’s nurse.......... 
Rom. & J. 
Peto, follower to Falstaff....1 Hen. IV. 
BOU0 iohchessstecisosensevetesseveaeene 2 Hen. IV. 
Petruchio, a suitor to Katharina, 
Baptista’s daughter........... Tam. of 8. 
Phebe, a shepherdess.......... As You L. ° 


Philario, friend to Posthumus...Cym. 
Philemon, servant to Cerimon....Per, 
Philip, king of France.......... K. John 
Philip Faulconbridge, bastard son 
of King Richard Lis... .22; K. John 
Philo, friend to Antony.......Ant. & C 
Philostrate, master of the revels...... 
Mid. N. D. 

_Philotus, & Servant... Tim. of A. 
Phrynia, vaistress to Alcibiades....... 
Tim. of A. 


INDEX TO THE 


Pinch, a schoolmaster........ Com. of E. 
Pindarus, servant to Cassius...Jul. C. 
Pisanio, servant to Posthumus..Cym. 
Pistol, follower to Falstaff..M. W. of W. 


SERESUOU cess anct ead feesnesetaa- 2s sucess 2 Hen. IV. 
Pistol, formerly servant to Falstaff... 
Hen. V. 

PIAY CLS. .rrerererssceccscecesscecerescesers Ham. 
OGL tak iaesasecneesceieowsncsacss Tim. of A. 
Poins, a companion to the Prince of 
DOR ET IPE Ca sure sekévcasscevessucs 1 Hen. IV. 
BPS O IG Se cot a sansndessspscisnsaoesaessadss 2 Hen. IV. 
Polixenes, king of Bohemia............. 
Winter's T. 

Potonius, father of Ophelia......Ham. 
Pompey, & SCTVAant.......00008 Mea. for M. 
Popilius Lena, a senator........ Jul. C. 
BPOTUCH ic cececentnseceneiesncsecevee seesans Macb 
Portia, a rich heiress........... Mer. Ven. 
Portia, wife to Brutus............. Jud. €. 
Priam, king of Troy.......... Troi. & C. 
PRWEB eicd tes essa cdcacnsccse saccesasencesbs Ham 
Prince of Arragon............ Mer, Ven. 
Prince Henry, son to King John..... 
EK, John 

Prince Humphrey of Gloucester, 
son of King Henry IV......2 Hen. IV. 
Prince John of Lancaster, son of 
King Henry IV.............. sek Hen. EV. 
Prince John of Lancaster, son of 
King Henry IV................ DQ Hens LV. 
Prince of Morocco............ Mer. Ven. 
Princess of France....... Love's L. L. 


Proculeius, friend to Cesar..Ant. & C. 
Prospero, banished duke of Milan... 


Tempest 

Proteus, a gentleman of Verona....... 
Two Gen. Ver. 

EE OUOBE neces eecsessessectusssessas Mea. for M. 
PUBLIUS, A SCNALOL.......r.000eceeeeee Jul. C. 
Publius, son to Marcus Andronicus.. 
Tit. And. 

SE MEC Hog QULDITY .0- 000000000255 seer la he WN et, 


Queen to King Richard II. Rich. II. 
Queen Katharine, wife to Henry 


PN ar ddeescteasnesh sesiecancseaes Hen, VIII. 
Queen, wife to Cymbeline.......... Cym. 
Quince, the carpenter....... Mid. N. D. 
Quintus, son to Titus Andronicus..... 

Tit. And. 
Rambures,a French lord......Hen. V. 
Regan, daughter to Lear....... K. Lear 


Reignier, duke of Anjou...1 Hen. VI. 
Reynaldo, servant to Polonius..Ham. 
Richard, duke of Gioucester, son to 
the duke of York............. 3 Hen. VI. 
Richard, duke of Gloucester, after- 
wards King Richard III... Rich. IJ. 
Richard Plantagenet,duke of York. 
1 Hen. VI. 

Richard Plantagenet,duke of York. 
eee een V1, 

Richard Plantagenet, duke of York. 
3 Hen. VI. 

Richard, son of duke of York.......... 
2 Hen. VI. 

Richard, duke of York, son to King 


Robin, page to Falstaff... W. of W. 
Roderigo,a Venetian gentleman...... 

Othello 
Romeo, son to Montague....Rom. & J. 
Rosalind, daughter to the banished 


Rosaline,a lady attendant..........-0 
Lovers L. L. 


RROSENCVANEZ, .......cosscccscecsencconss Ham. 
Foss, a Scottish nobleman........ Macb, 
Rugby, servant to Dr, Caius.............. 

M. W. of W. 
PRUNL OT s havotanincciagsctvagiseceucesse 2 Hen. IV. 


Salanio, friend to Bassanio.. Mer. Ven. 
Salarino, friend to Bassanio. Mer, Ven. 
Salerio, & Messenger!..........+ Mer. Ven. 
Sampson, servant to Capulet............ 
Rom. & J. 

Saturninus, emperor of Rome......... 
Tit. And. 

Scarus, friend to Antony.....Ant. & C. 
SCOtCH COCEOP......ccccccsecsececeescees Macb. 
Scroop, archbishop of York.1 Hen. IV. 
Scroop, archbishop of York, enemy to 


King Henry DV A; .-.csstcses 2 Hen. LY. 
Sea-captain, friend to Viola............. 
Twelfth N. 
SCA=CAPEAIN,......0600 sre ceecee ees 2 Hen, VI. 
Sebastian, brother to king of Naples. 
Tempest 

Sebastian, brother to Viola. Twelfth N. 
Seleucus, attendant on Cleopatra...... 
Ant. & C. 

Sempronius, flatterer of Timon........ 
Tim. of A 

SEMPTONCUS wiersccoersecereceevsces Tit. And. 
Servilius, servant to Timon. Tim. of A. 
Sextus POMPCtUS....s0ccccreeees Ant. & C. 
SC LOTUS i eetctssteadezsaere sears vsodadacss Macb 
Shadow, & recruit...........++ 2 Hen. IV. 


Shallow, a country justice. M. W. of W. 
Shallow, a country justice.2 Hen. IV. 


Sheriff of Wiltshire.......... Rich. IT. 
SRYlOCK, & JOW......eveseseeeceees Mer. Ven. 
Sicinius Velutus, tribune of the peo- 
Plerccetereseteesthseerteges saesacsease ss Coriol 
Silence, a country justice...2 Hen. IV. 
Silius, an officer............4. 1 ANnl-& C. 
Silvia, beloved by Valentine............. 
Two Gen. Ver. 

Silvius, a shepherd............ As You L. 
Simonides, king of Pentapolis.... Per. 
Simpcox, an impostor........ 2 Hen. VI. 
SUN PCOH’S WIFE, .....000eceseee 2 Hen. VI. 
Simple, servant to Slender............000 
M. W. of W. 

Sir Andrew Aguecheek... Twelfth N. 
Sir Anthony Denny... .... Hen. VIII. 
Sir Henry Guildford......Hen. VIII. 
Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson.... 
M. W. of W. 

Sir Hugh Mortimer, uncle to the 
ants) apt Wave ea eecagne qacsecoces 3 Hen. VI. 
Sir Humphrey Stafford..2 Hen. VI. 
Sir James Blownt.........0.. Rich. III. 
Sir James Tyr el..........000 Rich, ITI. 
Sir John Coleville, enemy to King 
PLOUVY, EV see sss avesntdeeoateveess 2 Hen. IV. 
Sir John Falstaff.........+ M. W. of W. 
Sir John Falstaff...........+ 1 Hen. IV. 
Sir John Falstaff............. 2 Hen. IV. 
Sir John Fastolfe...........+. 1 Hen. VI. 


Sir John Montgomery.....3 Hen. VI. 


Sir John Mortimer, uncle to the 

CUELIKGNOGREY OL Kis cceescenigccenrest 3 Hen. VI. 
Sir John Somervitle......... 3 Hen. VI. 
Sir John Stantley........00...2 Hen. VI. 
Sir Michatel.....cccoccccscceceees 1 Hen. IV. 
Sir Nathaniel, a curate..Love’s L. L. 
Sir Nicholas Vausd....... Hen. VIII. 
Sir Oliver Martect........... As You L. 
Sir Pierce of Hxton........0 Rich. II. 


Sir R. Brakenbury, lieutenant of 

PREVIOWOTH. veeetances eecaenacess-IVUCHE CL Le 
Sir Richard Ratcliff........Rich. ITI. 
Sir Richard Vernon....... l Hen. IV, 
Sir Stephen Scroop,....v.0- Rich. I. 
Sir Thomas Erpingham.....Hen. V. 


CHARACTERS IN 


PAGE 


35 


339 


170 
295 


458 
458 
316 
295 
364 


dy EAs; 


Sir Thomas Gargrave.....1 Hen. VI. 
Sir Thomas Grey ,couspirator against 

PS ATIS) EVOUIEN, Vian snpenssiestonin <pote: Hen. V. 
Sir Thomas Lovwell........... Hen. VIII. 
Sir Thomas Vaughan....... Rich. III. 
Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Lady 

Oli vaal ick erase evceoeserte «. Twelfth N, 
Sir Walter Blunt, friend to King 

FLOM yi Vicesaseteoauessesntnecsies 1 Hen. IV. 
Sir Walter Herbert...........Rich. ITI. 
Sir William Catesby......... Rich. III. 
Sir William Glansdale....1 Hen. VI. 
Sir William Lucy............. 1 Hen. VI. 
Sir William Stanley.........3 Hen. VI. 
Siward, English general........... Macb. 


Slender, cousin toShallow.M. W.of W. 
Smith the weaver,a follower of Cade. 


2 Hen. VI. 

Snare, a sheriff’s officer....2 Hen. IV. 
Snout the tinker......... Seaeaee Mid. N. D. 
SNUG the JOUNET.....cceeevecees Mid. N. D. 
Solinus, duke of Ephesus...Com. of E. 
Son that has killed his father........ 
3 Hen. VI. 

SOOERSAY EY ......0000.ccecceseenceece ce: Jul. C. 
SOOENSAY CP ...scsesseccseccasceceeres Ant. & C. 
Southwell, a priest.........+.+ 2 Hen. VI. 
Speed, servant to Valentine............... 
Two Gen. Ver. 

SDIVIEE ixceaselncreeaeeievrassessetes 2 Hen. VI, 
Starveling the tailor....... Mid. N. D. 


Stephano, a drunken butler.. Tempest 
Stephano, servant to Portia..Mer. Ven. 
Strato, servant to Brutus.........Jul. C. 
Surveyor to Duke Buckingham .... 

Hen. VIII. 


Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury..1 Hen. VI. 
Tamora, queen of the Goths. Tit. And. 
Taurus, lieutenant-general to Cesar. 
Ant. & C. 

Thaisa, daughter to Simonides... Per. 
Thaliard, a lord of Antioch........ Per. 
Thersites, a scurrilous Grecian......... 
Troil. & C. 

Theseus, duke of Athens... Mid. N. D. 
Thomas Beaufort, duke of Exeter.. 


1 Hen. VI. 

Thomas, duke of Clarence, son of 
ADS TOR TY LV cesenssss senses 2 Hen. IV. 
TRONS, B {TIAY.......1 000 s000es Mea. for M. 
Thomas Horner, an armoret........... 
2 Hens Vi. 


Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.... 
lL Hensfy. 
Thomas Rotherham, archbishop of 


VIGUIGA er eiitee stateesiicsakine sheeooces Rich. ITI. 
TREE WIEENES, .....cecccrecererercesees Macb 
Thurio, in love with Silvia............... 


Two Gent. Ver. 

Thyreus, friend to Cesar.....Ant. & C. 
Timandra, mistress to Alcibiades..... 
Tim. of A. 

Time a8 ChOrus.......00...0+ Winter's T. 
Timon, an Athenian noble. Tim. of A. 
Titania, queen of the fairies............. 
Mid. N. D. 

Titinius, friend to Brutus........ Jul. C. 
Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman.. 
Tit. And. 

Titus Lartius,a Roman general...... 
Coriol. 

Titus, & SCLYVADL......000ccceres Tim. of A. 
Touchstone, a ClOWN......+++ As You L. 
Tranio, servant to Lucentio.............. 
Tam. of S. 

Travers,a domestic to duke of North- 
pyboelloysud (chavo Meron eer eA rer 2 Hen. IV. 
Trebonius, conspirator against Cesar. 
Jul. C. 

TP OSE EU scree Nelsvainis tan ssseeveesean Rich, II. 


PAGE 


389 


' INDEX TO THE CHARACLERS LN WT ee 


Trincul, & JOStEL...0...ecceeereveee Tempest 
Troilus, son to Priam......... Troil. & C. 
Teal, 8; TOW ..h sceks tavzsvaveteesce Mer. Ven. 
Tullus Aufidius, Volscian general... 
Coriol. 

Tutor to Rutland..........++ 3 Hen. VI. 
TwoGentlemen, prisoners with duke 
ML SWELOUK gesttscccveraes-es steno’ 2 Hen. VI. 
Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet....... 
Rom. & J. 


Ulysses, Grecian COMMANCET.........00 
Troi. & C, 
Ursula, Lady Hero’s attendant......... 
Much Ado 


Valentine, a gentleman of Verona... 
Two Gen. Ver. 
Valentine, attendant on Duke Orsino. 
Twelfth N. 

896 


PAGE 
1 
510 
150 


536 
434 


410 


534 


510 


92 


18 


232 


VCNTMACUB 5. .csne seccveiescenseseses Tim. of A. 
Ventidius, friend to Antony. Ant. & C. 
Verges, an officer of the watch......... 
Much Ado 
Vernon, of the White Rose faction.... 
1 Hen. VI. 
Vincentio,duke of Vienna. Mea. for M. 
Vincentio, a gentleman of Pisa......... 
Tam. of S. 
Viola, in love with Duke Orsino........ 
Twelfth N. 
Vole nt... .ccccee voecsceececseeses All's Well 
Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus.... Coriol. 


Voltimand, & COUstIeD............008 Hain. 
Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus...... 
Coriot. 


PAGE 
564 
536 

56 
748 
627 
410 
608 
748 


56 


190 


232 
210 
536 
666 


536 


Volumnius, friend to Brutus...Jul. €. 


Walter Whitmore,........0. % : 
Ware, & TECTUIt........20.0s00000 2 Hen. IV. 
William, in love with Audrey.......... 

As You L. 
William Longsword, earl of Salis- 


William Stafford.............. 
Williams, a soldier...........0.+ Hen. V. 
Woodville, lieutenant of the Tower... 

1 Hen. VI. 


Young Cato, friend to Brutus........... 


Jul. C. 

Young: Clifford, of the king’s party.. 
2 Hen. VI. 

Young Stwardy ccc ccccccccsesecevees Macb. 


PAGE 
627 


410 
339 


170 


EP (sree 


toa 


a : eS : ~o 5 Sean 
< Ao) NAGS 
> SU es OAS SENS SE i 
% arya 


a 


ei 


rats 


q 


ot Cee Fe a ee 
ee 7 * 


Oak Street 
UNCLASSIFIED 


SITY OF ILLINOIS- URBANA 


A 


3 0112 1065 


it j 
j + ! , it ' 
nit § ; , ! ' | i | rij ‘e 
oh i it et bi 
H } i i si j | 
f +. ih oe | ' " 
ti i | 
ay | t | 4 
| 
| 
; 
k 
wv" ™ 
| 
| 
| 
\ 
j ‘ 
, 4" i | 
{ f | | 
! i 
H “ape tt t { 7 i: { ! | { 
if { yi q ! 
ie | ae aes ec i ; | 
i ! tt H SS Fr 
, {i Lt t 
\ H 
| 
/ } 
me } 
r, 
if, Z 
| 
| 


